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...