An Un-American Thanksgiving, or the Case of the Missing Giblets

Okay, I realize it's almost December 25. I realize that the Salvation Army bell-ringers are officially out en masse, my emailbox is not anomalously combusting with red and green commercial coupons, and Christmas carols are an inescapable fact of the nearly-daily grocery run. But before we actually reach Christmas Day and it officially becomes illegal (according to some sense of chronological decency) to reference any previous holiday, I wanted to record my latest experience of British Thanksgiving.

The very phrase itself is rather oxymoronic. As we all know, there is almost nothing more American than Thanksgiving. Stories of Plymouth Rock, Priscilla Mullins, Miles Standish, and Squanto are the foundation of almost any American primary school curriculum; who doesn't have fond memories of tracing a turkey-reminiscent shape out of his or her juvenile hand with orange crayon?

But the moment an American becomes an expatriate, some sort of genetic or psychological mutation occurs wherein anything remotely smacking of American-ness evokes a hallowed sense of nostalgia. Topping this list is anything having to do with Thanksgiving. So even though the holiday celebrates people LEAVING the country, the very fact of being in England invariably incites Americans to milk their Thanksgiving traditions for all they're worth.

The problem is, I have discovered, this is easier said than done. Case in point: pumpkin pie. The ubiquitous vegetable from which this irreplaceable dessert is made only exists in England in the week or two surrounding Halloween; a New World crop, the pumpkin has otherwise yet to establish a presence beyond the liquid puree form the British call "soup". The problem is, of course, that pumpkin thereafter becomes extinct after October 31--about four weeks before Thanksgiving. Fresh pumpkin joins its canned counterpart in extinction, the latter barely having any existence at all, being unnecessary for jack-o-lanterns. In fact, to my knowledge there is only one place in all of England to buy the pumpkin needed for a fresh Thanksgiving Pie: London, home of the three-flour, 500-employee, 80,000 square-foot Whole Foods flagship store (and four others). Ahh...all the memories from two years ago of my friends and me making the return pilgrimage from High Street Kensington laden with canned pumpkin, pumpkin bread, and even small prepared pumpkin pies!

But this is Oxford. There is no Whole Foods. And London is one too many inconvenient bus or train trips away. So as my friends and I planned to introduce our fellow course-mates to a "traditional American Thanksgiving," we realized that we would have to make some concessions. After a heated email chain wherein we debated what was absolutely essential to the celebration, we decided that another form of pie, even something other than pumpkin or apple, may be the best we could do.

Or so we thought. There I was, sitting at a table at the weekly Just Postgrads meeting (organized by St. Aldates Church) explaining my resignation to a non-pumpkin pie, when a new American acquaintance piped up nonchalantly, "Oh, you're looking for pumpkin? I have pumpkin in my freezer." My jaw just about hit the floor, but a few minutes later I was possessed of Alison's phone number and a promise for two cups' worth of fresh-frozen pumpkin!

You see, I discovered amidst the above discussions with my fellow Early Modern English coursemates that I am among the most traditional of Thanksgiving celebrants; as exemplified in "A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving," Thanksgiving is just not Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie. One of my friends stated that Thanksgiving was about the spirit of the holiday, rather than specific traditions and meal components; we would be equally happy, prosperous, and thankful with curry and chips, she said. True, but then it wouldn't be a "traditional American Thanksgiving," the concept to which we were trying to introduce our non-American friends. Oh, and I was the only one both willing and able to invest the energy in making the associated turkey and stuffing.

So it was up to me to maintain the alimentary traditions associated with the holiday. After having obtained the pumpkin, I felt reasonably confident about the dessert. Two years ago, I made pumpkin pie in a UCL Ramsay Hall mini-kitchen; doing the same in my friend's Oxford apartment, I figured, would be a piece of cake--or rather, pie. I did not have a pie tin, but I was still in possession of a borrowed cake pan (I really should get that back....) and I figured that would work in a clinch.

But the turkey was not to prove so easy. First of all, while the stereotype of American mega-servings may not be altogether warranted, it is true that British appliances are not capable of producing anything remotely resembling the scale of American feasts. Brits are in general, I have found, not as likely to attempt from-scratch cooking as we are, and certainly not in the same proportions. I therefore had a moment of panic when I realized that my friend's oven looked only slightly more than half the size of mine at home in Minnesota. Even if I managed to find a turkey of sufficient size, and a pan in which to cook it, I wasn't sure that I would be able to fit it in the oven. And I hadn't seen an oven any bigger elsewhere.

Of course, this was a big "if". Oh, how I missed my mom's beautiful Dutch oven! I borrowed my friend Julia's roasting pan, with dimensions inferior to the oven's, but it looked awfully small. So, the night before our Thanksgiving celebration was to commence, I made a run to Argos. This is an amazing store: instead of having its stock out for browsing, Argos' customers instead browse a catalog and bring their orders numbers to the counter; when the order is ready, a pleasant, feminine voice intones, "Order Number 244, please proceed to your collection point." Not only is the Sears-Roebuck novelty a treat for Americans, but it is also a mecca for all things cheap. I was able to get a roasting pan for only 5 pounds! I figured I would use whichever pan--Argos' or Julia's--was bigger, but since I couldn't compare them not in-hand, I went ahead and bought the pan.

They were pretty much the same size, and since the use of Julia's was free, I next proceeded to the grocery story to get a turkey; I would get the biggest turkey that would fit in the pan and just pray that it would fit in the oven. But then, a new problem: no turkey at Tesco!

I should point out that I was on rather a tight schedule. You see, I am a proponent of peak efficiency, and as I was meeting someone at 2 for tea, I decided to postpone my run until right before the turkey madness. I figured I would have plenty of time to get in an hour-long run, meet Julia at 4, get the pan, go to Argos, pick up the turkey, head to Jason's, marinate the turkey, run back to St. Catz, take a shower, and appear clean and make-up-ed in time for the special, once-termly "Catz Night" at 7 o'clock. But, of course, this plan did not allow for too many hitches, and at this point, I was starting to get a little anxious. It was almost 4:30! So, pans clunking against eachother, I literally ran next door to Sainsbury's local, a small version of the rival major UK grocery store chain. No turkey there either! Only one choice left: Sainsbury's Central, which I knew for a fact sold turkeys.

But it was also on the other side of High Street. More pan-clunking.

4:40pm: I arrived at Sainsbury's, panting. I rushed to the frozen meat section, where I happily discovered my fears of avaricious American turkey-buyers to be unfounded. Using Julia's pan as a means of measurement, I made my selection and joined the queue for the register (I wasn't about to wrestle the 6 kg turkey through the self-checkout line). But of course, I was still wearing my running clothes! I must have looked a sorry sight indeed, dirty, sweating underneath my earmuffs, and lugging a 13 lb turkey and roasting pans to boot. The cashier made some pleasant, mildly amused comment, and I was on my way. Exit Sainsbury's, 4:50pm.

I then ran as fast as I could to Jason's Jericho apartment--well, as fast as I could carrying a huge frozen turkey. This is when I had another crisis moment: How does one marinate a FROZEN turkey? I had completely forgotten that Sainsbury's did not sell the fresh variety, and waiting for it to thaw was simply not an option. In order for it to be cooked for the 5pm Saturday ETA, I had to get it in the oven by 11 or 12, so I could not just marinate in the morning.

But necessity is the mother of invention. Thus, 5pm Friday found Jason and me hunched over his kitchen sink, me holding a naked turkey by the legs upside down, and Jason pouring hot water into the cavity. After 10-15 minutes, "Georgia Brown," as I dubbed her, was thawed enough for us to imagine infusing her with marinade. So I mixed it up, poured it over, left Jason with instructions to baste it whenever he remembered, and ran off home to St. Catz on the other side of town, praying that Georgia would be thawed by tomorrow at 11 am.

But this was only one part of the meal. So, less than 16 hours later I was on the road again bound for Sainsbury's, my bike still unusable (see earlier entry). I had not had the gumption or the muscle strength to buy all the ingredients for the stuffing and pumpkin pie on the previous night's turkey expedition, so I returned to Sainsbury's in search of the various spices, bread crumbs, eggs, etc. necessary for the other courses. Further testament of the Brits' lack of affinity for from-scratch cooking: every one of the three grocery stores was out of nutmeg due to an abysmally small stock, and cloves didn't even exist in ground form! Thankfully, there was something resembling what we know as pumpkin pie spice, so I figured I would be able to supplement this with the spices I was able to obtain.

Once again, I was in a bit of a time crunch, because I needed to get the pie baked before we could start roasting the turkey (remember the small British ovens? This wouldn't have been a problem with my normal American one!!). So, after having visited all three grocery stores AGAIN, I ran to Jason's apartment to throw the pumpkin pie together.

I must say, in the next step I had the easy job. Jason had enlisted the help of Liz, a Canadian with an admirable appreciation of American Thanksgiving, to help with the day's preparations. So, while I monitored the pie, they went over to another friend's house to get a table. You see, Jason's apartment, while beautiful and roomy, had come unfurnished except for the bare necessities. Evidently, the landlord had thought a large table and more than three chairs superfluous. Another (English) friend, Ben, had kindly volunteered his table to make up for the deficiency, but Jason and Liz would have to fetch it from his housemates because he was out of town.

As Jason and Liz can attest, one mile is a whole lot farther than you think when you're lugging a big wooden table. I had just taken the pie out of the oven when I received a phone call from Jason. "We're at the end of Richmond Road [Jason's street]. Liz can't go anymore. Help?"

Meanwhile, I had found to my great delight that Georgia Brown had indeed thawed to a remarkable degree on the countertop (I know you're supposed to thaw the turkey in the fridge or in cold water in the sink, but this was an emergency!). But we couldn't find the giblets! Jason and Liz took great amusement in seeing me half-submerged in the turkey's innards, but even their laughter (alternating with revulsion) could not reveal where in the world Georgia had hidden her giblet bag! I managed to dislodge the still-partially frozen neck, but the giblets were nowhere to be found. Finally coming to the conclusion that Brits don't concern themselves with such things as giblets, we gave up, did a final basting, and put Georgia in the oven. 12:30 pm.

Since there was nothing we could do for the next two hours, I took off to get some work done in the interim; I had brought my computer and essay-writing materials, but needed to print off an article, which could only be done (for free) back at St. Catz. Then at 2:30 I was back, primed for basting (basting the turkey, that is, not me) and raring to start on the stuffing.

This was another example of cultural variations rendering culture-specific items like recipes problematic. For the record: British grated parmesan cheese is stronger than American, bacon less greasy, and bread crumbs much more bland. I'll leave it at that. Just something to keep in mind.

The next few hours were a blur of essay writing, back-massaging (Liz was still sore!), and turkey basting, until around 5 o'clock when other members of our guests started arriving. As we should have expected, people came late, but this was okay, because Georgia Brown was taking her sweet ol' time in the oven. But eventually she was done. We cut open her beautifully browned skin, and guess what we found when we broke the skin on the neck side of the carcass: her giblets! They had been inside the whole time, but evidently we had missed them frozen in the bottom of the cavity. Well, so much for giblet gravy.

But after all the fuss, all the mishaps, this past Thanksgiving was one of the best I have ever had. We had around 10 people from our course show up, and some other invitees from other life-venues. Everyone brought something, and when everything came together, we had one amazingly traditional Thanksgiving dinner! We even had homemade candied yams--and were they delicious!

Even more importantly, though, the whole event was permeated with an atmosphere of relaxation and camaraderie that none of us had yet experienced in Oxford. It was so wonderful to exchange stories, jokes, and conversation in an atmosphere of complete freedom, in which food served as a tangible manifestation of the bonds being formed and shared. I am told that the meal is one of the absolute essentials of any Alpha course; I can well understand why, for this Thanksgiving showed me how God can use food to bring people together, whether that is in a table-conduced back massage or a laugh shared over a bottle of wine. When we went around and shared what we were thankful for, I couldn't help but thank God for the beauty of the scene that we had worked so hard to create.

Into the Inner Sanctum

Ok, getting up a little more energy now, sitting in front of the roaring fire, gazing out at the FEET of snow carpeting my backyard. It's one of those beautiful days when, if not sunny, the lack of wind at least has let the descending inches remain perched on the tree limbs, a virtual chiaroscuro created by God himself. Of course, I haven't yet stepped outside to face the evidence that my rose-colored (indoor) vision is not altogether accurate. I must confess, after having train-ed, Tube-d, airplane-d, and Honda-ed my way from Oxford to Rochester, MN, I am suffering a little bit from that common post-term ailment: laziness. I had one crazy morning on Tuesday, rushing to print out my paper, find my lost gloves (how can they just disappear when I never left the English building?), and turn said paper into the Examination schools before hopping on the 11am train to London Paddington, from where I took the Tube to Heathrow for my 3pm flight. After such an endeavor, and a full day of shopping and errand-running yesterday, I am having a hard time convincing myself to resist the lethargistic pull of our living room couches. In my defense, this pull is probably magnified by my not having quite adjusted to CST (I am still waking up before 5:30 every morning). Nevertheless, I am now fully up-to-date on the Daily Show with Jon Stewart (still funny even for conservatives, and still infinitely preferable to the Colbert Report), and I have even sampled--and deemed outstanding!--the newest adaptation of Sherlock Holmes by the BBC. The latter is the best adaptation I have seen yet, including the classic 40s series with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce.

But I must counter this rut of laziness, and thus I come back to my Oxford account. I believe I left off in Stratford-upon-Avon, the home of all things Shakespeare and, more importantly for English scholars, the Shakespeare Centre Archives. I'm afraid I entered said archives with a little too much of an American expectation for efficiency. First of all, when I initially determined that I would need to access material for several Royal Shakespeare Company productions, their website had informed me that the archives were closed for SEVERAL WEEKS! No thorough explanation was given, just that they would not be open. Of course, I emailed to plead my case, claiming an impending Oxford University deadline (love the name-drop!) and a desperate need to access unique production materials. The curators responded and said they would be happy to open for me a few days early, the Monday of the reopening week. I should say at this point that the archives are only open from 10-4:30 Wednesday through Friday, and only 9:30-12:30 on Saturdays!! I found this more than slightly ridiculous, but resigned to obey the authoritarian archive regime; after all, what choice did I have? So, as requested, I emailed them the list of items I would like to view and set about doing background reading.

Then I received another response from the curators: "this is rather more than we would normally get out for a reader in one day". Okay, so maybe the list I provided was a bit long; but really, only five items at a time?! I was making a special trip to Stratford; I couldn't afford to pussyfoot around! And most of them were production materials; it wouldn't take me long to look through production photographs, for example. But again, what could I do? What choice did I have?

So I arrived at the archives promptly at 10am and started reading through director's prompt-books, watching videos, and gawking at production photos. For most of the day I was the sole occupant of the reading-room, but even still I proved to be a bit too much for the Stage 4-Kohlberg archive curator. First, they were still trying to wrap their head around the voluminous amount of material I had requested. I knew exactly what I was looking for, so my search went rather quickly--too quickly for them, it seems, for they hadn't readied the second round of items when I finished with the first about an hour before lunch (mandatory; the staff needed a break, I was informed). 

Next, I made a monumental error, evidently an archival sin of epic proportions: I didn't rewind the VHS tape. There I was, frantically pouring through the prompt-book from Ron Daniels' 1980 Timon of Athens production, literally swathed in documents and clearly desperate to get through everything before the archives closed, and the curator comes up to me and says, "Excuse me, you didn't rewind the tape. We can't take it back until it's rewound?" Not particularly empathetic. Thankfully, the very kind floater from another part of the Shakespeare Centre took pity on me, and when Stage 4 had left, she volunteered to rewind the tape.

Third mistake? According to Stage 4, not removing my coat. You see, reading rooms with rare materials usually have a few rules: pencils only (no pens), no food/drink, no bags, and, most of the time, no coats under which you could secret a rare manuscript. But let's face it: this is Stratford, the nice floater is watching me, I was the ONLY PERSON in the reading room,  and it was FREEZING in there! The nice woman had laughed when I asked if I could keep my coat: "of course" it was all right; it's winter! But this was evidently not justification enough for Stage 4, as she chillingly reminded me.

And my last mistake: I didn't get through all the material. After being quietly, yet firmly pushed out of the reading-room at EXACTLY 4:30, I went to the locker and retrieved my coat and backpack. But there was Stage 4 as well. "You didn't get through everything?" she asked in amazement. Ummm...no, I was thinking. Then, continuing in a "you're-getting-awfully-presumptuous-and-demanding" sort of tone, "Well, are you coming back later?" No, I told her, I couldn't come back tomorrow. After all, I was a student: I had class; I could not make the stated weekday times, and it wasn't worth it for me to try and go back for three hours on Saturday. I wouldn't be back for at least a week. She, rather huffily, accepted my explanation (less expansive and bitter-toned than the sentences above, I assure you). 

I have discovered that there is a certain personality that often accompanies the position of librarian. Perhaps it is the nature of having complete omnipotence over a set of texts upon which world-renowned scholars depend. The library is a kingdom, and the librarian is its Lord Protector. You may recognize a similar attitude in church organists and women in charge of church kitchens. 

Anyhow, the Royal Shakespeare Centre kingdom, I found, is alive and well in Stratford-upon-Avon. This gem of theater history has some of the most un-user-friendly opening hours known to museums, and it may struggle to cope with the overburdening demands of American graduate students who come to probe its inner sanctum. But it is secret, and it is safe, jealously guarded by its Stage 4-protector and her arched eyebrow of doom.

From the Bod to the Bard

First, let me start out by apologizing for the lengthy absence. The only explanation I can give is to explain that I have in the interim completed four PhD applications, one 7,000-word (and I mean EXACTLY 7,000) essay, and one complete Oxford term.

That may not sound like that much, but let me elucidate the second of the above items, not necessarily as self-justification, but as an interesting conglomeration of cultural experiences. This paper is the one means of assessment I have for the term. If I were planning on applying to do a D.Phil here at Oxford, it would also be the primary means of assessment for getting into the program (yikes!). Thankfully, I am not in that situation. Yet I do want to do a good job. And much as I would like to say I left the stress-inducing insular bubble of Princeton behind me, I have discovered that even Oxford graduate students have an unhealthy tendency to talk about their coursework to the exclusion of everything else in their life; this promotes a drive to perform. [Side note: this was one of my pet peeves about Princeton. I HATED when people began conversations with "How's your thesis going?" or "How's your Dean's Date looking?"! "I AM NOT MY THESIS!!!" I wanted to shout. I even toyed with the idea of getting that printed on a t-shirt. We should not wallow in such conversational that is stress-inducing, unconducive to the broadening of the mind, and evidence of interpersonal superficiality.]

But I also just happen to like my topic. I'm writing on Timon of Athens, termed by one critic "Shakespeare's least-loved play" simply because, in my opinion, it is a bad play. It's boring, slow-moving, and lacks compelling, relatable characters. Also, it doesn't really make sense. In one scene, two characters enter many lines before a second entrance is given. And then one character suddenly comes out of almost nowhere to defend a friend before a trial of Athenian senators--a friend who we don't know, and whose crime is never even explained! And these aren't even all the problems frequently cited.

Hence, a bad play. We don't have any evidence that it was even performed in Shakespeare's lifetime; it almost certainly wasn't. Yet we, in our Shakespeare-obsessed age, insist on performing it, even as scholars have shown that Shakespeare collaborated on it with Thomas Middleton, another popular playwright. So, what do directors do with it? How do they explain the gaps in the storyline? That's what my paper's about.

So, of course, you know what that means: TRAVEL!! You see, in order to discuss directors' interpretations of the play, I had to have access to tons of material detailing different productions, and for that I had to go to Stratford-upon-Avon, home of the Shakespeare Centre Archives (think Royal Shakespeare Company). Thankfully, it's only a little less than two hours away by train, so a few weeks ago I loaded up my backpack, collected my ticket from the window (the electronic ticket machines just don't like American credit cards!), and set out for Stratford.

Now, Stratford is a gorgeous little town. And I mean LITTLE. I had been there before two years ago when I studied abroad, but I hadn't realized just how small the town really is. The archives people were kind enough to open for me on a day they were typically closed, but they forced me to leave for an hour so they could take a lunch break. During that hour I was able to criss-cross the town several times! It's really charming, with houses built Tudor-style, connected by rambling alley-ways, and SHORT. One of the things I'm always impressed with in visiting smaller English towns is their shortness. In the States, even smaller towns will have buildings with multiple stories. While English towns do have multiple-storied buildings, there are rarely more than two or three, and never give you the impression of height because they are connected in one long continuous stream of architecture. This, I think, adds to the sense Stratford gives of its small-town, country feel.

Furthermore, it doesn't have the touristy quality one would expect being the home of Shakespeare. Now, granted, it's winter, and an extraordinarily cold one at that. But the Stratford establishment has yet to latch on to the type of commercialism one sees in American tourist sites. Oh, sure, William Shakespeare-themed courses are entrees on the local menus (not that I've sampled them), but you don't see the souvenir stalls, gaudy Shakespeare marketing, or rampant remembrance of everything Bard.  It looks largely like a typical small English town, complete with a weekly market selling homemade Christmas cards, exotic fruit, woolen clothes (you bet there's a market!), and fresh-made pasties. And most unlike an American tourist site: everything closes at 5, making it remarkably inconvenient for bored scholars passing the time before their 6pm departure.

More to come...falling asleep...

Update on the "Recent Occuption," from the University of Oxford

I love the diction in this email (9:18 am):

"Old Bodleian open to readers and visitors. Radcliffe Camera remains closed.

26 November 2010

Following the eviction of protestors late Thursday afternoon from the Radcliffe Camera, the Library is working hard to resume normal service as soon as possible.

The Old Bodleian Library will be open to readers and visitors on Friday 26 November. We shall reopen the Radcliffe Camera as soon as possible but it is likely that it will remain closed all day to enable essential repairs to be made and cleaning undertaken as a result of the recent occupation."

Remember the Bod!

People say the British are boring; staid; implacable; even uptight. Their days consist of drinking tea (pinkies out), cheering polo matches, discussing Shakespeare, and "By Jove"-ing. I read an article from The New York Times not too long ago contrasting the decorum of the British with their continental French counterparts regarding budget cutbacks; I can bear witness to the reporter's assertions about the Brits' relative equanimity, having shaken my head in amazement at the never-ending Parisian metro strikes.

But then again, it is not every day that the Bodleian Library is held hostage.

Yes, you read right: the Bodleian Library. At 9:24 am all Oxford University students received the following email in their mailboxes: "The Radcliffe Camera and Old Bodleian Library are closed to all readers and visitors until further notice as a result of student action. We will reopen as soon as possible." "Student action," indeed! Around 70 students (Honor Code admission: my main source for statistics is the BBC website) stormed the Bastille, I mean, the Bodleian, protest signs in hand, slogans committed to memory, and hearts stirred for action. A friend told me (presumably from first- or second-hand experience) that the protesters politely asked the library staff to vacate the building, while they proceeded to hang flags--and themselves--out the windows of the library.

The implications of this were interesting to consider. In my little corner of Oxford University, nothing seemed any different. There is one book waiting for me at the Duke Humfrey reading room of the Old Bod, but it is not urgent, and otherwise my life continued to consist of the English faculty building, the Social Sciences Library (the closest place to study and obtain food), and St. Catherine's College--all within two minutes of eachother. It was hard for me to envisage the protests actually affecting my life significantly, until I received another email from the president of our college MCR:

4:24 pm:

"Dear All,

As you might have noticed, some of the libraries in Oxford have been
closed due to an occupation by protesters. If you run into trouble
with your academic work because of that, please consider the following
two points:

1. Prior to deadline for submission, students may submit a written
request to the Proctors' Office seeking an extension to the deadline
equivalent to the time lost through the Bodleian Libraries' closure.
Any such request must be submitted by the student to their college
Senior Tutor...

2. Alternatively, students may submit their coursework on time and instead register a request that the examiners take into consideration the disruption in the Bodleian when marking their examinations...."

Now here was disruption! I could hardly imagine the protestors having food airlifted into the upper reading rooms by helicopter (although I wouldn't underestimate those Indian delivery guys), so I imagined that the library closure would not seriously impinge on my studying. But the idea raised by the above email that the closure could last long enough to actually require the formulation of official college regulations was both scary and (let's face it) slightly thrilling. I must admit, when I read on the BBC that the protestors had been "forcibly removed," according to one witness, from the building, my self-important bubble deflated the tiniest bit.

But I must also say, with my friend Ben, that the Brits' new-realized political fervor does not altogether reflect perfectly on the Brits. Ben told me that one protestor was literally hanging out the window of the Old Library, while disgruntled postgraduate students whose studying had been disrupted erupted in a chorus of "Fall! Fall!". As Ben reflected, the groupthink mentality evinced here is not only stupid, but dangerous. What if he had fallen? Who would have taken the blame? Would it have been the politicians who haven't been seriously acknowledging students' efforts to protest imminent cuts to the university system? Would it have been the University for not taking more stringent measures against the protestors? Would it have been the leaders of the protest, for failing to remind their members that they are not on the lowest order of the evolutionary scale? Would it have been the taunting students, who bear some responsibility for encouraging the student's stupidity without an ounce of pity? Or would it have been the student himself, whose lack of common sense makes me hope he wasn't a member of the same university as myself?

Thankfully, such questions are irrelevant. The student is safe, the Bodleian is once its empty apolitical self, and it's 2:30 am and all's well. It has been amusing to see British political ardor gets its groove back. I do admire the students' efforts to take part in the political process and shed the apathy so pervasive at Princeton, Oxford, and other single-minded academic institutions. The value of an education and how much it should be funded is an important issue about which people should get excited.

But I must confess that activism which involves hanging out windows seems rather fruitless, especially when the protestors' espoused goal was NO cuts to education at all (let's face it, gents: the economy is in recession, everything must be cut, and YOU DON'T PAY NEARLY WHAT AMERICANS DO!!).

And also, I just want my library back.

My Own Canterbury Tale: The Student's Tale

Greetings from post-GRE-literature-land! I write to you from that blissful state that is utterly without the Norton Anthology of Literature (any volume)*; that state where daily walks do not involve 3x5 flashcards scribbled with words like "litote" and "Bakhtin"; that state far enough along the progress of civilization that it recognizes the existence of the pen and the mechanical pencil. Yes, my friends, I have entered the land of the blessed.

It is remarkable, ironic thing, though, that entering said land involved passing through some of the most picturesque literary territory in western literature. In the figurative sense, this meant my reading some of the "greats" that somehow had very made their way onto my undergraduate syllabi: Henry James, Virginia Woolf (her novels, as opposed to criticism), James Joyce, Willa Cather, Herman Melville (extracts, I admit), Alan Ginsberg, Lord Byron, John Dryden, William Congreve. Some of these I liked. Those (few) of you who may troll through my facebook posts may recall my open-mouthed admiration of James' Portrait of a Lady. None of you, on the other hand, will recall the same sentiments expressed about Joyce.

Yet the afore-mentioned literary territory was also crossed in a literal sense. The GRE-literature in English subject test is only offered two places in the entire United Kingdom: Leeds and Canterbury. Considering Leeds is practically at the North Pole, I went to the latter, weaving through the maze of London Underground construction (get ready for 2012!) to cross the hundred miles or so to Canterbury.

But, really, what could be more fitting? What could be more a propos than answering a question about Chaucer while looking out the window at the gothic spires of Canterbury Cathedral?

And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blessed martyr for to seke

Of course, I did miss the question on the pardoner's tale (really, was I supposed to read ALL of them?!). Nevertheless, the setting did make the entire experience more enjoyable. The stage 4-Kohlberg guy running the test center did seem much more comical than irritating by the contrast between his inane fastidiousness and the flying buttresses looming out the window.

In his defense, though, I did add to his test administering woes: I was a prime mover in the neglect of "exam conditions." Yes, I was the one who kept starting up, or at least propagating, the conversation that pervaded Room 2, the room designated for the "Literature in English" people. We tend to be by nature, I believe, a more social bunch than the physics and psychology people across the hall. So we thought it not unreasonable to discover eachother's backgrounds while waiting endlessly for the administrator to quarrel with the guy who was registered for the wrong test, the other guy who didn't inform him until late that he had medical grounds for time extension, and the girl who didn't bring any pencils (really...). This discovery, though, meant talking, even--heavens!--laughing: "Exam conditions, please. Get to know eachother later. Get to know eachother after the test. Exam conditions, please" (imagine this spoken in a slightly Indian-intoned British accent). But there was so much to talk about! The strange (for me) ineptitude of ETS in contracting out to a company that would misdirect all the test-takers to the wrong building, our relative educational backgrounds, the new financial incentives for British students to apply to American grad schools, our subversion of "exam conditions"....

So not only was my Canterbury pilgrimage a self-conscious reflection on the scene's literariness, but it also maintained the text's implicit understanding of the community-forming power of the Canterbury narrative. I arrived in the town alone. The moment I arrived at the hostel, I met an Israeli girl who would be traveling to the same test center the next morning for the TOEFL test (ahh...TOEFL...how I know thee). We shared a few awkward glances and shy smiles while waiting at the reception desk, while the poor hostel worker desperately tried to give driving instructions to some directionally challenged (and none-too-incandescent) clone-looking teenagers over the phone. A few hours later, I met a different girl, Caroline, who would be taking the same exam as I; we recognized eachother by our identical Princeton Review books. After agreeing to wake the other up if our alarms failed to sound, we crawled under as many duvets as we could scrounge from the hostel bunk beds and tried to sleep off the local frigidity. In my case, this proved unsuccessful (of course, I never sleep well before tests), but soon it was morning and we headed down to breakfast to meet up with the Israeli girl. The traditional English breakfast of ham, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, and beans provided the aromatic setting for a lovely, if somewhat anxious, conversation about what lay ahead for us at the testing site.

By the time I left said site, my fellowship had grown even wider, as Caroline and I became acquainted with Stephany, another Cambridge MPhil student who was equally dismissive of "exam conditions". We exchanged contact info after the exam was over and promised to get in touch when we were in eachother's Oxbridge location. Then, after a quick lunch, Stephany and I left Claire at Pret to enjoy the free wifi while we meandered over to Canterbury West train station. From there it was back to London, considerably more relieved, and considerably less solitary than when we arrived.


*Except for pleasure reading. :)

Lessons Learned, Inside and Out

Ahh...a (quick?) break from work for a short blog update.

The answer to the question of where to begin this post came via my fingers. If you looked at my right hand at this moment, you would see a rather unsightly homage to the perils of Oxford cycling. Well, I should be honest. Let me amend that: you would see a rather unsightly homage to the perils of Oxford cycling when done in a complacent manner. Yes, I admit that my journey to Somerville College for a voice lesson was less than fastidious. I should have paid more attention to that little voice, less attention to the Oxford autumn scenery, and no attention to my growing sense of comfort on a bicycle. Because I didn't, I am now the not-so-proud owner of two band-aided cuts, numerous smaller scrapes, and one ominous-looking (yet completely superficial) graze on my chin. I will also have to have my bike repaired, as the front brake pads are misaligned in regard to the wheel.

If I need an excuse, though, I could cite the fact that this is merely the last in a series of circumstances that have made my life rather stressful in the past couple of weeks. For instance, my voice is still a little too reminiscent of Joan Rivers, thanks to a belated version of the urban surprisingly-corroborated-myth known as "Fresher's Flu." Even as the sympathetic on-lookers to my accident crowded around with napkins (sorry, "serviettes"), my nasal cavity had not altogether stopped its recent back-and-forth between imitations of Niagara Falls and a college girls' shower drain. So, I wasn't in my normal healthy state of mind.

Furthermore, I hadn't slept much, due to trying to complete grad school applications for one country while living them out in another. This probably precipitated the latter physical condition.

Regardless of cause, though, I was turning off of Mansfield onto Holywell when it happened. Unable to see around a large red van parked at the corner, I, in my "I'm used to riding around Oxford" state, failed to slow down adequately to compensate for the blind spot. I hit another cyclist (who happened to riding very close to the curb, of course) and we both experienced gravity.

All told, however, there is much for which to be thankful. First, neither of us was hurt. The other biker went forward over his bike, but didn't even exhibit a visible scratch. I was also wearing a helmet, which I believe cushioned my head in the fall. The guy (another student) also turned out to be extraordinarily gracious about the whole thing. Evidently, accidents happen frequently enough around Oxford that this is somewhat to be expected for a person cycling for any length of time.

The accident also made my shame-faced request for a term-length hiatus from voice lessons more pitiable. I had by that time gone home, bandaged my hand, and washed off my face, but evidently I was still a pathetic sight (I didn't realize until later that I had a bloodstain on my pants--ugh, trousers). My teacher completely understood, and was perfectly amenable to waiting to hear from me after Michaelmas.

All this to say it could have been a lot worse. Moreover, getting excused from voice lessons also allowed me to arrive in time for the bi-weekly Early Modern manuscript lecture series held at the Pitt Rivers Museum. This series is utterly unique in that it combines talks given by leading scholars with the actual manuscript(s) in front of them. So rich are the Bodleian's resources that we lowly master's students can learn about the primary source for John Donne's sermons while actually looking at it!

Speaking of the Bodleian's resources, I should mention that last Friday was the first class on the hand-printing press. Little did you know that deep in the bowels of the New Bodleian Library lies an eighteenth-century wooden press on which us same lowly master's students can actually practice the art of printing! The first three classes are lectures, though still held sitting next to the presses, but it was nevertheless amazing to learn about how watermarks are made from a young Father Christmas-type figure with a paper mold in his hand. Who knew that people have gone so far to make vellum from the skins of condemned prisoners? I don't think I'll have time to attend the class once they actually get to the printing stage, but I don't regret going to the first one and seeing bona fide proof that yes, typewriters were not the first type-writers.

That's One Hot "Bod"

Oxford tip of the day: never underestimate an "A".

Now, many students at Oxford probably won't even have looked at their Bodleian-emblazoned ID cards deeply enough to have spotted the single, auspicious-or-not letter right above the barcode. For me, though, and the other students in my course, this "A" means the difference between academic life or death, untold possibilities or abysmal exclusion. It is, my friends, the most important letter in the life of an Early Modern English master's student at this point in time:

The letter granting "A[ccess]" to the Bodleian Library's Manuscripts and Special Collections.

You see, the "Bodleian Library" is not just a single library. The image stamped on our ID cards is of the oldest part of it, a gothic structure housing a square courtyard--the corner of which houses the obligatory gift shop. But beyond this building--the "Old Bodleian Library"--is a whole system of libraries that compose the system collectively known as the Bod. These include the "New Bodleian," the Radcliffe Camera (just a few feet from the Old library), the Bodleian Japanese Library, libraries dedicated to basically subject you can imagine; the official "Guide to Libraries for the Humanities" guide lists thirteen just for that discipline. For me, the most important are the English Faculty Library ("faculty" being British for department), the Old Bodleian, the Camera, and, drumroll please...

...the Radcliffe Science Library?

Yes, it just so happened that I chose the most inconvenient time possible to undertake a master's degree at Oxford University. During the best of times, anyone who has spent any time in Oxford will tell you that it is useless to try to understand the Bodleian Library system. Theseus had it easy by comparison; the Bod is far too extensive and complicated for a single person to grasp. 

During the worst of times, therefore, God may have well as added, "Do you know where books are housed at Oxford University?" to His questioning of Job. And the worst of times is now. According to my understanding, the British government has informed the University that if it wishes to be able to maintain the insurance necessary for its collections it must renovate the whole New Bodleian Library building. But in so doing, Oxford University has set off a chain of shifts and transportations that defies even the piddly official guides to explain the system. Included in this chain is the removal of the University's priceless manuscripts and Special Collections (yes, uppercase!) from the Old and New libraries to the Radcliffe Science library. This means that in order to read a hand-written copy of Yeats' poems, one must pass the lines of orgo-cramming science students to get to the special area designated for such purposes in the library's basement.

But it is not just a location change. I should explain that finding a particular manuscript currently requires the perusal of FOUR library catalog systems: the online catalog, two sets of printed catalogs reflecting different compilation periods, and one set of card catalogs distributed among old-fashioned three-ring binders. These catalogs may or may not overlap, so you must search all of them to be completely thorough. 

This is complicated enough. But it is made even MORE so by the fact that most manuscripts can only be read in the Radcliffe Science Library--while some of the catalogs are only available in the Duke Humphrey reading room of the Old Library! So, if you're looking for, say, the manuscript of Thomas Traherne, as I was today, then you must first go to the Duke Humphrey, drop off any large bags in the storage area, clear your pockets of pens (only pencils allowed!), climb up to the top floor, sign in at the desk, look through the catalogs, find what you're looking for, write the shelfmarks on little paper slips, give it to the librarian, sign out at the desk, collect your belongings, wait a few hours, and THEN go the Radcliffe Science Library, where you lock your stuff in the lockers, empty your pockets again, sign in at the desk, exchange your card for the manuscripts, and at last sit down to read them. Now, granted, the Duke Humphrey reading room is worth a visit; dating to the fourteenth century, it has colorful, gold-lined designs painted on the ceiling panels and Renaissance-era portraits on the walls. But the trek across town is yet another hurdle in already over-complicated process.

Once there, though, it is hard to describe the sensation of wonder when you first open the specially fitted gray box and take out the leather-bound journal containing the scribblings of Thomas Traherne. After reading transcriptions for the past year and half, I cannot explain how surreal it was to page through the poetry of Traherne and Robert Southwell, using my newly learned bibliographic knowledge to analyze the manuscripts' contents.  There it was, the same ecstatic mysticism that entranced me during the spring of my junior year, but in Traherne's own handwriting, penned on paper that still bears the signs of his brotherhaving painstakingly measured out perfectly horizontal lines on which to write. I could see where Philip Traherne had practiced the upper-case letters for his signature, which ultimately appears surrounded by detailed designs and drawings of flowers a page into the manuscript; I could note where acid had begun to eat away at the bottom edges of Southwell's poems; I could practice imitating Southwell's flowing Early Modern script, as my professor had suggested as the best way to learn paleography. "Adopt a manuscript," he said. "Adopt a manuscript and learn how to forge your author's writing. I wiled hours away sitting in the King's Arms learning how to forge Shakespeare's handwriting until I could do it in my sleep." 

I must admit, I was too overwhelmed by the immensity of what lay before me to choose a single manuscript (I was also a little disappointed/offended that my paleography teacher sat down RIGHT ACROSS FROM ME and didn't even say hi!). Both Traherne and Southwell are relatively understudied. The latter was a fervent Catholic executed for his faith under Elizabeth I in 1595; the former is remarkable for the absolutely crazy poetic style through which he espoused his Christian mysticism. 

Both would prove a fascinating literary adoptee, and both have works housed in the Bodleian. I was just reading an article about how the term "hand" to denote "handwriting" has become metonymized, a symbol that stands for the writer's identity as a whole. This idea as potentially dangerous literary ramifications, but I must admit, it is hard not to adhere to this belief when one is sitting, breathing on the lines that, four hundred years ago, sprang from the pens of Thomas Traherne and Robert Southwell. Both, it seemed to me today, are still alive, and both are made available, thanks to that tiny letter "A".

You know you're a geek when...

• Your anxiety about meeting David Norbrook is more fanatic than a teenage girl meeting Justin Bieber
• You walk by a pub and wonder why there are so many people
• Your most-anticipated email for the week indicates whether you have gotten into an optional Latin course
• An orderly desk gives you pleasure because it allows you to see all your book spines in a single glance.
• Libraries' short lending policies compose a significant percentage of your daily complaints
• One of your most thrilling conversations of the week is about Yeats, T.S. Eliot, and mysticism
• The only documents to survive the post-Fresher's Week Paper Purge are:
• a business card listing the English Faculty library hours
• English department lecture list
• papers printed only on one side (to avoid paying for paper to print off articles)
• You see laundry as a calculated scheme to take you away from your books

....you write a whole blog post on bibliography and literary theory.

The Oxford Education

F.W. Bateson famously wrote, "If the Mona Lisa is in the Louvre, where is Hamlet?" That is, despite the utter ubiquity of works of art like the Mona Lisa, there is never any question of what or who the "Mona Lisa" is; it is a painting, housed in the depths of the Palais du Louvre, sheltered from tourists' spit by protective glass, and oft cited as one of the most unimpressive masterpieces to see in real life. If--heaven forbid!--a fire were to destroy it along with all of the other chefs d'oeuvres in the museum, there would be no question of La Joconde's second life, perhaps a high-quality copy done by a leading contemporary painter. Mona Lisa would be dead.

Hamlet, though, is another matter. As we thoroughly debated today in my bibliography class today in response to the professor posing the above question, a literary text is somehow different from a piece of art like the Mona Lisa. If all the copies of Shakespeare's First Folio were to somehow disappear, would "Hamlet" as well? Is "Hamlet" the book itself?  What about if the quartos--a bibliographic rat's nest of elephantine proportions--also disappeared? Would one of the infinite number of theatrical representations still being produced suffice as a substitute; does "Hamlet" denote a performance? Or perhaps, given the inevitable changes that occur throughout the production, editing, and transmission processes, "Hamlet" only existed in the mind of Shakespeare himself?

Now, I admit, these are questions that most people will dismiss as completely irrelevant to, well, life. I could go on and try to explain how actually such epistemological questions are central to our understanding of history, culture, society, etc., but I only bring this up as a segue into what is for me a more personal question: "If the Mona Lisa is in the Louvre, where is an Oxford education?"

As with the Hamlet question, one could reply, "Well, Oxford England, spread out among 38 different colleges, or, in the case of graduate students, limitless numbers of faculties [that's departments, for you American-speakers] and degree programs." But the longer I stay here, the more I am learning that the Oxford education is much, much more than this. It is similar to the Princeton one, in this way; following a strictly defined academic path is not the way to take best advantage of their opportunities.

While I am pursuing a master's in Early Modern literature here at Oxford, the sheer number of ways to increase one's knowledge and understanding are, quite literally, limitless. In two days, I have attended two seminar series: one on Early Modern manuscripts (looking at an early manuscript of Sir Philip Sidney's Old Arcadia) and one on "the Far East and the Limits of Representation in the Theatre"--and these are just in my immediate research field! There are scores of other seminars I could attend if I wanted, relating to French theatre, Shakespeare studies, seventeenth-century intellectual history, student-run Early Modern paper presentations....The list goes on and on. At each one, we have the opportunity to hear cutting-edge research and ideas, followed by a question and answer session that never fails to impress me with the all-encompassing knowledge of the people in the room. They're wonderful forums for back-and-forth in a leisurely (wine and orange juice served), yet awe-inspiring (e.g. Merton College) setting. And these are just optional seminars, which are in addition to conferences (one is happening this weekend), which are completely outside of classes. 

If this weren't enough, though, there is also the hands-on-tutorial-type opportunity, example: hand-press printing. Underneath the vast, impossible-to-exploit troves of the Bodleian Library (scarily enough, closed to the public while they are making renovations to bring it up to an insurance-approved safety level) lie antique, Gutenberg-type printing presses, heavy as behemoths and hundreds of years old. You see, up until the 19th century, books were printed (note: different from bound) by hand by the members of a (usually) small printing shop. It's a fascinating case in social history to learn how it actually worked, and people have devoted whole books to a single step in the printing process. Don't worry: I won't go there. But suffice it to know that there is a true art to laying out type (composition), estimating the finished length (casting off), fitting the paper in the press, rolling ink onto the balls, actually printing the ink on the page (imposition), inserting any images, hanging it up to dry, etc. It was an extensive, laborious process, but one that's absolutely fascinating in its precision and beauty. And we're going to get to do it! On genuine, hundred-year-old presses! How cool is that? These are the types of opportunities one gets in attending a university nearly one thousand years old with a library containing (at least in theory) EVERY book printed in Britain since 1610. 


Of course, I haven't even gotten into the opportunities created just by sitting and talking to engaged, brilliant academics over meals, drinks, or college outings. The spirit of academic inquiry pervades Oxford to such an extent that it is hard to pin down what exactly is at the heart of this discourse. And it isn't just in Oxford; I have received emails about Oxbridge gatherings occurring throughout the world. 

Certainly, the Oxford education is rooted in this city, but it is not limited to one building, one course, even one department. It is built into the very bricks of St. Mary's church, it sounds in the belated bells of Christ College, it echoes off the ivy-covered city wall running through fourteenth-century New College. It is, one gets the sense, in the very air one breathes.

A Day in the Life...

Ahhh…Britain. The land of Cornish pasties, eccentric monarchs, and ubiquitous neck scarves. I realize that the United States and Britain have had a “special relationship” from the very beginning. After all, John Rolfe took Pocahontas back to England (which she hated, by the way, I found out tonight); the Pilgrims established a “Plymouth” (as in Plymouth, England) colony; William Pitt, Earl of Chatham ranted that Americans are the “sons, not the bastards” of England. Tony Blair’s comment, therefore, is far from unprecedented.

But at the same time, living for any length of time in England indelibly underscores the fact that we remain two distinct cultures. I do not mean to imply that these are irreconcilable, or that they are even unrelated; our American culture might just be the nephew of the British one as far as cultural taxonomy goes. Yet it cannot be denied that certain things are unremarkable here which simultaneously strike at the core of any red-blooded American citizen.

 Take today, for instance. First of all, it was completely fabulous, by any measure! Nevertheless, at multiple points throughout, I was distinctly reminded that—forgive the cliché—I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I woke up at around 7:30 struggling to pull my duvet—note, NOT sheets and blanket—back onto my mattress. Given that this duvet is the uppermost of two (necessarily, given the damp climate), I have come to expect this frantic duvet-clawing as a quotidian experience.  

The other duvet, though, is worthy of note, simply because it was freshly washed and laid out—but not by me. Yes, that’s right: every week a blessed, beautiful Chinese woman named Helen comes into my room, strips the bed, vacuums, and lays out a clean sheet set.

Now, granted, I still have to actually make the bed myself, but such treatment is unprecedented in my American experience. This, however, is typical Oxford. Helen is what is called a “scout,” Oxford-speak for a university-employed housekeeper who not only cleans the public spaces like the bathroom and kitchen (to a sparkling degree, I might add), but also goes into each person’s room and does the afore-mentioned activities. I am told that Cambridge has people playing identical roles, although they have a different name.

Maybe it is just where and how I grew up, but I have a very hard time imagining a like position even existing in the United States. I remember hearing of some special rooms at Harvard that used to (still do?) come with their own housekeeper, but such stories were told in a mocking tone of derisive contempt, in amazement that an able-bodied, would-be adult would be so lazy and harbor such an elitist attitude as to accept such accommodation.  Here, however, it is standard Oxbridge practice, and excites little remark, at least in terms of its novelty.

Okay, moving on a couple of hours, after having partaken of a comforting bowl of “porridge”—note, NOT “oatmeal”. After doing an hour’s worth of reading on whether it was better to lay black ink first, then red, or red, then black, in a two-color hand press imposition pre-1800 (yes, I’m serious; and by the way, it doesn’t matter which one goes first), I took off on my bike to the gym.

Now, I should point out that downtown Oxford is completely unsuited to car traffic. The streets are, well, old, after all, and therefore are not conducive to large numbers of vehicles greater than the width of a bicycle. Of course, that doesn’t mean that such vehicles are not present. It DOES mean, though, that the roads are particularly hazardous for the riders of said bicycles.  Some accommodations have been made, including numerous bike lanes, but it still requires an adjustment period to prevent a heart attack when being passed by a two-story red bus less than three feet away. Such dangers haven’t stopped me, though, naturally; the benefits of efficient transport far outweigh the initial terror. So after my reading I was once again maneuvering my way through traffic and the dreaded “Plane,” the round-about right across Magdalen Bridge, from which the city’s main streets diverge.

The very fact that I had to make such a journey speaks to the Brits’ attitude towards gym and physical fitness. Simply put, Americans are obsessive by comparison. The Oxford gym is located on the opposite side of the river of just about every other University building. It also requires an additional—albeit minimal—joining fee. Few of Oxford’s 38 (I believe) colleges have their own gyms, so most of the few students that would access such services are forced to make the hike/bike to Iffley Road. The gym is not large; it is less than a third of the size of Princeton’s, despite the fact that the student body is nearly four times bigger, around 20,000. Yet only once have I seen it at all crowded. And when people do exercise, it is not in the multi-tasking, organization-kid-esque manner of Princetonians. No, on the contrary, I am the only person who brings reading material along, and I have yet to see even someone with an mp3 player (this reinforces my similar experience at UCL two years ago). It would seem, therefore, that when the British do occasionally exercise, it is not just the means to an end, namely, looking good with the utmost level of efficiency. Rather, it is an end in itself, an activity during which one can relax, de-stress, and watch MTV on the distant TV screens.

In the interest of time (it is almost midnight after all), I am now going to skip ahead to this evening. I live in St. Catherine’s College, est. 1962—i.e. the newest college in Oxford. I know, I know, 1962. Believe me, I feel the youth. When I was listing my college preferences, I thought I was safe with the single, simple desire that my college be at least as old as the literature I was studying; after all, most of Oxford’s colleges are. God laughed at me, however. Hence, now I find myself in 60s-style architecture in a college that doesn’t even need a porter at the entrance, there are so few visitors clambering to tour it. Compared to Christ Church, Merton, or others, St. Catz’s traditions are few, and dinners are relatively informal. There is no need to wear formal robes, and Hall consists of plain, light-grained tables with library-reminiscent light fixtures, rather than grandiose Harry Potter-style décor.

Even in this plainest of colleges, though, the order and formality is astounding. It is tradition for new graduate students to start each term with a Domus Dinner, which involves dressing up and more elaborate courses than normal. Accordingly, we all gathered in the SCR, or Senior Common Room, where all the faculty members normally hang out. After forty-five minutes of mingling and sipping champagne, we all filed into Hall, where all of the undergraduates were standing in rapt attention, as is required when the high table is being used. Now, we weren’t sitting at the high table, but I imagine the tables especially decorated and laden with wine were the higher-quantity equivalent, and I can assure you from yesterday’s experience that the “high table attention” is observed fairly regularly. Then a senior administrator of the college gave a blessing—some theologically empty Latin phrase resembling “benedictum benedicat”—and rang a bell, signaling the start of the dinner.

And what a dinner it was! When we sat down, we had the option of filling our glasses with white wine (red came later), “still” mineral water, or “sparkling,” any of which to accompany the butter and rolls on the table. 

Then came the first course: some sort of salad, with roast peppers, pesto, olive oil, rich greens, and soft cheese on a layer of phyllo pastry. This was replaced with an onion soup with a floating piece of bread topped with melted chèvre. Absolutely delicious! And we weren’t even to the main course! That distinction belonged to a tender roast lamb, paired with a glass of red wine. Alternatively, one could—as I did—order the vegetarian option, an aubergine galette. Now, this requires some explanation. Strictly speaking, a galette is a savory crêpe, usually made of some dark flour like buckwheat. In its traditional form, therefore, it is rather flat and light. This galette, however, was a pristine, layered masterpiece resembling a thick, tall slice of lasagna. It was laden with tender slices of eggplant (not overcooked!), tomatoes, and cheese, and artistically drizzled with a fresh tomato sauce. And yes, I said eggplant; the British and the French charmingly share words for many vegetables that we Americans prefer by other names. "Aubergines", aka eggplant, for example, as well as "courgettes", or zucchini.

At last, having reached what I thought was the utmost my stomach could handle, the dessert came: crème brulée, served with chocolate drizzled homemade macaroons on the side (American, not French style, for those of you who will have had French “macarons”). I do not really like coconut, but I must say, these macaroons were absolutely fabulous! Now, usually one can order fresh fruit instead of dessert, and since I prefer fruit to crème brulée (I know, I’m weird) I asked for an alternative. I’m not sure what I said, but the next thing I knew the waiter emerged with one of the most spectacular desserts I have ever tasted. Comparatively, they were aesthetically simple, but the baked plums on my plate were more succulent that I had thought possible. They were cooked in some sort of sweet, but not syrupy, sauce, lending a natural, finished taste and rich, pink-purple hue that defied any comparison to a measly crème brulée. I was glad I am not a coffee drinker like others at my table, for I didn’t relish forsaking the taste of sweet plums for that of harsh, brutish coffee beans.

Thus marked the final course of Domus Dinner, our stomachs stuffed, serviettes soiled, and silverware stained. The white-shirted college staff--maintaining its professional silence--cleared away the service, as the MCR officers announced that the party was moving to the MCR room, where cocktails and other drinks would be served. We then extracted ourselves from the high-backed chairs, girls' heels echoing significantly less solidly across the floor than before the numerous courses and wine pairings.

So marked the end of Domus Dinner in St. Catherine’s Hall, the newest, one of the least formal of the Oxford colleges.



**[Thematically divergent, yet important annotation]: Marvelous as the food itself was, the crowning achievement was the college itself, that is, its members. We all sat at long tables in the order in which we came, meaning that we probably didn’t know everyone sitting around us. I knew the two girls on either side of me, but by the end of dinner I was also acquainted with a Sikh physics lecturer from Kent, a quasi-vegetarian from Moscow, and several other graduate students from various corners of the world (don’t worry, one was British as well). The variety of backgrounds and academic fields was astounding, as was the friendliness and sociability of my fellow students who gathered at the Middle Common Room (the graduate hang-out room) afterward for drinks. Princeton alumni often talk about missing the intellectual conversation associated with their years there, but, my friends, I am fortunate enough to be able to say that such conversations do not end at Fitz-Randolph Gate. I feel so privileged to have been able to discuss Geoffrey Hill, demographics of vegetarianism throughout the world, even the thrills of biking while intoxicated with people who are just as, and probably more, intellectually engaged than I am (regarding the last topic: you had to be there).