Please note, dear readers, that I have had limited access to wireless networks these past few days. Therefore, these missives were composed at an earlier date, but could only be posted today. I hope these do not confuse too much.
Friday Eighteenth June Two Thousand Ten
Esteemed confidantes,
I am writing to you from Oxford, where we are staying with a family friend, Zoë—who, in addition to having perhaps my favourite name, is incredibly friendly and was kind enough to welcome us into her home.
We parted with my aunt, uncle and dear cousins this morn. I believe them to have all been rather busy with exams and business dealings, so I am sure they were glad to have us out of their collective hair. They did, however, invite us to come stay at their villa in Italy this summer, which was a most attractive offer. After much consideration, though, Diana and I decided that home was calling us back at the previously appointed time, the twenty-eighth of June.
The train to Oxford via Didcot Parkway was a mostly smooth journey, barring one elevator mixup. Zoë met us at the station, where I was able to identify her by the yellow t-shirt with red chili pepper graphic she informed me she would be wearing. Even though we did not take the “scenic route” as Zoë called it, Oxford appeared just from the drive to Zoë’s home to be very scenic indeed. It is full of curving little alleyways and cobblestoned streets; it is, if this can make very much sense, grandeur in miniature. Zoë’s house, being in the city, is perhaps not so sprawling as my uncle’s, but it feels cozy and lived in. She has an absolutely lovely garden out back that she tends, teeming with large furry bumblebees and English robins chirruping gaily from the trees. Her husband James, a computer programmer, is mostly out of sight upstairs at his laptop.
After fixing ourselves some luncheon, Zoë led my sister and myself to the nearby busstop. “Three to town, please.” The bus ride took less than three minutes I dare say; the walk from their house to town centre is comparatively nothing when I consider the walking we have been doing the past few days. This is perhaps what I love best about Oxford: it is so very manageable. I imagine on a footcycle—pardon me, a velocipede—the “city” (for it is only technically granted cityhood by its having a cathedral) shrinks considerably. Zoë works in town, so she navigates quite handily; the downside of having a native guide, however, is it took me far longer to orient myself, having not had to consult a map myself until a day later. We went first to the Museum of Oxford, which showcases the city’s history, as one might expect. The information imparted therein would perhaps be of more interest to a local trying to understand how their town has changed since it was first settled many years ago.
Following the trip to the museum, we three ascended the tower of St. Mary’s church, which offered a breathtaking view of the town. Part of St. Mary’s has been converted into a café, so we stayed afterward for tea. Wending our way through the higgledy-piggledy streets of Oxford afterward, we happened upon many a student in his or her finest academic regalia celebrating the completion of final exams in a fashion quite unlike any I have ever seen. Here, students must wear their robes to each and every exam they take. Carnation flowers pinned to the robes signify which exam—from first to last—is being undertaken, as symbolized by the colour. And, when each student emerges from their examination hall, their friends greet them (i.e. shower them) with bottles of champagne, humourous string, confetti, balloons, treats, and—in the case of two unfortunate young gentlemen we saw—hurled takeaway Indian cuisine. Feathers and glitter filled the cracks of the cobblestones from the previous few weeks’ jubilations. Students gathered on street corners smoking cigars and shaking hands. Who indeed can blame me if I turned a little green with envy? I cannot even remember what I did immediately following my last exam, but it surely was something of an anticlimax and there was a marked absence of champagne.
Heading in the direction of home, Zoë walked us past Christchurch College, famous as both the college where Lewis Carroll was once a fellow and as having the dining hall used to film those dining scenes in the Harry Potter films. Sadly we never did end up touring the college, but its exterior and gardens were lovely. As the hour was late we journeyed to a public house for a drink and a snack before a later dinner. Joined by Zoë’s husband, the four of us left the pub—rapidly becoming more raucous with World Cup fans –for a smaller pub, this one located at the end of a twisty alleyway, and supposedly the oldest pub in Oxford. We went late for Thai food in an historic building—an odd juxtaposition of East and West. Bed was a welcome respite—my sister and I were so tired, we were asleep well before eleven thirty.
--A
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