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).