End

Picture this:

A girl (yes, she still qualifies as a girl, despite her 'advanced age') walking down a narrow brick street, past small brick houses with multi-hued doors that catch the evening sunlight. Around her are students set on celebrating the end of exams - they're variously dressed up in academic robes, party hats, farm animal masks, and facepaint, and they're throwing glitter and confetti and shaving cream into the air. The girl doesn't break stride; she continues down that narrow street, eating fish and chips out of a paper bag with a wooden fork, and smiles as hums along to a Debussy song that's just come on through her headphones.

Strange. But that's how I'll remember the end.

Do Not Go Gentle

PICS! of me rage, raging against the dying of the light.

1 - the summer garden party!

in lmh's gardens, of course.

some interesting people...bramble, tink, and ben 'vlad' westwood. yeah i know.

the asian front

and owen of course.

samuel joins us after his final exam, so we throw glitter on him and give him a 'girls' night out' balloon.

famous burgers!

2 - eilyn's birthday dinner!

lovely little eilyn.

noodles!

3 - pubs!

finding our way to a secret pub down by the bridge of sighs (oooh)

found it: turf tavern

another night, with sam and some americans at the king's arms.

and one of the mitre, which was taken along a course involving several, including the white horse and turf tavern. i am not an alcoholic, bess. it's socializing.

4 - and clubs!

either babylove or anuba. sam hates anuba.

strange shots at risa

anddd back with the original gang of lawyers for clem's.

5 - croquet!

i am sooo much better than everyone else at this game thanks to my 'killer' grandfather.

john stopped by, but had to return to his greek history studies...stupid exams.

6 - the bitter(sweet) end

incredible...i'm going to miss these guys (and the ones who weren't pictured, too) so so so much. it's just started 9th week, and except for the handful of students who are finishing up exams, everyone's gone home, leaving me in a bit of a ghost town. i know we'll stay in touch, but i sort of feel like i'm going to miss their presence more than they'll miss mine. it's a matter of numbers. anyway, we'll stay in touch. they'll be fine. and i will too. :)

yep...

these will all be on facebook, plus more, in a few days.

xoxo

Quizzy (EDIT: now completed!)

Hellooo all...okay so it's (once again) been a while...does anyone even read this anymore???

I've been busy with tutes and lectures and, more recently, the Summer Eights regatta and investigating graduate options...too busy, it seems, to even take photos, as I had hinted to do last term. Sorry! I have some tentative plans to go dancing and punting - not simultaneously - this weekend, and maybe do some other photographic events. In which case I can put those up.

Until that point...quiz time! Brits are big on quizzes, as Mom can testify from the pub quiz and quiz machine and so on. Because I'm literary-minded, I'll make this about vocab...some alternate meanings, and some totally new words. You've all doubtless figured out lorry and lift and rubbish, and maybe a few of you know the naughtier British interpretation of fanny (and pants!), but let's see if any of these stump you. Answers to be given...when I remember. Prizes to be announced sometime after that. :D

***it's now June 9th and I've put in the answers instead of writing an essay. Hurrah!***
1) faff (v) to waste time, to mess about, to procrastinate (stop faffing about!); derivatives include nouns 'faff' and 'faffer', respectively the non-activity and the participant(s).
2) manky (adj) inferior, disgusting, worthless, dirty, unclean (the showers in Wolfson North are getting increasingly manky).
3) prang (adj) afraid, paranoid, or confused (this experimental drug trial pays £125, but I'm feeling a bit sleepy and prang); apparently also a WWII era verb meaning to collide, bomb, or shoot down.
4) cringe (adj) embarrassing or awkward - actually, the closest they've got here to 'awkward turtle' and derivatives (my tutor tried to tell a joke today...so cringe); additionally used as an interjection.
5) whinge (v) to complain, to whine (she was whinging all through dinner about her essays); also whinger, a whiny person.
6) pavement (n) the sidewalk (I got a £30 fine during Summer Eights week for cycling on the pavement).
7) chuffed (adj) delighted, pleased, proud, tickled (I'm well chuffed to have navigated this punt out of a hawthorn tree).
8) ickle (adj) small, miniscule, itty-bitty (Aww, has ickle Johnny got a scrape from punching that wall?).
9) courgette (n) zucchini (By the time he got through the queue, all the courgettes were either shriveled up or drowning in butter under the heat lamps).
10) gutted (adj) absolutely disappointed, devastated (We were all gutted to discover that beautiful Welsh John has a long-term, long-distance girlfriend); also an interjection meaning something along the lines of 'ouch!'
11) lush (n) a drunk, a sot, an alky...generally a flirtatious one (Goodness, this weekend I've discovered that Matthew is quite the lush!).
12) gormless (adj) stupid, idiotic, lacking composure, grace, and style, brainless (I know that speaker is supposed to be brilliant, but honestly he seemed more like a gormless twit to me when I heard him this Sunday); non-rhotic, also spelled 'gaumless'.
13) kit (n) clothing, usually of the uniform variety (Be sure to fill out the order form for the boating kit, because we're going to look smart in all blue and yellow stash.)
14) swot (v) to revise for an exam (prelims are just around the corner - have you started swotting?); noun form has a negative connotation, meaning a bookworm or a teacher's pet.
15) gawp (v) to stare at something, standing stock-still and mouth agape (the preteens are always standing around Cornmarket Street, gawping in the shop windows, so that I want to run them over on my bicycle).
16) fringe (n) bangs (Mel's new fringe is super cute...it makes her look even more like those manga people she's always drawing).
17) fit (adj) hot, sexy, attractive (yeah, yeah, like I said, you are really fit...but my gosh, don't you just know it).
18) lash (n) a pub-crawl, a night out of heavy drinking with the lads (don't laugh, but three pubs with Sam and Owen is about as good a lash as I can take); banter seems to be heavily involved.
19) aces (adj) excellent, brilliant, fantastic (I'm aces at croquet, even with Pimm's in hand).
20) minger (n) a particularly ugly individual (Is that our M2? Nope, not unless the 5-seat suddenly turned into an ancient minger); derives from ming, a hideous odor.
21) knackered (adj) exhausted (I spent all morning reading, all afternoon writing, and now I'm outside getting well and truly knackered indulging Anya in her art).
22) keen (adj) eager, enthusiastic, interested in someone or something (Dave seems a bit too keen on taking his tutor's dog for a walk and generally complying to her every irrelevant wish).
23) cock up (n) a complete mess, a mistake (What a cock up...Worcester's W2 not only mounted our boat and split the Lemon Tart in half, they also broke the cox); also a verb.
24) bender (n) a drinking spree (So we stay in for one night to catch up on these reading lists, and you tell me Alex went on one of his benders and ended in puking down Jake's stairwell?); being 'bent' is to be drunk, although in the UK nearly anything means to be drunk if said in a certain way...oh man I was so ___ed last night. Silly.
25) skint (adj) lacking funds, broke, hard-up for cash (Constance insists that she's totally skint, but I keep seeing these packages come in for her in the lodge, so must be she's feeding the ebay habit by selling her brain to psychology).
26) fagged (adj) tired out from extensive working (Our Welshy friend's got mooting, essays, the CU, campaigning, these rowing outings, and last night I saw him at Kukui...I don't know when he sleeps, but he must be fagged to death).
27) chunder (v) to vomit (We got to the start line of the race early enough to practice our chundering technique, leaning over the side of the boat and away from all the blades and riggers, although fortunately this skill was never put to use).
28) naff (adj) unstylish, worthless, lame, tacky, or lacking class (It may be sensible, but a jacket in cool weather? Very naff. We may allow you a cardigan and scarf, but it's a stretch.); also a verb, noun, and mild expletive that goes anywhere f*** can (Naff the naffing naffers).
29) filch (v) petty theft, stealing something of little value (There's been so much filching of hall silverware and glasses they've had to put up an angry notice).
30) kip (n) sleep, a place to sleep, a nap (We were all studying in the library, except for Kalpana, who I had let go back to my room for a kip); also a verb often followed by 'down'.

And the bonus was 'stonking', another adjective which means impressive or extremely (getting up on May Day to hear the choir sing from the top of Magdalen and seeing the Morris dancers was a stonking good time!).

Okayyy there you go - have fun!

I'd Rather...

Hello once again, and greetings from an icecream shop filled with Italians (and their young children) at midnight. Yes. Apologies once again for neglecting the blog…but I think I’ll dive right into it. Since I last updated, I’ve had no real disasters, which is fantastic, and I’ve been to a ton of different towns and met with a ton of different people. I have no clue where to even start in some sort of reflective, critical piece, but I think I’ll just do a brief recap to keep you in the loop.

After Dublin and Kinsale, I left the land of the ginges and took a ferry to Wales, where I spent a few days in the north climbing mountains, traversing Telford bridges, and peeking into castles, and then journeyed south (by flagging down a train) to meet up with Owen, who showed me an outstanding time in Swansea, Cardiff, and the Gower. I learned a lot about Welsh culture, discovered a bit about the Welsh language, and learned about English, too – for instance, in the UK, a lot of USA mass nouns are plural. So, sadly, the Welsh rugby team weren’t able to beat Ireland in the six nations tournament. (Although the Welsh crowd were more enthusiastic – a goat, a flaming torch, and inflatable leeks and daffodils for the win.) I also revised my Dublin theory (a city park is the perfect amount of nature) to include parks with clear-cut paths and tracks. So all said, a good bit of travel.

I next visited Sam in his hamlet of Pangbourne, near Reading, having eliminated Constance and Mel from my travel plans; disappointing, but necessary, as they were not actually in Exeter, but instead had decided to go to Penzance. I like pirates, but not that much. After relaxing with Sam, his cat, two dogs, and other family members, I headed to London on my birthday to do some dangerous shopping and to meet Mom, who showed up a little late but no less thrilled to be there. Maybe more. We had some fun bonding time in London, York, and the middle of the Midlands, and then I was off to Italy! and France! to see Alyssa. Corsica was very amazing, and I will definitely have to get back there, probably with a car, to see the lush verdant forests, or whatever…I feel I don’t have nearly enough information about the place now, but I do know it was very beautiful and wild. And currently, as mentioned above, I’m in Italy, in Firenze, and I’m right around the corner from the Uffizi. This vacation has been, on the whole, a surreal experience.

Although I haven’t got anything for you in the way of interesting compare/contrast during my travels – I think anything I might try to say would be shallow and superficial – I have nevertheless been given a lot of time to think on all of those train rides from place to place. And now…Why I’d Rather Live in the UK. I know. Let’s say as compared to France or Italy. Because those places can be life-changing to visit, but as a home might be my undoing.

First: I am covered in bug bites! Again! Why! What is it about me that makes me so appealing to hideous insects? And why am I the only person who swells up like a balloon when bitten? I currently have about ten elbows, and about eight of them are painfully itchy.

Second: the language. I simply don’t speak Italian, outside of general niceties and food words (and of course ‘how much does it cost’). And I tried to ask for directions to a place to eat in France and got directed to a dark alley sooo who knows what I was really asking for. Although I suppose I could have just interpreted the directions wrongly.

Next: tea. People in Ajaccio and in Florence are insane about tea! They leave the teabags in! They leave the spoon in! They don’t have normal tea, only herbal things and Earl Grey – hey, that’s not normal tea! And they sometimes don’t even offer milk to go with it. It’s a travesty. I don’t even know what else to say about this.

And finally: queuing. Or lack thereof. I must have seriously got bit by the que bug, because I was filled with such silent moral rage upon being confronted by what might loosely be termed as a “line”, both in Italy and in Corsica (which, as we all know, is really populated by what used to be Genoans), that I was hard pressed not to mutter under my breath in indignation. It’s true.

So I am pretty thrilled to be going back to Oxford in under two weeks. Not to say that I don’t want to be back in the States, or that travelling hasn’t been really fun…but for now, I simply can’t wait to come ‘home’ to Oxford, where life is truly civilised! ;)

Luck of the Irish

So I’ve finally been released from the onerous task of writing two large academic essays per week, and I find myself here in Dublin…and what do I do? Write an essay, of course! …I think I have a problem…

Highlights: train rides? See previous train-themed France entry, I believe. And lowlights: the last three hours. Also, today was flipping expensive, but hopefully future days will be less so, as I have paid in advance for such items as transport and lodging. But still. Puuuke.

Yes. After an evil and theft-ridden taxi ride (one of two today – how is it allowed for them just not to give you back correct change? What is with this rounding up business? Also, I lost my LMH badge ☹), I left Oxford and managed to hit all of my connections (Yayyy! I am so stupid when it comes to public transportation it is not even funny.) and got to Holyhead in time to do nothing. I guess I could have explored the town a bit, but I was feeling sleepy and it was getting dark-ish and I decided that I would like to keep things in order and do all of Wales after all of Ireland. Still, from what I saw out my window, Wales is pretty amazing…as I think I’ve mentioned, I can never stay long in a flat country, so I love the way the craggy yet weathered mountains and hills slope sharply down to the sea. Also, everything is so green…and sheep-filled! Sheep are actually really weird. It was sunny out today, too, which seems to be a rarity…hopefully it will be bright out when I come back through the North, and I will take some photos. In the past, I have been turned off by grimy windowpanes, but with Constance’s hipster embracing of Lomography, I am coming to appreciate the dreamy quality of imperfect photos and so I will give it a shot (pun intended). This is fine country you have here, Owen.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Wales is in the future; currently I’m in Ireland, which I reached after an uneventful ferry ride across blue-grey water while reading Genesis. The description of the flood was somewhat creepy. My plan is to work through the Bible during these six weeks…maybe a bit ambitious (and maybe I shouldn’t have brought Bleak House and We Need To Talk About Kevin, etc.) but so far so good. It was brought to my attention that if one is going to base one’s life on a book (and the truth it contains), then maybe one should get down to reading it. I would actually highly recommend reading Genesis simply for its literary merit? Even if you’re not religious, the version I have – the Revised English Bible – is quite poetic and almost mythological. And if you are religious…well it gave me chills. I’m quite looking forward to my silly little project.

Again with the sidetrackedness (sidetraction?)…but we’ve almost arrived in Dublin. When we do, we get – or I get – propositioned by this Redbeard type in the customs line who has clearly been heavily drinking at the ferry bar. Gross. Although I can see his type existing in these parts for thousands of years. My baggage came through in one piece, and I managed to get return tickets back to the UK while still making the single bus to Dublin town centre. Hurrah! Sadly, this is where it all went to heck, as getting various tickets and withdrawing various Euros and Poundage had caused my debit card to exist in a state of depletion, while my credit card took this opportunity to take a little vacation of its own…“The pin number is invalid” (No it’s not!!!) and “The card number is unauthorized” (Um. What???). Which is an exciting change from last week’s “The post code does not correspond” (Yes it does?!?). I definitely need to get that sorted. Somehow. Meh. Still, after a tearful breakdown in front of my hotel manager (Martin), I got on the internet and got to an ATM and paid debit. Too much nitty-gritty detail…suffice it to say I am back on track (if rather poorer than before). But rich in memories. While I was sipping a steadying half-pint of Bulmers (is this sacrilegious in Dublin? I don’t know…but I did refrain from the J2O…), Martin gave me a lucky four-leaf clover charm to protect me against further chaos, and I have learned that people in unexpected situations can be genuinely good, like men in clicky shoes when your credit card is rejected, or like portly and greying gentlemen when you feel like you (or at least your bags) appear to be exploding at the seams. In Ireland, at least, “chivalry is not dead.” Or that’s what they say.

Hmm and my hotel room is lovely – it’s the only thing I have taken photos of thus far – and the shower is amazing. I would happily die Psycho-style in it. Or perhaps not. Anyway, I’m safe and sound and off to the countryside to meet Maeriad (!!!) tomorrow! Wish me luck, and I’ll hopefully get the chance to tell you about Exodus – the original, the Dublin, and the Ireland varieties.

On Drinking

Flipping heck, I’ve been bad about this whole journalism thing. I’m considering next term taking up photoblogging, because at least then you’d get a glimpse into what I’m glimpsing. I’m not convinced that my photographs are worth a thousand words, but…better than what we’ve got here, right? Four entries in half as many months – shameful!

So. Today we’ll be discussing that time-honored and unmistakably British tradition of tea. With a capital TEA. Oh goodness…

First, the term is confusing for those of you who haven’t been fully exposed to the cultural experience. Even I, having inherited tea-drinking from my father, a man who drinks several cups a day, and having lived in England as a child, did not accurately grasp just what I was getting into. As I was setting up my room last term, I purchased a cup and a tea kettle for the imbibing of the British beverage, but I only got one (rather large) mug, and one (really very small) kettle, thinking that tea would be drunk in a similar manner to coffee – quickly, over several textbooks, and as a stimulant or substitute for food. Not so. If I had to do it over again, I would invest in a cute little tea set, and a large electric kettle. Tea, in some parts of this country, is actually a meal, one that replaces dinner (or well actually it replaces supper, and dinner is served for lunch…but I won’t get into that). In Devon, there are Devonshire cream teas, involving tea and cakes and scones and, obviously, Devonshire clotted cream. Which is delicious. Tea is more than a simple drink. As a student, tea is essentially an opportunity for socializing. Okay, some kids do use it as a sleep-substitute, stopping just short of getting it intravenously, but generally taking tea is all about taking a break from the books, sitting down with friends, and having a cuppa (I actually have never heard anyone talk about ‘cuppas’) with some cakes.

Cakes and puddings: the perfect accessories to teatime. In the UK, the term ‘cake’ has a somewhat broader definition. And certainly ‘pudding’ does. If you’re looking for a place to get something tasty to accompany a good cup of tea, Marks and Spencer's would be it. Here is a list of some of the things I’ve sampled: a Victoria spongecake, some chocolate mousse cups, various assorted cupcakes, a lemon cheesecake, (of course) molten chocolate molleux, profiteroles. I’ve also made a pavlova and tried some of Owen’s lemon tart and Constance’s cream and honey sandwiches (NOT technically British, Owen would add) over the course of six months of drinking tea in the British manner. Interestingly, I feel less gross and fat about myself here than I did at Richmond. Maybe it has to do with all the cycling. And coxing. Riiight.

While the tea ceremony is certainly relaxed in the dormitory rooms of university students, some people still have particular rituals or standards that need to be fulfilled so that the integrity of teatime is preserved. I’m not sure. I’ll submit certain Welsh individuals as the pickiest of tea-drinkers, with the rest of my legal friends at the other end of the spectrum, and the Russians – well Russian – somewhere in the middle. No one will keep a teabag in the cup as they’re drinking, for instance, and few will leave the spoon in. That's all pretty logical, I suppose. Issues that cause more angst concern the components of the cup of tea. Some, for instance, like fruit or flower teas, while others are very strict that normal, English tea is the only tea worth consuming. (This is striking a chord with my father, I bet.) And of course, the milk and sugar debate continues to rage: white with two? One thing I had half-expected to see was a confrontation of teabags in general, but fascinatingly, loose tea seems to be a thing of the past, at least for the Brits I drink with. Fascinating. I have, on the other hand, had a discussion about what gets poured first, milk or tea – there was actually a very unofficial and unscientific study done about this back in the day – but apparently there’s no longer any contest; pouring milk first is not posh, it’s absurd. “Uncouth,” I think was the exact word used.

Yes…I am not completely so far gone that I don’t see the bizarreness in all this. I guess it’s something like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Americans, though: we just want what we want, and there’ll be hell to pay if, say, someone tries to foist strawberry jelly on us instead of grape, cut the thing vertically and not diagonally, or (heaven forefend!) try and sneak some nasty chunky peanuts in there. Ickkk. I think people here are also aware of teatime as a funny tradition, and are not above poking fun of it in true British fashion. I was at an art film screening the other week, and I think the piece that was most well-received was the “Posh Monday Society,” a mockumentary about a fraternity of upper class Oxford tea-drinkers. I think it’s on youtube if you’re that interested, though it may not appeal if you don’t fully embrace the tea-drinking lifestyle (or if you do, but don’t like being made fun of). Anyway, I am working on setting a little informal experiment of my own in which I offer tea to Brits at inopportune moments and see whether they ever actually refuse. My guess is no, unless they’ve literally just come from drinking a cup of tea in their own rooms. First though, I have to get a larger kettle and some attractive cups…and I think Owen has a Victoria cake somewhere…

Dear Diary...

I don't have time to be clever right now...but today is a beautiful day. There's just a hint of spring on the breeze, the sky is currently a lovely restful grey, but sometimes the sun peeks through, and the University Parks are covered in snowdrops, daffodils, buttercups, and crocuses. I found twenty pounds on the ground, and I just got back from a meeting with Professor Plunkett, this really incredible neuropsychologist/linguist who started the BabyLab. He's letting me work for him (he says he can't discern any horns under my hair). So I get to play with babies! for science! at Oxford! !!!!!

In other news, I have discovered Bounty candybars and they are delicious.

Snow Day

There’s snow in Oxford!

I’ve changed my socks five times today, and I’ve gone through three pairs of shoes. I think it’s reasonable to say that the British have a serious preoccupation with the weather, but when a snowstorm rolls through, they haven’t got a clue of what to do with it. Okay, so just because I haven’t seen a salt truck doesn’t mean there are no salt trucks…but there’s not a salt truck in sight.

Last night, I left the library around midnight for my room, but was summoned forth again near one in the morning by a combination text message/snowball to the windowpane. Natives here may be preoccupied with precipitation, but it’s nothing compared to the sheer exuberant joy displayed by the Singaporean and Malaysian crew. Gloveless and hatless, the snowball fight broke up just before two, thanks to an intervention from the porters, but we stayed out a bit longer to build a snowman and walk around the gardens behind the main building. I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t seen this much snow in a few years, or if acting like a kid in snow is infectious, but now my knees are bruised from falling and my ribs hurt from laughter.

I woke up early to go on a morning walk through the untrampled snow by the River Cherwell, and took about two hundred photos. It was eerily silent, most people here adhering strictly to the student’s schedule, and the trees were lacy and white. I wasn’t the only one out, though…while I didn’t see a soul as I wandered through the hedges and past a flock of cold-looking ducks, Facebook informs me that nearly half the campus went out to photograph the snow.

I sludged off to lecture – as the day went on, the temperature rose and the sidewalks got increasingly sloppy, so that the best way to travel was, in my opinion, this ridiculous-looking but controlled slipping motion, sort of like skating and sort of like falling over – and delivered some brilliant remarks to my lecturer about initiation rituals and Rwanda before sliding back to LMH through the University Parks. Where playing fields once lay, people from the colleges and town appeared to have spontaneously gathered (dogs and infants in tow) for the chance to stand ankle-deep and chat, probably about the weather, for a giant snowball fight, and for giant snowballs. Remember the snowmen you used to build as a child? Now multiply that by five. I now can appreciate how it’s possible to make a giant snowball as tall as me, as I witnessed three or four rugby players rolling a roughly spherical heap around the field, but I have no clue how they managed to lift the second ball on top of the first. I’m no Samson, but even for these guys, snow is heavy.

It’s funny how someone’s snowball fighting attitude reveals something about their character. Maybe. Or not. Anya, at least, is the type of person who throws snow at the back of your head, and then when you turn around for retribution, shrieks that she doesn’t want it in her face or hair, and proceeds to unceremoniously tackle you to the ground. Constance is in the white the majority of the time, flat on her back making angels or giggling at the sky. David whips a few handfuls at you, and then runs back inside to his cup of coffee (well maybe that was just because it was late at night). Kalpana seems fairly serious about throwing snow, but only when hit first, and tries to stay out of throwing distance – although that could have been because she was gloveless. And Owen, normally immersed in his law books, is more ruthless with a snowball than Anya at least had figured. I don’t know how my snowballing reads...let me know, but I bet someone will be shouting "violent Emily!" at this point. Bring it.

After a brief hot cocoa interlude, I’ll have to venture out again to meet my second of three tutors, who seems from her emails to be young and socially awkward…we should get along wonderfully. I’ll probably need a sixth pair of socks.

Beware the Jabberduck

I’ve never really been a nature lover or fauna-phile (wow that’s about five different kinds of wrong), but as you are most likely deprived of field and garden guides, I thought I might fill you in. Aside from a passing nod to student boppers and the (very) odd early-morning falcon, we’ve as yet had no mention of the local wildlife. The Bodlean Library gets one copy of every – and I mean every – publication in the UK, so I should be able to do at least a little enlightening research on this topic.

So I started – and ended – my fieldwork at the duck pond. Don’t judge me…I’m no Costa Rican (Brianna) and I’m not about to go dig for spiders. The duck pond is about two minutes walking distance from college, closer if you are able to leap across the River Cherwell, which I am not. While walking to the park, I saw some dogs. They were big and shaggy. Perhaps they were laboradors or retrievers…mhmmm…are those the same? Whichever, I am interested in wildlife, not domesticated animals. Moving past the four-legged beasties and their aged two-legged poo-toting servants, I approached some ominous black birds. Research has just indicated that they were most likely not blackbirds de facto, but instead some type of crows – members of the Corvidae family. Like, a raven. Or crow. Or jackdaw! Or even a rook, but I hope not, because those things seem scary, according to Wikipedia.

Anyway, the birds in question ended up not being too scary, as they flapped away upon the approach of some fluffy little squirrels. Squirrels in the UK appear to be much cuter than they are in the States; they’re grey and fat and small with big bushy tails and they basically look just like Beatrix Potter’s squirrels. (Riveting stuff, this is. Also, I’m starting to think that I should stick to brains.) Also, these squirrels are really bold and don’t run up trees if you come near them, and I think I could probably catch one if I tried, but I won’t because I’m not that stupid.

And we have reached the duck pond!

I brought some stale bread along as bait – Sainsbury’s sells these delicious olive bread rolls that are four for a quid, but you have to eat them all in a day or they get a bit dry. The ducks didn’t seem to mind, though. I made friends with a mallard, although I didn’t catch his name. A smallish white bird along the lines of a gull (sorry, no clue) thought the best way to get food from me would be to hover about two feet in front of my face. Actually, that method is surprisingly effective…terror works. Some other British waterfowl spotted at the duckpond included: swans, some kind of mini duck, and some red-beaked blackish birds with freaky long toes.

I hear there have been hedgehog spottings in the grounds behind LMH, and I personally witnessed a pheasant messing about in the underbrush, but other than that, nothing. England appears only to have birds and rodents. I haven’t even seen much evidence for insect and arachnoid life, which I think is wonderful (although I guess the naturalists would have something to say about that. Maybe I’m not digging in the right places). Oh, I also observed some sheep when I was in/around Wales. Still, generally I think I’m right – this country is a small and cultivated island, and nature programs will back me up when I say that there are no wild predators in England. All lions, tigers, bears, and yes, even cougars are imported, and the most wild thing you’ll find in Oxford will be the common pubcrawler.

Writing about Writing: an English Problem

While I was Stateside – reading, eating, relaxing, watching my favorite shows on DVD, and generally acting like an old crazy lady while wishing that my friends would come home (or, alternatively, that someone would come and spirit me off to Oxford), I had a lot of time to reflect on time spent abroad. Yes, dangerous stuff. But I’m not going to write too much about my reflections; instead, I’m going to make a New Year’s resolution, and that is: no more navel-gazing blog entries. I keep harping on about how they’re tedious and self-obsessive and disorganized, how the Aix days were better, and how I don’t like what I write, so now I’m just going to shut it and get back to more thematic posts.

And we all know how well these resolutions go. I realize that in writing about how I’m not going to write a certain way, I started circling about that very way. Damn. So, to ease into the new year and new style, I think I’ll discuss why I think I found it easier to write about France than about the UK (wait!), how Oxford differs from Aix (and Pittsburgh and Richmond), and how I might go about remedying my problem. Oh good we’ve fallen into the thesis statement already. I think I’m overcompensating.

Also, this looks pretty ambitious.

When I stepped off the plane and into France, I was an alien in a foreign country. I think, as much as I was able to discuss lack of culture shock and ease of acclimation, I was a tourist, and my experiences and outlook were those of a tourist. The culture, the countryside, the language were all so exotic and opposite to what I’d experienced before in Pittsburgh (and, even more, in Richmond) that I wasn’t afraid to draw thick black lines between what I knew and what I was experienced. Everything was Different (we’re doing anthropology, so…Other). Oxford, as you know, has been another matter. I don’t feel like a tourist or an outsider, either in England or in the University, the latter of which is a relatively international place. Because I’m not (or don’t want to be) an outsider, I hesitate to select events out of my day and wedge them into an essay about “why the people here are this” or “why the country is like this” in the same way that I did in Aix. While in France, everything was novel and exotic, but here in Oxford, I think I’ve developed a block against using those kinds of words…things can’t always be quaint or stunning, and I hesitate to even say “they.” Maybe I’m kidding myself here. Regardless, right or wrong, generalizations and simplifications have begun to make me uncomfortable.

In thinking very long and hard about life in France and life in the UK, I think I’ve discovered both the reason why I feel myself at one place and not the other, and also the reason why I’m afraid to write about one place and not the other. And that reason would be: people. After all, it’s not the language or the weather or the food that gives a sense of belonging – it’s the company. Also, everyone here reads English and might find my blog, realize that I’m twisting history to my own ends, and object to what I’m writing about them. But focusing on that former thought. I could tell literally hundreds of stories about friends at Oxford (while having extreme difficulties relating them to a larger picture), but instead I’ll use more recent events to illustrate my point. Just after New Years’, my family and I spent five days with our oldest friends in the English countryside. This British family is almost definitely the catalyst that has brought my parents care so much for the UK. This year, we’ve finally all acknowledged that (well, roughly), and instead of touring castles, cathedrals, and cities, the Ruzichs broke out of standard vacation mode and just relaxed: playing cards, eating, chatting, seeing a show, watching TV, discussing our homes, our heartaches, our humor. I don’t think anyone regretted it at all…in my opinion, it was one of the better holidays we’ve had. And that is roughly how it is for me at LMH – the cutthroat, pretentious students never materialized, and instead I’ve been surrounded simply by good people who make me feel a part of something.

So. Here’s my plan. I’m going to get over my nerves about people reading what I’ve written while they were there to experience it. Also, I’m going to write slightly fewer entries in an effort to combat the burnout of writing…with over one academic essay a week, I’m going to have to cut down on blogging. It’s either one detailed entry every other week or so, or a single exquisite sentence every other day. No Mom, don’t you dare choose the sentence option. And, as promised, I’m going to be more thematic. Which is where you, my adoring public, come in…anybody with a suggestion, a question, or a comment, please let me know and I’ll do a bit of amateur sleuthing and write an entry just for you. I know you all love being involved.

Okay – must go for now! Love you all and Happy New Year.

Interlude

I'm hooome!

Actually, that's a complete lie. I'm about as far from home as one can get - sitting in the Philly airport next to tats girl, feeling tired and greasy, and out of bottled water and eye drops. I don't understand why planes dry one out so much. I think I've developed ten hangnails. Also, I'm writing this in the actual blog composer thing and not in a word document. Shocking.

So, yes! Very unsure about this whole home thing - I'm looking forward to seeing the family and friends and eating my favorite foods, but...I don't know. Maybe tats girl with her weird snack mix is making me negative. And I feel like I've left a lot of unfinished business in Oxford. Such as: making a groundbreaking discovery in a research lab, learning to play the guitar, etc. I guess I'll be back in the UK before I know it.

Um. Well, I keep getting drawn into these journal-like entries, even though I am fighting it tooth and claw. I'll just give the highlights of the last few days.

Finished essays, amaaazing. Met with Fiona, less amazing. But could have been worse.
Packed my entire room into two suitcases and two small overhead lockers, fell off a wheelie chair and scraped my face on the wall.
Said awkward goodbyes to the entire campus (Kalpana, Katie, John, Owen, etc., etc.).
Chilled out with Anya, ate Russian foods, and compared stereotypes of the British.
Fed ducks.
Witnessed Anya the avenging angel verbally abuse the taxi company into taking us to the bus station.
Ate breakfast with Dave at Carluccio's mmm.
Got (ironically) profiled and searched as a terrorist by a man in a turban. Just saying.
Almost got my own three-seat bench in coach, but then got put next to fat man and screaming baby.

Oh hey! Update from our captain: two hour delay because 1) an overhead bin is broken, and 2) there is a "maintenance problem" eww? Welcome back, me...

‘Tis the Preseason

I’m sitting here listening to a jazzy instrumental elevator music version of “I’ll be home for Christmas” that I awesomely somehow own. Why would I be doing such a thing? I guess I’m just in that kind of Christmasy mood. To be honest, this is old news…I’ve been sneaking the odd Christmas carol almost since that first freak snowfall Oxford had that lasted for about three seconds. Usually I’m morally opposed to family members and radio stations and department stores piping out festive tunes as soon we’ve all finished gorging ourselves on Halloween candy, but for some reason this year I’m really getting into the spirit of things. It might be because Thanksgiving a non-issue for Brits (although I did have a very pleasant T. dinner provided by the caring LMH staff), or maybe it’s because the shops don’t have a lawsuit on their hands every time they play “Hark! The herald angels sing” (which means less “Christmas Shoes”…although, strangely, they count that Donnie Darko version of “Mad World” as a Christmas song? Explain?), or just possibly it’s because – as evidenced by these entries so far – the UK can do no wrong in my rose-tinted view; regardless, I’ve got Christmas fever.

I won’t go so far as to say that Oxford – and the rest of the UK – hasn’t bought into the commercialism of the holidays. By day, the main streets are full of shoppers and buskers and people dressed in funny costumes handing out flyers and, of course, Christmas songs. But once the sun sets (at 4pm), the decorative lights go on over the streets, twinkling in the cold, misty air, and it feels a bit less materialistic. One evening, I was walking through town on my way to a sparkly social dinner (with orange chocolate mousse! and mulled wine!), when I stumbled into some kind of techno parade. It was very surreal-looking – a dark, swirling crowd, and these slow, still stilt-walkers wearing glowing white costumes, followed by children carrying lanterns. They’d also hung some kind of massive planetarium above Broad Street on cranes, and there’s a large tree strung with white lights. No ice rink yet, but I’m still hoping. Meanwhile, up in Norham Gardens, LMH has her own Christmas tree in the quad, which makes me feel all bubbly. It’s a Charlie Brown kind of tree, listing to one side, and possibly planted into the pavestones, but it’s got bright blue lights on it, so that, “when it’s dark and you can’t actually see the tree, it looks quite pretty.” The rector of the chapel also appears to be supervising some kind of massive operation to bring as much outdoors indoors, and everywhere you look along the route from the front entrance to college to the chapel, there are bits of pine needles on the ground that must have fallen off all the greenery that is now adorning the altar, pews, etc. And, lest the pagans who prefer to eat than worship feel left out, there is also a small tree in the balcony above the dining hall, which on Friday afternoon was being installed along with a series of barrels? Ye olde Yuletide barrel?

Eighth week at Oxford is really just devolving into a series of Christmas parties and carol services, which is bad news for me, who hasn’t actually started that one last essay for Developmental. Still, I’ve been to two different CU socials (one of which lead to my precipitous engagement…congratulations are in order), I’ve painted my fingernails snowflake silver, and I’ve amassed all of my red and green clothing items. I’m ready. (Also, I’ve got that “snowball sweater.” You know the one.) I kicked off the week with a spontaneous trip to London along with the law students in order to see the Magna Carta and other human rights documents. And also to shop. I submit that both of those actions are appropriately Christmas-themed. And may I also say that I love London. In addition, I’ve shopped around Oxford for some Christmas presents for friends…yes, I ended up buying some things for myself as well…and for a bop outfit. Last night’s Christmas bop had a tricky theme (XXXmas/Santa and his Ho Ho Hos…some things are universal), but I ended up fashioning a fairly successful skirt and hat combo out of wrapping paper for a Christmas cracker costume. Crackers being those tube-shaped packages that pop open with a bang and contain a cheap little toy and paper crown. I decided against the “pull me” tag, although that would have fit in nicely with the theme. Hm. Anyway, I was hardly overdoing it with the paper skirt…there were presents, and reindeer, and Christmas trees, and quite a few people not wearing much more than tinsel, and an overwhelming percentage of men in very tiny red dresses, much to the consternation of poor old Texas-bred Pentagon John. He bore it like a gentleman, true to form.

So that’s eighth week, and it’s not even Monday. Three or four more Carol services, two more fancy dinners, and in one week I’ll be getting on a plane to return to America for a bit more than a month, to repeat the whole Christmas process. Which is probably the strangest thing of all. Eight weeks is such a short time…I can’t believe I’m almost done! I do miss you all though, and it will be good to come back home and have a turkey dinner complete with cranberry sauce. And then before I know it, I’ll be jetting back across the pond, to stay until June…ah! It’s coming! Although, so is Christmas.

Hi There

Goodness, it’s been over a week since I last posted. You’re probably all thinking I went and signed up for that pain experiment after all and lost all my fingers or something. Because that is the only thing that would stop me from writing. In actuality though, I’ve been incredibly busy and just haven’t had the time or the energy to look around meditatively for a good story. (Oh, by the way…that last entry about science was supposed to be light and funny and the responses I got all seemed pretty concerned. I’m fine! Lighten up!) But I do feel pretty guilty about leaving you all in the dark for so long, so I’ll include a couple of diary-like snippets from the past week or so to let you know how I’ve been doing. It’s been a real rollercoaster! Wooo…

Right, so the first thing you’ve missed out on would be my whirlwind illness which struck in one day, caused me to briefly lose my mind (out of my nose?) and then slunk away, allowing me to shakily recover just in time to correct my drug-addled essay of the week. Thanks to John, who brought me some bananas, a good old US of A pb&j, and some cold meds. I also recovered just in time to go to an Arsenal! game in London with Dave and John, although I think the only thing that would have stopped me would have been if, when I tried to walk out the door, I literally began vomiting fonts of blood. Dedication. And too much information.

So, the game was pretty fantastic – I am infatuated with London, and getting there from Oxford (wonderfully surreal as it is) for a bit would have been totally worthwhile even if there wasn’t football/soccer/calcio (no!) to be had. And there was. After an exciting meal of Lebanese food just outside Paddington station, we boarded the tube to Arsenal! along with an enormous crowd of hooligans. Actually, the crowd was not as raucous as I had expected…sure, they were lively, but their main activity consisted of shouting, “Arsenal!” in different intonations. And nearly everyone was sober; no drinking is allowed in the stands, and not many people wanted to abandon the match to drink a beer in the cold and windy corridors. Still, it was very very exciting and lots of fun, etc. and afterward, Dave, John, John’s friend Andrew, and I went back to a pub called The Mitre for some ciders while we waited for our late-night train back to college.

Speaking of, I’ve now got a secondary tutorial. And oh…my, this tutor is quite the experience. I mean, walking the line between biology and psychology, I’ve started to suspect that a large percentage of the people who go into study of “the mind” aren’t entirely in their right one, but Mrs. D takes that to a whole new level. She’s clearly brilliant – trying to have a conversation about acquisition of mathematical ability with her that didn’t make me look like an infant was a heart attack and a half – but something is funny about her, and not in a ha-ha kind of way. I can’t quite put my finger on it…she wears crazy old lady clothes, seems not to brush her hair, gesticulates compulsively when she talks, and has a voice that is squeaky and creaky and gravelly all at the same time. She doesn’t often look you in the eye. But that doesn’t really capture it. While Jane, another American from LMH who takes tutorial with me, was taking up Mrs. D’s attention, I sneakily (and horribly) recorded her talking on my phone. You can’t really distinguish the words, and again it doesn’t really give the full effect, but now I can show it to Dad and see what he thinks. Autism? Savant syndrome? It sounds like Monty Python in drag.

Last night I stayed up very late writing an essay for my primary tutorial. At around three in the morning, I took a break from books and brains and drowned out the sounds of late-night rain with the Ramones’ Beat on the Brat (oh yeah oohoh) while eating pomegranate seeds and pine nuts. I finished my written obeisance to the splendiforous nature of the brain a bit after that to the stirring measures of the Ride of the Valkyries. I’ve reached new heights of absurdity. Also, my essay habits are almost certainly ruined for when I go back to college in the States; I start papers the night before and slap them together in this crazy fashion I won’t get into, but suffice it to say that I’m enjoying living on the edge of deadlines a little too much.

I’ve made a few new friends, though, despite all of the work (shocking!). Of course, there’s David and John, my Arsenal! buddies…we’re kind of like the three musketeers, if two of the three musketeers had decided to periodically gang up on the other one. But it’s all in good spirits. I’ve taught them how to iron and make tea and so on and they’ve taken me to see Shimon Peres speak at the Sheldonian Theatre. Which, by the way, was an incredible night that started with picketing Palestinians and rickrolling and ended with everyone going out to Tolkein and Lewis’ (and the rest of the Inklings’) favorite haunt, the Eagle and Child pub. I’m also friends with most of the other Americans – I mentioned Jane already, and there’s Katie, who helped me beat D&J at a homemade game of trivial pursuit, the stakes of which were a trip to an icecream parlor. Katie and I apparently really know our wars. Maybe.

Most of the people I’ve met have been either internationals or first years…there’s Owen, who I’m trying to pry away from his law books to translate for me some songs I know in Welsh; there’s Kalpana and Anya, who can usually be counted on to take up feminist arms against John or Dave’s teasing remarks; I now know Sophia (German) and Rafi (Jewish), two second-years who I’ve met in my psychology lectures. I’ve also got a bunch of acquaintances from LMH Food Club who I think I can bribe into full-blown friendship with a second round of chicken piccata and rocket salad. And I’ve pulled some strings to meet some Oxford veterans: third- and fourth-years and graduate students, like the painfully shy Stefan-the-Brandonite, a geologist who showed me around the city, or Simon, a biochemist I met at a little hipster coffee shop who seemed cute and friendly, but who I think I may have blown it with by shouting stupid things at high speeds at him for a half hour (I was feeling a bit wired after a near-death bicycle experience). Anyway, he has a girlfriend. Although we did bond over how we both have Indian friends who might take us to India and wouldn’t that be fantastic. Oh and there is my Rhodes scholar/Richmond connection Scott and his girlfriend Nina who have taken me to a Rhodes Scholar lecture and the MCR – a kind of graduate common area full of free port and whiskey and a dartboard and a Wii. And now this paragraph is getting really long and I think I’d better cut it off, even though I haven’t really described anyone to any degree of accuracy and someone is probably taking offence right now because I haven’t included them on “the list.”

Anyway. The point is, that everything is really good and I’m busy and panicky but also having as much fun as I’ve had in a long time. And I’m generally very happy! And I’m using exclamation points…call the National Guard.

Lab Rats (and Silly Hats)

I’ve found a way to make a couple of extra pounds while I’m hanging around Oxford’s science block. Now don’t be alarmed…I haven’t started selling my blood yet. Just my brainpower. So far I’ve made over 75 pounds (that’s…let’s see…$120?) by helping out around some of the psych labs. And okay fine, when I say helping out, I mean acting as a test subject. But I'm a poor impoverished college student, so I’d still say the ends justify the means.

My induction into the ranks of lab rats was given by David S. and his wunder-colleague Marco. After a day of being trained in a dark room to pick out the lighter of two grainy grey squares on a computer screen, David and Marco had me don an exciting electrode-covered cap and hooked me up to the EEG machine, a lengthy process that involved a lot of saline solution and grinding of sponges into my scalp. Interestingly, the sound I made while Marco and David were working away was also “eeg.” At last, I was ready to go. I had the cap on for recording any electrical impulses and the keyboard in my lap for selecting the correct box, and I was sitting in my little metal room looking at the computer screen.

The task went like this: center your vision on a black screen until two grey boxes flash up, choose the box that is slightly less grey with the corresponding keyboard buttons, and then touch a third button if you think you made a mistake. Yes, this type of research could definitely have cosmic repercussions. In phase one, if you answered right but thought you got it wrong, you lost ten pence, whereas the other combinations were plus or minus two pence. In phase two, you lost ten pence if you answered incorrectly but thought you got it right. That probably makes no sense, but trust me when I say there are strategies for making the most money, strategies that caused my brain to go up in a cloud of smoke. Marco and co. measured my thoughts and, inadvertently, my level of anxiety – neural activity is electrical in nature, but so is muscle movement, and midway through the first trial I discovered a loophole that made my jaw clench and my back stiffen and my shoulders tense while I wrestled with an ethical issue of epic proportions. After I resolved the moral crisis by deciding to play the game according to the rules, pennies be damned, my neural signal was very nice and pretty (apparently), but showed signs of being exhausted. I think Marco was laughing at me in German guffaws. At the end of the experiment, I was too scared to ask D. and M. if they had intended to cause me to question my core values, choosing instead to skip down the hall with 30 pounds in my hot little hand. I’m a complex individual.

And onto the next experiment…with Riikka the sadistic yet friendly Swedish postgrad student. I think being a psych experimenter calls for a bit of a desire to crush the human spirit. Where David and Marco used electroencephalography, Riikka employed TEM, which involves magnets but is nothing like MRI. I did get earplugs and another hat – a white cap that made me look like a water polo player, or an epileptic. TEM is this space-age technology that uses electromagnetic fields not to measure brain signals, but to actually stimulate – instigate – a neural reaction. So yeah, mind control. Riikka was focusing on my motor cortex, specifically the part of my brain that controls the muscles between my first finger and thumb. In trying to find this sweet spot, though, she zapped my facial muscles…so that was different. And, in keeping with all those reflex tests I fail, I am a little dead inside, and we had to up the magnetic zapping to 60 or 70% to get the amplitude of signal in my hands. Some serious face spasms were had; I felt like Mr. Phipps of 8th grade mathematical fame, post-stroke. Ahaha…not funny. Yes. Riikka stood behind me and shocked my cranium with an electromagnet while her nameless assistant (I shall call her Igor. Okay, Igorette.) showed me little clips of a woman gesturing goofily. My hands jerked about uncontrollably on my lap as I labeled the clips as single motions, repeated motions, or stills. Some of the motions were then revealed to me by Igorette to be sign language…I learned things like book, cat, trousers, and chef, and then sat back down for round two of TEM where I identified the same gesture videos. I think Riikka was trying to see if my arms moved more when stimulated after seeing a real sign and less when seeing something still, but I'm not exactly sure because I never got debriefed. (Ooh!) I guess the UK doesn’t have the same kinds of human research laws. Which actually makes me a little nervous about the rest of the experiment…but no, I’m fine. No probdf!lkk.3sdglems at lall.sf.@.

The last experiment I did was more sedate, and involved not a single hat, although I did have to wear some large, sound-cancelling headphones. This time around, I was not zapped or probed, and I even made friends with Jennifer, an Irish postgrad working in the linguistics lab. She gave me some advice about how to get into some of the labs around Oxford short of signing up for neural rewiring. We met five times for half an hour each time, and mostly I just spent the time watching these videos of puppets hitting each other and saying things in gibberish. I did have to take this intelligence type test on the first day where I looked at three little abstract pictures and pick the one that will complete the pattern, or repeated nonsense words like “ensclivereminence and “pramascenate” back from a tape, or defined big English words. Which was actually quite difficult – what is the definition of “balloon” (expandable plastic...bag...filled with air or water?) or “purpose” (ummm, mission? calling?) – although I only got stumped by “panacea.” The results of that test at least say I’m not terribly stupid.

Which is actually a problem for these experiments, I think? I wonder what kind of results the experimenters here are getting, with their test subjects being a bunch of inquisitive Oxford psych students who are trying to get the bottom of any test to figure out what, exactly, is going on. Anyway, I think I’ll continue to sign up for these little adventures while I’ve got the time; money aside, it’s an interesting way to explore the different facilities and meet the up-and-coming researchers around Oxford, even if it isn’t the most prestigious way to go about it. I’ve just been alerted to a new study that could double my income, and it even pays for transportation…I’d just have to get injected with some sort of drug and then be subjected to different painful stimuli…hmm. Well, maybe I’ll keep looking.

Impolitic

It may have come to your attention that November 4th was the culmination of the American presidential race. You’d have to be slightly more culturally cognizant to notice that November 5th was Bonfire Night, a holiday the British celebrate to commemorate a guy who didn’t blow up Parliament. I’m sure you’ll never guess which one I was more looking forward to (pyro that I am), or which night ended up being the more explosive of the two. If you can’t figure it out, though, read on – I’ll try to be enlightening!

For me, both days started off grey and a bit rainy, and without much planning at all. My vote went in several weeks ago, by mail in an official white envelope. So that was all taken care of. After waiting in vain for someone to convince me clearly and in small words why I needed to choose one candidate over the other, after trawling the internet looking for “the Truth,” I stared at my yellow slip of paper for a long time before hesitantly filling in one innocuous oval. I didn’t play eenie-meenie-meiny-mo, but I also think I may have been the only American who wasn’t prepared to shed tears over one candidate or the other, a condition which lasted up to and beyond election night. As to the 5th of November (remember, remember!), I’d done my Guy Fawkes research years ago, and while I thought wistfully of bottle rockets and Catherine wheels, I had papers to write, and so headed to the library instead.

It’s strange, but I felt like more of an impartial onlooker on the night of the 4th than on the night of the 5th. I guess I feel responsible for my country, but I don’t love it. I don’t know America; I just like my home and the Americans I know. Or, most of them, at least. Maybe I’ve gotten too good at dissociating from emotional events. Maybe I’m unpatriotic.

Still, while watching the results come in at 2am on the morning of the 5th, surrounded by wine-drinking, rambunctious, hopeful students from all over the world, I continued to realize how big an event this election was perceived to be. I spoke with my family a few days ago, and Mom joked that I could play the sort of game where everyone has to drink when they hear phrases like, “historic election,” or “the voters have spoken.” Things were clearly getting reckless in the battleground state of Pennsylvania. Anyway, as cheesy and overused as those phrases are, they are also kind of true. So. I’d say I’m pleased that America – particularly “Generation Why” and our record levels of apathy – was able to get out of its collective comfy chair and take the time to get informed and vote. Or at least, to move voting into internet forums. Nevertheless…it’s also nice to see that, for the first time since I’ve been studying abroad, the world appears fully and actively behind America as a whole. Time will tell if this attitude is genuine or lasting, but I personally am tired of the us vs. them mentality (both at home and abroad), and now that the election is over, I hope we can put partisan attitudes behind us and just get on with the 21st century.

And that CNN hologram was pretty darn cool. “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi! You’re my only hope!”

As to the president elect…I’m not convinced he’s a good man (um…who is, if they’ve decided to go into politics?), but he does look to be a good leader. Maybe exactly what we need right now is a smooth-talking guy with big dreams and an ego to match…at least it’ll be a change, that’s for sure. And I guess all of the disappointed Republicans will be using their time in the wings to shape up a nice, constructive plan for implementation in four years. And here are some more immediate changes I personally am looking forward to: no more speculation and accusation, no more cute kids under the age of 18 singing about voting, no more tensing up anytime someone mentions lipstick. Now that’s something I can believe in.

And now for something completely different.

Guy Fawkes Day! I may not be party-affiliated, nor particularly country-affiliated, but I can really get into a good national holiday. Sadly, this too is going to end up being something of a pithy story. Everyone was so exhausted by the election the night before – I think half the college stayed up until Ohio was counted at least – that Bonfire Night was more bust than bang. True, all through the night there were minor cracks and fizzes that put me in mind of France this summer, and over dinner some friends and I put together some grandiose plans to out-British the Brits, but soggy skies (okay and some apathy on my part) put a damper on the evening. One of the Americans has Pentagon connections. With “insider information” on explosives…I’ll say no more, but my weekend does look like I’ll have some time with nothing else to do. Maybe light some hand sanitizer on fire. I hope.

Speaking of the weekend, I think I can say that, to my mind at least, the States’ hegemony status is not dead: the fancy dress bop theme for Saturday evening has nothing to do with bonfires or arson and everything do to with “All-American.” Whatever that means. So I’m off to design a costume – I think I’ll (hypocritically) go as myself?

Sunday with the Family

I’ve been asked several times now if, what with all this world-travelling I’ve been doing, I ever get homesick. I tend to answer no; I love my family and friends, I do sometimes miss my favorite meals and my own bed, and going back home is always really nice, but I think I’m the kind of person who was born to travel (Thursday’s child – we’ve been over this). I don’t mind being alone. I like independence. I never get tired of exploring. However, this weekend is half-term, when all the Freshers’ families come for a visit, and I can’t deny I was feeling the tiniest bit abandoned.

After having seen groups of loving parents embracing their prodigies and flocks of precocious-sounding little children touring the gardens all of Friday, I was surprisingly resentful. In an attempt to fend off any bitterness, I cooked a large pasta dinner for some of My Fellow Americans on Saturday evening (new plan: bribe friends to be friends with delicious food) – and it worked well – but what to do Sunday? This whole Sabbath-day-of-no-working has been going really swimmingly, but the forecast called for rain, and with the majority of my friends entertaining their families, this Sunday seemed like it was headed for a lot of solitary reflection. Okay, I’m taking the Sabbath off for religious reasons, but my intent wasn’t to go stir-crazy in my room…the plan was to have a leisurely church experience and then a fun and relaxing remainder of the day.

Until…hang on…for those of you who know I have a cricket bat in my basement and suspect that I celebrate Bonfire Night, I am about to submit some damning evidence for the case of my British poseur nature. I called up my adoptive British grandparents. (Aha!) So Barbara and Dick Ashley are a lovely (Aha!) couple who, along with their extended family, have taken us Ruzichs under their collective wing ever since I was a wee lass (Aha!) living down the road from the Lakenheath base in Brandon.

And the Ashleys agreed to drive up from Cambridge, and everything was perfect. I woke up on Sunday morning, pedaled down to the town center in the rain, and met them in time to get some coffee before going to church. I love being out in a light rain...it makes me feel especially alive. Weird. We attended St. Michael at the North Gate, a hilarious little place in which our threesome increased the assembly by twenty percent while at the same time lowering the average age by about fifteen years. (That last part was all me.) We prayed for the quick and the dead, heard an elderly clergyman with wild eyebrows and comb-over to match deliver a sermon that concluded with the phrase, “Whatever. God is really our Father,” and sang a closing hymn entirely reminiscent of a Mr. Bean sketch. Alleluia. (Yes, another obscure British humor reference…sorry…)

After fulfilling this part of my Sabbath, I showed Mr. Ashley the Concept (he recommended some WD-40 for the chain), and took the two of them back to my college for a guided tour. Miss Barbara loved the gardens, despite their wet and wintery state, and Mr. Ashley spent some time making quacking noises at the duck pond and contrasting my dorm room with some lodgings he once had to live in. My room came out on top. By a lot.

Over lunch, we got a chance to catch up. I’ve known the Ashleys forever, but I’ve never gotten a chance to really talk to them. I never knew, for instance, that Barbara first met her father at age five when he returned from the RAF after World War Two, or that Dick’s grandfather was a Welsh cobbler, or that Judy, their pet dog who I knew as a child, was a foxhunting hound. I really like learning about people’s lives – I’m still that person who sat on a train to Lyon and imagined where the people next to me had been or where they were headed. (Funnily enough, they had been to Aix, and they were going to Lyon.) Barbara and Dick have been married for nearly fifty years. I think that’s fantastic. (Aha!)

They say you can’t choose your family, and I wouldn’t want to change a thing about mine, but now that I’ve been given a third set of grandparents, I think that "they" are wrong. I'll pick who I want – for me, family is no more constrained by blood ties than home is constrained to a geographic location. ...And all that rubbish.