New Pics

I fixed the size, I think.

I dislike Elizabeth Gaskell. One can't help wondering sometimes how a certain book become "classic literature", especially when the author and the original publisher didn't like it. You have to think that some authors are turning in their graves to hear what English teachers everywhere are doing with their work: "What?! I never wrote that theme into my novel! And quit interpreting everything in terms of feminism!!"

British Vocab

British figures of speech that I like:

1. "Bits" instead of "pieces" (or sometimes "parts"). As in, "Here are your bits of paper, and here are mine," or "I've only traveled to the warm bits of the United States."

2. "Lot" instead of "group". As in, "You're much more fun than the last lot of Americans."

3. "Come along". As in, "Come along to movie night this Saturday; I'm bringing the popcorn."

Not So Bleak After All

I'm coming up for air now before heading off to bed, after having spent several hours immured in the wonders of Dickens' use of double narrative in Bleak House. This paper is actually coming along with more coherence than last week's, which I take as a good sign. (I prefer to believe I'm making progress rather than just having a lucky week, although my writing does tend to come in fits and starts...)

I did laundry tonight, for the first time since arriving. (My flatmates will undoubtedly be grateful.) It took the company of Lisa and Bethany also going to do their laundry to motivate me...the laundry room is just so far away.

What else...? If I'm not updating about all the fantastically interesting things I'm doing and seeing, it's because I've been too busy reading and writing to do and see them. (One says, at Oxford, "I'm reading English," rather than "I'm an English major," or "I'm studying English," like we would in the States. It's for good reason.) The insides of the Bodleian reading rooms are pretty great though. It must be the air of the place, because it's not unusual for me to spend four hours or so at a time researching there--without going crazy. I can't help wondering what it will be like to go back to Calvin.

Have managed to have a bit of fun: I went with some of the Americans to the Purple Turtle, a club located in a range of cellar-like rooms which seems labyrinthine. Also went to a Burns Supper at St. Ebbe's church, where we commemorated Robert Burns' birthday by dancing Scottish jigs and eating hagas, a traditional Scottish food which involves cooking various parts of a sheep...in the sheep's stomach. (Does that seem morbid to anyone else?) And we celebrated Lisa's birthday last night and Hannah's tonight, with various cookies and snacks ("biscuits" and "nibbles," if you're British) and much clandestine baking of cakes. (I have pictures of the festivities...have been rather lazy about uploading lately.)

In other news, today Lisa was unpacking groceries in the kitchen and happened to inadvertently place a bag of frozen peas on a still-warm burner on the stove. The bag, unbeknownst to Lisa, melted. When she picked it up, some of it stayed on the burner and some was in her hand, and the two separated parts were insufficient to contain the peas...hilarity ensued. And we will be squishing thawed peas in our toes for a few days to come.

Overwhelmed

I searched the library catalogue for "author= Dickens, Charles" and got this response:

Sorting 2232 titles. Percentage done: 8%

Hahahaha!

Get Thee to a Nunnery!

Today we had a small group meeting with a bunch of us Americans and one of the program staff, Dr. Finlay. She's an American who did graduate work here at Oxford and has been working on the staff for 5 years or so. Anyway, one of the girls had heard that Dr. Finlay is planning to enter a convent and asked her about it. So she told us the story. It involved meeting a monk here in Oxford who used to be a juggler. He introduced her to the abbess of the convent she'll be joining. The monk is named St. Augustine and she calls him Gussie for short. Brother Gussie. And for some reason when he's Father Gussie, it will be shortened to "Frog". Brother Gussie, in order to raise money to buy a croquet set (yes, a croquet set) for his monastery (yes, croquet at his monastery), juggled on the streets of Oxford for a while. He juggled a machete, a burning torch, and an apple. He took bites of the apple while he was juggling it.

I felt while I was hearing this story that I had entered some other realm. It was told in the same manner in which I might tell you something funny that someone said in class the other day...except it was a nun-to-be telling about a monk juggling a machete. I don't believe this is a normal thing, even for a place like Oxford, and yet....

Ludicrously Tasty

Who but the Brits would describe cereal as such? I don't believe we have any ludicrous food in the States...

Well so here I am, posting rather than writing my oh-so-important, most likely ground-breakingly intelligent essay on Jane Eyre, due to clamors from the peanut gallery for a new post. (Also due in part to the fact that, having written the introduction of said essay and done a smashing job of it, I am now staring at multiple pages of scrawled notes from my hours with the books of the Bodleian today, and am, in fact, moderately intimidated.)

Been going to lectures, three yesterday and one today. Heard intellectual discourse on Digust As It Relates To Tragedy, Jane Austen, Victorians and Literary Theory, and Women Writing Culture. The one on Disgust I would not recommend for the time slot directly after breakfast; it was stimulating to both the mind and the gag reflex. The lecturer talking about Jane Austen looked exactly as such a lecturer should look: a petite woman with short, curly hair and a very proper manner. The Women Writing Culture lecturer looked like a feminist. She just did.

No new pictures, since I've been doing the student thing lately rather than the touristy thing. Still have yet to make it to the Ashmolean and other places of interest...so little time! I did go to a Latin dance lesson last night though, with another girl and a couple guys from our group of Americans. Good fun, indeed.

All right then. Back to "Passion and Repression in Bronte's Jane Eyre"!

Here Goes Nothing

So I met with my primary (Brit lit) tutor this morning, Dr. Clare Loughlin-Chow. Was rather disappointed at her American accent, but am definitely looking forward to the term with her. The structure of tutorials is basically this: the tutee does massive amounts of reading from lists compiled by the tutor, writes an essay, and the two discuss it at the weekly meetings (or biweekly, for secondary tutorials). The best way to give you an idea of how much work a primary tutorial is, is to tell you that I'll be doing about half a Calvin semester's work every week--researching and writing an 8- to 12-page essay, that is. Calvin really ought to just issue me a doctorate in Victorian literature after this term. Good thing I finished the two 800-page novels over Christmas break. I was the only student Dr. L-C got in touch with before Christmas; she had wrong email addresses for the others. So they're facing the 800-page novels to read before they even start in on the research.

It's hard to get discouraged by even a work load such as this, though, in a city like Oxford. Worcester College, where my tutor's office is, is absolutely exquisite. I'll take pics later.

In other news, we had a field trip to Bath on Wednesday. It was most enjoyable. The Abbey is unbelievable; go look at the album on my Photobucket account. I failed, unfortunately, to get a picture of the most entertaining guy in the square playing Scottish ballads and Metallica on his guitar. I did get a picture of the hordes of pigeons, however, which flocked in intimidating numbers when Paul thought it would be a good idea to toss them a piece of pastry. I saw the Pump Room and was lost in Austen-induced reverie for a few moments. I'd been vaguely imagining some sort of dim, underground mechanical closet (though that seemed somewhat erroneous to me), but everything made sense when I saw the real thing.

I have to explain the Ha Ha, too: it's a low wall designed to protect the boundaries of the rich people living in the Royal Crescent (also an unbelievable feat of architecture) from the lowly shepherds and other townsfolk who herded animals on the town common, the field which the Crescent overlooks. The wall is visible from the downhill side, looking up at the Crescent, but from the Crescent itself it's not visible, to preserve an ostentatiously uninterrupted view of the countryside. Thus, when one is walking toward the Ha Ha from the Crescent, admiring said view, one is likely to fail to notice the low wall, fall over it, and produce from any onlookers the phrase from which the wall takes its name.

More Photos

I'll probably keep linking photos in my posts here, but if you want to see all the pictures I've taken so far (I've been pretty good about uploading them immediately) go to Photobucket.com and sign in to account oxford_05, password "oxford".

Cast of Characters

My roommate Christy.

A blurry picture of Sara, half Italian and from New York.

A blurrier picture of Paul, who does not allow his picture to be taken.

Nate, a returning student from last term and the local computer handyman.

Isaac, who lives at The Vines (not in my house).

Lisa and Katrina, more flatmates.

Laura from downstairs.

Dave (nicknamed Nigel) and Katrina again.

And Bethany, another flatmate, with Christy again.

Lost in Translation?

Much as I adore the British accent, and although it's considerably easier to understand everything here than it was in Germany, I'm afraid there are some things I just don't get. Such as this. I asked Jonathan, the Junior Dean presiding over the house on Woodstock Road, to explain it to me, but was still more confused after the explanation.

We're not doing anything particularly interesting lately--still being oriented. Effusively. It is, to put it Britishly, "dreary." We did get to tour the city today, with a bit more information than I had on Saturday with Sara and Christy.

Pictures I took on the tour:
1. the church I went to yesterday (University Chuch of St. Mary)
2. Clarendon Building (University facility, offices and such)

There Are Worser Places

"So, you're studyin' in England for a semester, eh?" said the cabbie who brought me to 74 Woodstock Road two days ago. "Well, it's not that bad. I've seen worser places."

To say the least. Oxford is unbelievable. Literally. I can't believe I get to live here for the next few months, where seeing medieval architecture will be an everyday occurrence.

Today I wandered around the city with my flatmates Christy and Sara. We went up and down the High Street and peeked into various college courtyards and went up a staircase behind an open door in the yard of Exeter College--went up very quietly, fearing we'd get kicked out--and passed the Proctor's Office. I took this picture.

We passed Magdalen (say "maudlin" if you want to be really British) College and saw limos through the gate. They drove out when we passed back and we saw a bride and groom in the first one. We promptly decided to marry Fellows of Magdalen College in order to have the ceremony in the chapel and make them ring the bells incessantly for us, as they did today. (I'm not exaggerating, they were probably ringing for 25 minutes straight.)

(I'm not, by the way, going to attempt to explain the difference between Oxford University and the thirty- or forty-some colleges...mostly because I don't have it figured out myself yet. I'll let you know when I do.)

As far as the program goes, we've spent a morning and part of an afternoon being "oriented"--or perhaps "put to sleep" (with help from the effects of jetlag). Next week we have a field trip scheduled to Bath (being an Austen fan, I rejoice!) and will receive our Bodleian cards, at which point we are officially Visiting Students. Who deserve Capital Letters, no less.

The flat is wonderful, mostly because I live in it and it's in Oxford. Pictures to follow once I finish uploading the ones I took today.

And after only two days, I think I'm beginning to read (to myself) in a British accent...