Greetings, O Ye Who Are Reading. Welcome to week 2 of "the Abroad Experience." This past week has been pleasantly academic, though as my due date nears, I begin to wonder if it was quite academic enough. Well, that's all as may be. As it is, I've finished a draft of my first tutorial assignment, involving Ovid's use of mythic digression and exempla in Ars Amatoria, and... oh, boy, I could go ON and ON about the man's brilliant use of Latin, but I shall refrain. Meantime I am currently stymied on Milton and Coleridge; I've got 2000 words min. to write about them and I don't... know... what... to... say....
But no doubt something brilliant will occur to me. Today I went and wandered around for a while, got myself thoroughly lost, and window-shopped for wool coats. But in the process I found a wondrous place. It is called, appropriately, Paperchase, and it is to me what a Chocolate-dipped Sparkly Vampire Store would be to most preteen girls. Attest, ye gods and angels -- the notebooks. The pens. The different colors and sizes of paper. The desktop organizers. The colors. The siren call of the reasonable prices. I know, rationally, that 10 pounds is $16.45. But it doesn't feel like $16.45. So I could buy two of the little linen notebooks. Or I could get one in leather for 50p more!
This place is not healthy, in sum, and if you want a souvenir from it tell me so I have an excuse to go back and buy ALL THE THINGS. Meantime I've decided to only eat parsnips and ginger beer so that I have more money to blow at trip's end.
Also found some awesome cemeteries. When I have time, eg when I don't have a 2000 word paper due in 2 days, I will go to them and brood and feel poetical.
Yeah, I really ought to be doing things...
So I will sum up with an observation on British culture and why I love it:
Staring is impolite. Going over and talking to someone is considered a little odd; they probably want their privacy; Lord knows this island is teeny and crowded enough without people going over and interrupting others' thoughts. Also, is there a queue here? Were you looking at that self-checkout station/post box/food item before I was? Wait, you're a LADY?! Go first. No. Really. GO FIRST. And don't thank me. No, it's okay. You don't have to look at me. ...well, okay, an awkward brief smile is all right, I guess, here let me return it. Now let me adjust my leather carry-all -- yes, I am a man. No, this is not a purse. Where are you from, anyway? Of course I carry a bag. The Queen's saddle-maker provided the leather! My grandfather carried tins of peaches around in it when the gerries bombed his house during the Blitz!
Oh, no, that's quite all right. No offense taken. Yes, these trousers are wool. No, I'm not going to an interview... I'm going to the grocery store. To pick up some nice parsnips. What do you mean, 'dressed up?' I'm not. I'm wearing normal clothes. ...yes, waistcoats constitute normal!!
Gracious, the colonies are still dreadfully uncivilized, aren't they. You poor thing.
-- And this is why I like it over here.
Now, for the ongoing saga of the Pub & Coffee Review:
3 Goats' Heads is kind of in a side street that's just this side of Sketchtown, but it's quiet and comfy and has lovely architecture. Barkeep wants to be a rock star; looks a little stoned and air-drums to his iPod, but provides lovely cheap beer. The stout is... not a beginner's stout. But it renders one VERY happy, once you can get it down.
Mission Burrito across the street from aforesaid pub is decent but overpriced. Their "medium" salsa is about as painful as tomato paste.
"The Missing Bean" espresso bar rendered me an Americano that was, for once, good. Very "cool" place; unfortunately, I think they know it. Bathroom sign is a print-out of Obi-wan captioned, "These are not the restrooms you're looking for."
The Croissanterie cannot do a cup of filter (that is, drip) coffee to save their lives; I'd almost rather free waiting room coffee. But, as I've said before: people don't quite get coffee over here.
If you're ever over here: find a food truck. Ask for chips and gravy. Feel Canadian.
And that, good people, shall be all -- except...
Border collie puppies. Still don't know if I want one, but darn it are they pretty!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Foreign Affairs
I Am In England.
Oxford, to be perfectly precise, for an eight-week study abroad program that may just end up stealing away my heart and nomming it, that I may never be content in a US institution of professed "higher learning" again.
Anyway. My joy at being here is hardly entertaining reading. And in the...week? really? So long and so short?... since I arrived, I have had time to make observations only of the most fleeting and superficial sort, mostly centering on how the Brits Do Things Different.
Here, then, a handy glossary/guide:
Driving: They do it on the correct, that is to say left, side here. Which is well and good, except that it means you have to look right when crossing the street. Apparently in some more cosmopolitan townships there are handy signs painted on the pavement, advising you to "Look Right." Oxford, bastion of education, leaves its lonely foreigners to learn this hard truth empirically, that is to say, with much squealing of tyres and blunt force trauma.
Food: Not too expensive if you know what you're doing. Dairy products have so far been vastly superior: butter, cheese...much creamier and tasting as if it comes from a happy ruminant. But also prone to being a little disappointing, and getting to the table lukewarm and soggy. Protein for breakfast; only a silly git or possibly an Irish type would eat cold cereal or yogurt and granola. Coffee has been barely decent to nightmarish; it's like I've gone back in time, to the pre-Starbucks revolution era. (I think it has something to do with the native and completely understandable English distaste for all things smacking of France.) There IS a Starbucks in town, on (I believe) Cornmarket St. (where there is also the most upscale KFC you will see outside Saudi Arabia); it sucks. The best place I have found so far -- not staggering, mind you, but not at all bad -- is on the third floor of a five-floor bookstore. Coinkidink? Creo que no.
Fries are chips and chips are crisps. You do not want coffee to go, you want it to take away. Rocket is a kind of arugula leafy thing. A baguette is a long thin sub sandwich. Yes, the fish and chips are good; mushy peas, however, make the dish. Brown sauce is like a complicated ketchup, tasting mostly of tomato paste and vinegar; not bad; don't fear it. Sliced bread is not sliced. Why they say it is sliced I fear I shall never know.
I live near a place called Mick's Cafe; a tiny ancient homey diner frequented by local types. They look at me funny when I come in, but they don't judge me for wanting coffee and they do a wonderful if minimalist egg sandwich for breakfast. It's a fried egg, not too done, still a little soft and yolky in the middle, between two slices of a bread so clearly soft, white, and synthetic, I think it shares 80% of its ingredients with play-doh. Mmmm. Bliss.
Drink: Well, coffee is a big one, and we've established that it gets no respect. The other big one is things of an alcoholic nature, which suddenly, with my magic passport, I am permitted to sample. This was my first attempt at ordering something in a bar (the Eagle and Child, no less):
Me: I think I want to try that (pointing).
Barkeep: Okay...you want to try it?
Me: No, I want a thing of it. (Gesturing).
Barkeep (stifling smile): A pint?
Me: If you like. Yes! Yes, a pint.
Barkeep: Because you can try it first...
Me: Well, maybe I should try it.
Barkeep (speaking slowly, as if to an idiot): It's a stout...
Me: Yes, I know. I think I like stouts.
Barkeep (handing me sample glass): Or there's ales over here, you know, we've got this one or --
Me (having a mystical alcohol experience; draining glass): No. No, I want this.
Barkeep: ...is that ID in your hand? Could I see it, seeing as you have it out...
Me: Of course! Look, it's me! I'm legal! Now, about the pint of stout...
And so it went. Stouts are terribly nice, but they require endurance and an empty stomach, since they're sort of like a small drinkable meal. I like ales all right, especially the hoppy kind (I think they taste like biscuits). Ciders are...well, ciders. I like them but I don't think they like me; they tend to get me fairly wobbly (and in more of a dizzy confused way than a happy, bag of wet warm cement way) fairly quickly. Best one I've found so far is called Scrumpy Jack. Finally, ginger beer. Oh, ginger beer. It is like a really excellent artisan ginger ale, except it makes you warm and happy inside. I buy them at Tesco and drink them alone in my room.
On a similar topic: I have learned that I am a complete lightweight deserving of all your mockery.
Finally: Schooling:
There is no physical "University of Oxford;" Oxford simply refers to a confederation of tiny medieval walled colleges who all cooperate to share books and funding and things. So if anyone's wearing an "official" "University of Oxford" sweatshirt, they got it at one of the many souvenir stores here. (I meanwhile am contemplating getting a tattoo of a blue cat's face on my shoulder; Aedis Christi forever, but I digress.) "School" here refers to primary grades only, so you don't say you're going to school here, you say you're going to college. Similarly, it is rather missing the point to try and define the city as apart from the colleges and vice versa; while Oxford is a college city par excellence, the union of colleges and town also seems remarkably natural and unforced -- which makes sense, given that both emerged organically together, around a thousand years ago, and have had plenty of time to get used to each other.
I think those are the major points for now. Had my first meeting with my tutors today and there's a celebratory ginger beer chilling in the fridge... also a reading list to get cracking on. So I leave you all with this final note:
Berger Picard Puppies!
Thank you.
Oxford, to be perfectly precise, for an eight-week study abroad program that may just end up stealing away my heart and nomming it, that I may never be content in a US institution of professed "higher learning" again.
Anyway. My joy at being here is hardly entertaining reading. And in the...week? really? So long and so short?... since I arrived, I have had time to make observations only of the most fleeting and superficial sort, mostly centering on how the Brits Do Things Different.
Here, then, a handy glossary/guide:
Driving: They do it on the correct, that is to say left, side here. Which is well and good, except that it means you have to look right when crossing the street. Apparently in some more cosmopolitan townships there are handy signs painted on the pavement, advising you to "Look Right." Oxford, bastion of education, leaves its lonely foreigners to learn this hard truth empirically, that is to say, with much squealing of tyres and blunt force trauma.
Food: Not too expensive if you know what you're doing. Dairy products have so far been vastly superior: butter, cheese...much creamier and tasting as if it comes from a happy ruminant. But also prone to being a little disappointing, and getting to the table lukewarm and soggy. Protein for breakfast; only a silly git or possibly an Irish type would eat cold cereal or yogurt and granola. Coffee has been barely decent to nightmarish; it's like I've gone back in time, to the pre-Starbucks revolution era. (I think it has something to do with the native and completely understandable English distaste for all things smacking of France.) There IS a Starbucks in town, on (I believe) Cornmarket St. (where there is also the most upscale KFC you will see outside Saudi Arabia); it sucks. The best place I have found so far -- not staggering, mind you, but not at all bad -- is on the third floor of a five-floor bookstore. Coinkidink? Creo que no.
Fries are chips and chips are crisps. You do not want coffee to go, you want it to take away. Rocket is a kind of arugula leafy thing. A baguette is a long thin sub sandwich. Yes, the fish and chips are good; mushy peas, however, make the dish. Brown sauce is like a complicated ketchup, tasting mostly of tomato paste and vinegar; not bad; don't fear it. Sliced bread is not sliced. Why they say it is sliced I fear I shall never know.
I live near a place called Mick's Cafe; a tiny ancient homey diner frequented by local types. They look at me funny when I come in, but they don't judge me for wanting coffee and they do a wonderful if minimalist egg sandwich for breakfast. It's a fried egg, not too done, still a little soft and yolky in the middle, between two slices of a bread so clearly soft, white, and synthetic, I think it shares 80% of its ingredients with play-doh. Mmmm. Bliss.
Drink: Well, coffee is a big one, and we've established that it gets no respect. The other big one is things of an alcoholic nature, which suddenly, with my magic passport, I am permitted to sample. This was my first attempt at ordering something in a bar (the Eagle and Child, no less):
Me: I think I want to try that (pointing).
Barkeep: Okay...you want to try it?
Me: No, I want a thing of it. (Gesturing).
Barkeep (stifling smile): A pint?
Me: If you like. Yes! Yes, a pint.
Barkeep: Because you can try it first...
Me: Well, maybe I should try it.
Barkeep (speaking slowly, as if to an idiot): It's a stout...
Me: Yes, I know. I think I like stouts.
Barkeep (handing me sample glass): Or there's ales over here, you know, we've got this one or --
Me (having a mystical alcohol experience; draining glass): No. No, I want this.
Barkeep: ...is that ID in your hand? Could I see it, seeing as you have it out...
Me: Of course! Look, it's me! I'm legal! Now, about the pint of stout...
And so it went. Stouts are terribly nice, but they require endurance and an empty stomach, since they're sort of like a small drinkable meal. I like ales all right, especially the hoppy kind (I think they taste like biscuits). Ciders are...well, ciders. I like them but I don't think they like me; they tend to get me fairly wobbly (and in more of a dizzy confused way than a happy, bag of wet warm cement way) fairly quickly. Best one I've found so far is called Scrumpy Jack. Finally, ginger beer. Oh, ginger beer. It is like a really excellent artisan ginger ale, except it makes you warm and happy inside. I buy them at Tesco and drink them alone in my room.
On a similar topic: I have learned that I am a complete lightweight deserving of all your mockery.
Finally: Schooling:
There is no physical "University of Oxford;" Oxford simply refers to a confederation of tiny medieval walled colleges who all cooperate to share books and funding and things. So if anyone's wearing an "official" "University of Oxford" sweatshirt, they got it at one of the many souvenir stores here. (I meanwhile am contemplating getting a tattoo of a blue cat's face on my shoulder; Aedis Christi forever, but I digress.) "School" here refers to primary grades only, so you don't say you're going to school here, you say you're going to college. Similarly, it is rather missing the point to try and define the city as apart from the colleges and vice versa; while Oxford is a college city par excellence, the union of colleges and town also seems remarkably natural and unforced -- which makes sense, given that both emerged organically together, around a thousand years ago, and have had plenty of time to get used to each other.
I think those are the major points for now. Had my first meeting with my tutors today and there's a celebratory ginger beer chilling in the fridge... also a reading list to get cracking on. So I leave you all with this final note:
Berger Picard Puppies!
Thank you.
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