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.
Monday, 25 October 2010
Saturday, 16 October 2010
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".
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".
Thursday, 14 October 2010
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
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, 9 October 2010
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.
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).
**[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).
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