Book Two, Chapter One: Supposed Firsts

Hi. It’s been a while.

I’m going to Oxford.

Although I’ve been to – and lived in – England before, it has been a while, and so I thought I’d start this not-quite-first entry with some other pseudo-firsts.

[Incidentally, and skip this if you think I’m repeating what I said in Aix…I’d just like to point out that just as I don’t live in DC, or Harrisburg, or Richmond (well okay, I do occasionally live in Richmond…but it’s a lucky guess) I’m not in London – I’ll be attending school at Lady Margaret Hall, one of the colleges at the University of Oxford, in the city of Oxford, in Oxfordshire. It’s about an hour and a half to London by bus.]

When I first glimpsed the “dreaming spires” of Oxford, I was four or five years old…but I’m not sure that I remember that at all. This time around, Dad and I made our way to Oxford by bus from Heathrow airport. I suppose it looks much the same as it did ten years ago. Or a hundred years ago.

My college for the year, Lady Margaret Hall or LMH, was the first college at Oxford to accept women, and for this reason it’s located slightly to the north of town. It was also the first women’s college to accept men…I’m not living in a convent! Yes…following the river, one walks past the new science buildings and through the playing fields (watch out for footballers and rugby teams) and through a small park to get to the brick-walled school buildings. I spoke with the porter and arranged to move in on Monday or Tuesday. I also spoke with my first LMH student…he was nice, I think, but the only thing I really remember is that he was wearing a yellow zip-up cardigan and had slightly shaggy hair.

Anyway, the first conversation I had with a British person (or is it English? I haven’t really gotten this distinction down yet. I remember my father calling an old family friend a Brit, and his reply: no, Andy, I’m an Englishman) wasn’t actually in the UK. It was in the line – the queue – to get on the plane in New York, and it was about queuing. As I’ve heard from more than one source, the English are very concerned about forming and following orderly lines. I’ll have to add more to this later, once I’ve experienced it firsthand.

Another English standard I re-experienced for the first time since traversing the Atlantic is, of course, tea. I think I’m also going to have to elaborate on drinking rituals later, but let it be known that Andy Grant was apparently telling the truth (I know) when he said that the milk is poured first. I couldn’t personally tell if it made a difference, but then I was having my tea with a jacket potato, not a scone, so what do I know?

So far things here have been good. The town is beautiful and bustling, the people are friendly (as long as I get over my paranoia), Dad has been a hero, lifting huge heavy bags and going to six different electronics stores on his own to get me the perfect set of speakers (if you don’t understand how important music is to me, you are not my friend), and I’m happy, if anxious. The weather is rainy. My first English weather…not a downpour, more a gravity-driven mist. I actually find it invigorating, enjoyable. I guess it’s a sign that I could belong here?