Emily Hyder Profile: Emily is a junior from Glendora, CA, majoring in English with an emphasis in writing. Currently, she is at Oxford University in England studying C.S. Lewis and Jane Austen. She will travel off to Tuscania, Italy in January for another great semester abroad! Interests: God, family, food, books, music, movies, writing, photography, and the outdoors.   Personal Blogsite    Fall 2007 Posts Lasting Impression - 12.06 Transportation Tactics - 11.29 Great Expectations - 11.22 Abominable Snowman... - 11.14 Cowbells, Cheese, 007 - 11.12 Bienvenue à la Suisse - 11.08 Just Keep Going... - 10.29 I'd rather take a... - 10.22 First Time: Very Good. - 10.15 Hostels: bed of germs.. - 10.08 Word Count Woes - 10.01 Directional Difficulties - 09.24 No pictures, please - 09.17 Crossing the Pond - 09.10 Packing Prelims - 09.03 Two More Weeks - 08.27  Cheers! - 08.20

This blog archive contains posts from Emily's Fall 2007 semester abroad in Oxford, England. | -- Back to Current Blog --

 Thursday, December 13, 2007 

Visa Fiasco

This post was in my head all of yesterday but I thought it would be better to wait a day to actually sit down and write it. My character was somewhat at stake if I wrote it yesterday – around noon to be exact…

I spent the majority of yesterday morning (not to mention my frantic gathering escapades the night before trying to round up all necessary materials) dealing with my student visa application. Since my term in England didn’t require a visa, I was blissfully unaware of the hassle involved with acquiring the necessary document.

Lorenzo de Medici, the program I’m studying with in Italy, sent me some information with my acceptance packet about getting a visa including a list of requirements sometimes needed and a sample application. Applicants can go apply for a visa through a third party advocate, which costs a good chunk of change, or apply in person. Luckily I live within an hours drive of the Italian Consulate for my residential jurisdiction. Plus, the fees for third-party handling rises significantly the closer to your departure date, and since I’ve been in England for the majority of my 90-day application window, the fee was pretty astronomical.

My brother was kind enough to drive me into Los Angeles (driving in general isn’t my strong suit, nor is following map-quest directions) yesterday morning. The consulate is open for three hours on Wednesday and since I didn’t have an appointment, I wanted to arrive early. We left at 9am and after an hour and forty minutes, traffic on three different freeways, and faulty directions we finally arrived at the consulate around 11.

We were greeted by rapid Italian from all directions – a man on the phone, the TV blaring a foreign soap opera, a couple waiting in the center of the dark room. I explained my mission to the man at the Information window. When asked if I had an appointment, I replied (as calmly as I could) that I had called four time during business hours on multiple days, left a message on their voicemail, and emailed the consulate trying to obtain an appointment – with absolutely no luck. He stared at me for a few seconds and disappeared down the hall.

Success! So I thought… My deliberate and firm response did not elicit the exact outcome I had wanted. Mr. Information returned with an Italian woman with crazy-curly hair wielding an appointment book. After some miscommunications (if I explain them my blood pressure will shoot through the roof or I’ll begin to mutter very unkind things) I walked out of the office, rather miffed and sputtering with indignation. But, I now have an appointment – and a long list of documents to obtain.

My advice: start working on the visa process as soon as possible. Work with the director from your study abroad program to find requirements for your specific consulate, and be prepared to be frustrated. All of this said – studying abroad is worth the hassle!

 Thursday, December 6, 2007

Lasting Impression

Eighty degrees, In-N-Out Burger, driving – I’m definitely not in England anymore.

As much as I was looking forward to seeing family and friends, sinking my teeth into a cheeseburger (whole grilled onions and no tomatoes), and sitting in the sun, saying goodbye to England was not easy. I had to stifle the feeling that I hadn’t seen everything I planned to see, didn’t experience all that Oxford, let alone England, had to offer. Once the initial frantic review of what I should have done and didn’t get around to subsided, I realized that no one can do and see everything no matter how much they want to. I’m okay with that, especially since I’ll be back in Europe January 30th!

However, this realization didn’t make the reality of leaving any less of a bummer. Katherine, one of my housemates, and I took one last walk around Oxford on Saturday morning. We decided to go early because the weather had been rather sporadic the last few days – always rain, just never at the same intervals. Eighth week had come to a glorious conclusion on Friday so all of the students were moving out for their five-week break before Hilary term. It felt like Jewell come May. People’s parents were carrying laundry baskets full of odds and ends. Cars lined the cobblestone ally ways with trunks open.

One advantage to this slightly depressing sight was most of the college’s had their gates unlocked. During the whole three months I was in Oxford, I had only been fully in to one college – St. Peter’s where we had our Introductory Course lectures. Kat and I decided to act like we belonged and tour the grounds of as many college’s as we could. The whole scheme worked except once because I turned into a dead end after walking through the gates of one college and looked a little bewildered when I turned around to find the correct entrance. I think my lost looked tipped off the guard and he informed us the college was closed to visitors.

Our favorite college was Corpus Christi. Rather inconspicuous from the outside, the main quad isn’t very impressive either. Some sort of memorial planted firmly in the middle of the stone lawn interrupts a paved square. But a pathway off the right side leads to a slightly unkempt garden. The overgrown shrubs and blooming winter flowers reminded me of a secret garden (as cheesy as that may sound…). Out beyond a wrought iron fence was Christ Church meadow and towering just a little further were the spires of the Church itself, glowing golden in the mid-morning sun.

I flew off two days later with that picture in my head – a beautiful image of a place that made a meaningful imprint on my life.

 Thursday, November 29, 2007

Transportation Tactics

I jog purely to counteract the ill effects of my insatiable sweet tooth. Walking is more my speed. So I was thrilled about living in a place where things are accessible by foot. I walk to class, to church, to the grocery store. Bikes are a popular option too, but since I would be endangering the innocent lives of strangers as well as myself by pedaling around on the street trying to follow directions (red flag #1), abide by British road rules (red flag #2), and, in general, keep my motor wits about me (red flag #3), I think its safer to stick with walking.

Buses also run regularly anywhere you might need to go. Although much cheaper in places other than Oxford, it’s always nice to catch the Everyone’s Brookes Bus to the library so you can avoid the three-mile, up-hill journey. The trick with buses is knowing what or where your stop is. I’ve felt so experienced causally throwing out my destination to the bus driver, only to realize when I’ve sat down at the back of the bus that I have no clue where on the bus route my stop is. Coupled with the fact that its dark so I can’t even see street signs, I usually end up walking the gauntlet to true locals who know what they are doing to ask the bus driver where I should get off. I haven’t yet encountered one that was not super nice about my lameness.

Aside from a few plane flights to Switzerland and Dublin, all my major travels have been by train. Europe’s train system is a great network of railways that provide quick access to pretty much anywhere and tickets are generally inexpensive, especially with a rail card.

Trains are not without their mishaps however (or it could just be me that attracts misadventures…). After missing several trains due to wrong buses, delayed trains, and platform changes on our way back from visiting Chatsworth House, my housemates and I met Zultan, a rather hysterical young man on his way to Oxford to meet his brother. He had also missed multiple trains but was not taking the delays lightly. Our similar plight seemed quite an attraction because he never left our side for the rest of the journey – even went as far as to stand outside the bathroom door until we came out again.

On a day trip to Bristol, also involving delayed trains, we ran into a few more crazies. A mom and daughter were caught stealing things out of another woman’s suitcase. At the next stop where we were scheduled to change trains, Virgin Railway officials tried to apprehend the pair. One jumped onto the tracks to try her luck at an escape. Our connecting train was delayed an hour and during that time we witnessed the arrest and questioning of the (very drunk) mother and the daughter being taken away in an ambulance because she claimed she was bleeding.

I had planned to write about transportation for some time. It just so happens that this post is delayed because of train issues. A few of us went shopping in London and planned to be back in the early evening. Our train from Paddington to Oxford slowed to a halt right before Reading. After about 20 minutes, the service manager came on to explain that someone had complained of a mechanical problem so they had stopped the train to investigate. Come to find out an hour later (still sitting on the tracks) that when the conductor went to look at the “boagies” or wheels, he found a “very hot axel” that rendered the train immovable until it cooled down a bit. So much for getting back around six…

 Thursday, November 22, 2007 

Great Expectations

I’m truly amazed that there is only one more week left in Michaelmas term. I have one more essay to write, one more big trip (Dublin) to plan, and one more OOSC gathering to attend. My time in Oxford has been (no matter how cliché it sounds) life changing – fun, challenging, and like most things nothing like I expected.

The same thing happened when I came to Jewell. I had this picture in my head of how life at college would be: intellectually, spiritually and socially. Jewell, in fact, was not the institution I had originally hoped for. But, over the last two years, I discovered this had less to do with Jewell and more to do with my expectations. What initially irked me about Jewell are the qualities that have shaped who I am and what I’m doing now. I realized I could have taken advantage of these things earlier if I hadn’t had to move past my expectations first.

My Oxford experience was not free from expectations either and these past few weeks have forced them into my mind more than usual. I had two major expectations: 1. That I would be homesick at first. I heard from multiple people that there would be days where I just wanted to go home. I struggled with this my first year at Jewell, so I definitely thought I would have to fight against this in a different country. 2. I had grand visions of becoming independent, self-sufficient, and mature (more than I already am, of course…). I’ve always viewed studying abroad as a time when you really show yourself and others what you’re made of.

Well, both of my expectations were fulfilled – but not how I expected…

I spent the first two months in Oxford unhindered by homesickness. I kept on wondering when it would hit me. Maybe I was still full of jet lag delirium my first week or possibly too busy with writing a fourteen page paper the following week. Then I figured it was all the new experiences inundating my mind that distracted me from those wistful feelings. I did miss seeing family and friends but there was no regret or longing to return before the my scheduled departure. I knew December would roll around all too soon. Since I struggled my first year at Jewell with being homesick, I was surprised, but pleased, by the circumstances. I thought it was a sign of that second expectation I had – a growing mental and personal maturity.

Then, about two weeks ago, I found out my Gramma was dying and these lofty ideas came to a rather abrupt halt. The resulting topsy-turvy emotions made me feel like all the progress towards becoming more adultish was rapidly moving backwards. Aside from the pain of impending loss, I felt lonely, disconnected and useless due to the miles separating me from the situation at home. My intense feelings seemed childish compared to the mature young-woman my study abroad experience was supposed to make me.

However, this situation, far from debunking my expectation of personal growth, has done more to cause it then anything else. My family, friends and housemates have been so supportive, but the distance has forced me to process emotions and circumstances by myself. Instead of the self-reliance I thought I should develop, I have found greater joy and peace in cultivating a deeper dependence on my Heavenly Father. My faith has been stretched in ways that wouldn’t have been possible if I were at home during this difficult time.
I would have never thought death would be the catalyst for growth or homesickness during my first semester abroad. Although the circumstances were not what I anticipated, the outcome has met, even exceeded my two expectations for studying abroad – in a different, but nonetheless good and productive, way. 

 Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Abominable Snowman: Fact or Fiction?

Zermatt – home of the Matterhorn, skiing 365 days a year, and cold with a capital C! A digital thermometer outside a watch shop greeted us every morning with the chilly news of falling temperatures. I seemed doomed to be more Popsicle than snow bunny when I saw the reading waffle between 1 and 2 degrees Celsius on our walk from the train station to the hostel. I should have been whipping out the shorts and tank top because it only got colder as our stay progressed.

Appropriately named for a hostel in Zermatt, the Matterhorn Hostel virtually unoccupied during out first night. Ang and I got an eight person room all to ourselves, which was good because I was able to hoard all the extra blankets and be the closest to our small space heater. I have since resigned myself to a constant state of slightly blue appendages.

The temperature did not diminish my enjoyment of Zermatt however. It’s a sleepy (in November anyways) little village enclosed in towering snow-capped mountains. We traveled up one of these large mountains for a better view of the Matterhorn. It took forty-five minutes to reach the top of the Gornergrat, a ridge of the Pennine Alps, by cog railway. I can only judge for November, but Switzerland seemed to be a popular destination for Asian tourists. Zermatt was no exception and on our way up, a man asked if he could take a picture of his wife with us. So, somewhere in Asia there is a photo of Ang and I floating around…

We were a little confused by the timetable for the Gornergratbahn. We either had to spend 20 minutes or two hours on the peak. Stepping out of the train, we realized they planned this from experience. The negative nine degrees Celsius seemed even colder due to sharp wind and the fact we were surrounded by glaciers. A few pictures later, we were heisting our buns back into the train.

After a warmer afternoon hike to an old cow town called Blatten, our ice skating scheme was foiled by a rather obscure “sport.” We had gone through the process of getting the correct Eurpoean skate size, only to find that the outdoor rink was being set up for curling! We consoled ourselves with pizza (yes, in Switzerland).

On our walk to the train station on Wednesday morning, my faithful friend registered a whopping negative six degrees Celcius. Brrr…

P.S. Don’t make fun of me when you find out that -6 C is only 21 F. Somehow the combination of snow, mountains, and Switzerland made it feel colder. AND there was no scary snow beast.

 Monday, November 12, 2007

Cowbells, Cheese, and 007

Interlaken and the surrounding area embody the iconic Swiss experience. We walked to our hostel under the shadow of majestic mountains inflamed with bright red, orange, and yellow foliage. Tree lined streets were filled with watch and chocolate shops with enticing window displays. From the room window of our hostel, Backpackers Villa Sonnenhof, we could see the large green pasture dotted with cows whose bells serenaded us every morning.

We dove head first into Swiss gastronomy – into a bubbling pot of melted cheese that is. The receptionist at our hostel recommended two places to get fondue, a Swiss specialty. My fondue experience had previously been limited to the chocolate variety from the Melting Pot (which are great), so I was excited to try two of my favorite food groups, bread and cheese, transformed into a hot gooey confection I could call dinner.

Our waiter at Des Alpes Restaurant demonstrated the proper way to eat fondue before he let us dig in: 1. Spear a chunk of baguette with the long, skinny fondue fork 2. Completely submerge bread chunk in molten lava (a.k.a. gruyere cheese with garlic, white wine, and Kirsch) 3. Swirl around until bread is no longer visible through thick cheese coating 4. Set on plate to cool 5. Stick the whole goobey square in your mouth. Beware of errant strings of cheese flowing from your busy mouth.

The next day found us becoming much more intimate with those majestic mountains towering around the city. We traveled up the Schilthorn, a 2,970 metre high summit with spectacular views of the Jungfrau and other mountain peaks. However, the journey was half the fun. A train takes you from Interlaken to Lauterbrunnen; a bus goes from Lauterbrunnen to Stechelberg where you begin the gondola extravaganza to reach the Piz Gloria, a revolving restaurant at the tippy top peak of the Schilthorn.

Unlike the romantic boats roaming the canals in Venice, these gondolas are metal boxes on a cable, transporting around 30-40 people to the top of very high moutains. I’m not too afraid of heights, but can work myself into a lather if I let myself. Thankfully, these devices seem a lot worse from the ground then when you are actually in one. The aerial views are worth any stomach discomfort as the gondola moves over periodic stabilizing poles. Its rather like the queasy sensation you can get when the log is teetering over the edge of the final drop on Splash Mountain.

After wandering around above the clouds, taking in the indescribable beauty of it all, Ang and I had lunch at Piz Gloria. The restaurant is famous partly due to its alter ego as Blofeld’s hideout in the James Bond flick “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.” Most of the movie was filmed in Switzerland and they play up the connection on the Schilthorn. Even though there were no brainwashed girls spreading biohazardous chemicals, I did enjoy some Spaghetti a la James Bond.

We walked a gorgeous 3 hour route down the moutain starting at Murren. It got cold and dark pretty quickly so we didn’t make it all the way to Lauterbrunnen but we made it far enough down-hill to be a little sore the next day. The stairs down to breakfast the next morning were a little rough, but again, worth it for the small villages, green valleys, and wooded mountains we traveled through.

Check back on Wednesday for tales from the Matterhorn.

 Thursday, November 8, 2007

Bienvenue à la Suisse

Six days in Switzerland was not nearly enough time. Granted I haven’t traveled too extensively, but Switzerland is truly the most beautiful place I have been yet. My pictures capture a mere reflection of the actual country.

Aside from a missions trip to Mexico, this was the first adventure I’ve had in a non-English speaking country. What a humbling and stimulating experience. Switzerland has four national languages: German (of the Swiss variety which is different than the German spoken in Germany), French, Italian, and Romansh. My three semesters of French at Jewell made me feel a little more comfortable for the first two days while we (my future sister-in-law, Angie) were in French speaking territory, but my Swiss-German skills are non-existent…

I had this overwhelming urge to avoid speaking out loud so people wouldn’t automatically peg me as an American. Unfortunately I didn’t retain enough French to keep that up for long, but I found people to be very kind and helpful. For instance, I had to switch trains on my way to Montreux from the Geneva airport due to “technical difficulties.” On my new connecting train from Lausanne to Montreux, no announcements were made for each stop. I could have gotten by if they were in French but was completely lost without any indication where we were. Plus, the train was really full so I had stand in the middle between cars.

I was smooshed in next to a man in his Swiss Army uniform (these young men were all over the airport, many of them carrying intimidating guns) and asked lamely if the stop we had halted at was Montreux. He nodded and both of us disembarked. After pausing briefly to get my bearings (and probably looking a little confused), he rushed back up to me and apologized saying the next stop was Montreux. I barley hoped back on the train before it pulled away again.

After another small miscommunication where I almost stayed on the train at the right stop, I managed to find Angie. Luckily her hotel, The Grand Suisse Hotel, was right across the street from the train station. Montreux lies on the Northeast shore of Lake Geneva. I arrived around five in the evening. The sun was just setting as Ang and I walked around the Lake before dinner.

La Rouvenaz, our dinner destination, encapsulated the tone of the city. It was an elegant and quaint Italian restaurant just off the main street. By 6:30pm, the place was full and the owner who had been wandering around the dining room had to turn people away. We had multiple waiters, one of whom made funny faces at Ang during his trips back and forth from the patio and teasingly said I couldn’t have dessert because I didn’t finish my pasta.

Before we left Montreux the next day, we walked two miles along the lake to the Château du Chillon. They were having some special family weekend event so we got in for free! The castle was made famous by Lord Byron who wrote the poem, “The Prisoner of Chillon,” about François de Bonivard, a Genevois monk and politician who was imprisoned there for six years. We got to see the pillar Bonivard was chained to, an underground crypt, and spectacular views of the Montreux shore line from the highest tower.

We couldn’t leave Montreux without buying two famously Swiss products – watches (Ang bought a beautiful black one for herself at a surprisingly good price) and chocolate (truffles from Lucien Moutarlier Chocolatier). Then on to Interlaken…

Check back on Monday for Interlaken: cowbells, fondue, and 007! See my personal blog for a day-by-day Switzerland itinerary.

 Monday, October 29, 2007 

Just Keep Going Straight…

After a long Friday night (complete with two missed trains and an unstable British guy who followed us around), my excitement for a Saturday in the Cotswolds was rather subdued. However, my seven-mile trek across the English countryside was the most fun I’ve had in England so far.

Courtney, a fellow OOSCer from Mercer University, and I decided to take the train to a small town called Moreton-in-Marsh, in the middle of the Cotswolds, and just start walking. The free guidebook I picked up at Visitor Information in Oxford mentioned that opinions were divided on how to accurately capture the essence of the Cotswolds. Farmers define the Cotswolds as an “area of gently sloping hills good for sheep farming,” a geologist would “enthuse over the limestone” that gives the villages there characteristic amber glow, and an estate agent would “name it as one of the most affluent and desirable addresses in Britain.” In one romp through the ‘wolds’ (or hills), Courtney and I found all of these things to be true, especially the view that the Cotswolds are England’s largest ‘area of outstanding natural beauty.’

Many hiking clubs use the Cotswolds as a training ground, taking advantage of the varied landscape, but it took us quite awhile to convince the portly lady at tourist information that we were serious about walking from town to town. I pointed to my sneakers after an inquiry about the type of shoes we had on (I was pretty impressed with myself, actually, since I usually stick to ballet flats) and she instantly commented that with white shoes we wouldn’t want to traipse through the fields. Eventually she gave up in her discouragement and reluctantly showed us a map of the surrounding area, pointing out a 3-mile footpath from Moreton-in-Marsh to Blockley (though “it will be very muddy…”). She said we wouldn’t need a map – “just keep walking straight, follow the signs, and there should be plenty of people you can ask if you need directions.” Courtney and I are convinced that by people she meant sheep.

Everything was going wonderfully for the first mile or so. We meandered through sheep pastures, grape seed fields, and tree-lined paths. Chubby yellow arrows on fence posts and trees mark the trails. These are quite helpful until you’re at a fork in the road with an arrow pointing in both directions. We now began to think our tourist info lady had never left her chair. Thankfully, we ran into a middle-aged couple (the only people we had seen since leaving Moreton-in-Marsh) looking at a map who were headed to Blockley as well. Guy and Angie had left their two daughters at home on this day trip and were actually pleased for our company. Both of them were rather surprised at two American young women being enthusiastic about such an adventure. They repeatedly noted how we weren’t complaining about the mud or cold. Map in hand, they led us through the woods, private pheasant hunting grounds, and a cow pasture. We saw deer and I almost got kicked by a horse (note to self: don’t walk behind a strange animal even if he lets you touch him…). We ended up following them all the way to Chipping Campden, the village we were instructed to take a bus to.

While we were waiting for our train home, munching on chocolate chip shortbread from a tea shop in Moreton-in-Marsh, Courtney and I reflected on the fact that hardly anyone in our program could say they had seen a limestone quarry, avoided being run down by a bull, or chatted about motorcycles with a professor (Guy taught at Nottingham University) – all in one day to boot!

Next week's post: My next adventure begins this Friday when I fly off to Geneva (humming the hills are alive....). I'm meeting my brother's girlfriend in Montreux, Switzerland for six days of Alps, chocolate, and cograils. Our circuit includes Montreux, Zermatt, Interlaken, and Geneva. My next post, Nov. 8th, will have all the details!

 Monday, October 22, 2007 

I’d rather take a shower than a Bath

My trip to Bath started and ended with rather interesting train station occurrences. The first was nerve racking; the second (which I’ll get too later) was humorous. Our journey began on first class. At such an early hour on a Saturday morning, our connecting train from Didcot to Bath was virtually empty and although the train master mentioned that we didn’t have first class tickets, he didn’t force us to leave our cushy leather seats. Train travel is very efficient. The trains arrive on time, linger for a minute, and continue to the next stop. Doors open automatically for passengers to get on and off.

Our train pulled into Bath, we waited at the door and nothing happened. It took us a few trips to other doors to realize, no, they don’t manually open the doors for first class coaches but we still couldn’t figure out how to get them open. By this time, (what felt like) several minutes had passed and I had visions of the train pressing on to some unknown location, leaving our destination behind. One of my party was smart enough to read the directions on the door and we discovered you have to roll down the window and open the door from the outside. Don’t ask me why…

In order to cheer our humbled minds (and warm our popsicle appendages – it was a rather chilly Bath morning), we headed straight for Sally Lunn’s, home of a very famous bun. Sally Lunn emigrated from France 300 years ago and started making these large, light buns which became a delicacy in Georgian England. You can top half of a Lunn bun with almost anything, but I stuck with traditional fare – gobs of butter, strawberry jam, and the best clotted cream I’ve had in England so far.

Revitalized, we started on our list of touristy attractions: Bath Abbey, The Roman Baths, The Assembly Rooms, Fashion Museum, Pump Room, Botanical Gardens, and shopping (not technically an attraction but touristy nonetheless). I particularly enjoyed The Fashion Museum and Assembly Rooms. The museum is small and located under the Assembly Rooms. About halfway through the displays of men’s and women’s clothing from multiple eras, there is an interactive exhibit where you can try on corsets and hoops – typical underpinnings for women from many decades. Let me tell you, whatever they do for a woman’s figure, they are a beast to put on.

The Assembly Rooms were of interest to me as they are talked of in several Jane Austen novels. Men and women alike came to gossip and be seen. Elegance was of high priority for people that frequented the rooms. I actually made a very unladylike spectacle of myself by sitting on a chair that wasn’t there and practically rolling into the fireplace. Aside from hearing the resounding thud and resulting laughter, no one witnessed me sprawled out on the ballroom floor except my friend who was taking the picture.

On that note, we made our way back to the train station. We waited next to a group of rugby geared guys who became increasingly intoxicated as the minutes wore on. One of them burst forth in “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” and was soon joined by other drunkenly loud voices and the steady beat of a hand-held drum. Oddly enough, this United Sates African-American spiritual is something of an anthem for the rugby in England. They rounded out their concert of chants by screaming “I’d rather take a shower than a bath” and “Hey Hey Jonny Jonny Wilkinson” (English National Rugby team player). I believe some shirts had been taken off in the process. We made sure not to get on the same coach for the ride home.

 Monday, October 15, 2007

First time... "Very good."

Head-high stacks of old paperbacks line the walls, ending abruptly at the side of a worn piano whose keys are littered with a used mug and an unopened candle. Sitting straight backed on a shabby blue sofa section, crammed on the other side of the leaning tower of books, is Susan Halstead, Slovanic and Eastern European Curator for the British Library. The bottom half of her perfectly pressed skirt suit is obscured from view by the hamster cage resting nearby and a large brief case half open on the coffee table that separates us. She, with coifed hair and library badge still hung around her neck, asks how I enjoyed Plato’s Symposium like nothing was odd about the surroundings.

This was the scene of my first C.S. Lewis tutorial. I read my essay to the tune of rustling and occasional squawking of two small birds caged behind me. Unlike my Austen tutor, who walked around and made notes while I was delivering my essay, Susan sat quietly, giving a vigorous nod once in awhile but generally starring off as if in a trance. “Very good,” said the woman who attends church functions with Pricilla Tolkein (J.R.R.’s daughter) and is acquainted with Peter Bide, the reverend who preformed the bedside marriage of Lewis and Joy Gresham. Although she didn’t expound, I took her comment as a good sign.

The oration of my essay was pretty much the extent of my verbosity for the rest of the hour. Speaking at lightning speed in her characteristically soft voice, Susan spent the remaining time rattling off detailed plots of various novels and plays, retelling serendipitous events in her life, and explaining how she got her job at the British Library.

I spent my thirty-minute walk home trying to recall if I had ever experienced anything quite like that before. It didn’t take me long to conclude that, no, I certainly had never been the only student in a class that met in the professor’s son’s living area and read an essay I had written comparing C.S. Lewis to Plato. People do say that studying abroad is a time for ‘firsts.’ I always assumed that meant eating a pasty or traveling to a different country…

 Monday, October 8, 2007

Hostels: bed of germs or bargain digs?

In my family, singing the Star Spangled Banner is less about paying tribute to the red, white, and blue and more about absenting ourselves (or occupying our mind by bursting forth in song) from anything of an unsavory nature. Many of these spontaneous karaoke sessions are initiated by something germ related – someone sneezes and you have to pass through the infected surrounding air or you unsuspectingly shake hands with someone who has just been auguring out their ear canal. I’m no Howard Hughes, but a few germy things can really get under my skin.

Hostels are one such thing. Even though I lived in a dorm situation for two years, I still can’t get passed the overtly communal living required of staying in a hostel. At least in Ely, the women I shared toilets and showers with weren’t strangers who might have questionable hygiene habits (granted they were strangers at first, but let’s not put a damper on my comparison). Plus, there’s the bedding issue. In a place that touts cheap accommodation, you can never be sure what linens get washed regularly.

Despite my misgivings, I agreed to stay in one of these establishments over the weekend while I was in Edinburgh, Scotland with Hannah Smith, a fellow Jewell student studying at Harlaxton this semester. Our trains arrived at the station almost simultaneously so we met up and proceeded to navigate our way to Castle Rock Hostel in the dark. Much to my delight, Hannah is not afflicted with DIR (see Directional Difficulties for insight about this most dreadful condition). We arrived sans hassle and I was pleasantly surprised by my first hostel experience.

Castle Rock Hostel is located just off the Royal Mile, one of the main shopping streets in the city. Standing outside the hostel entrance, you can see Edinburgh Castle looming about ¼ mile up the road. Hannah and I were lodged in the Mr. Man room. Similar to the seven dwarves (only there were 12 women in our room), each bed had a different name. I got Mr. Skinny and Hannah Mr. Bounce. Mr. Man was one of many rooms scattered about the two-story building. Shared toilets and showers were up-stairs and a kitchen, patio, and lounge area took up most of the down stairs space.

As to my germ related issues with hosteling – a few items I packed saved the day.

• Sleep Sack: essentially a sleeping bag made out of a sheet with a pillowcase sewn into the top. I slid mine between the sheets and slept without one thought of bed bugs or residue from other people who had occupied Mr. Skinny.
• Shower Shoes: I saw a few people head into the shower bare foot but I was not so brave. Plastic flip-flops are light, cheap, and small.

Hannah and I were able to leave our bags in the hostel with out fear of theft which made walking around Edinburgh much more enjoyable. And walk we did! Just a little sample of our walking adventures for one day: hiked up Sir Arthur’s Seat, practically slid (yes we both ate it a few times) our way back down, walked to the North Sea, caught a bus back (you can’t blame us), and made our way up and down the Mile and Princes St. several times. At least we had Mr. Bounce and Mr. Skinny to greet us when we got back to Castle Rock.

Cheers.

 Monday, October 1, 2007

Word Count Woes

It’s been at least five months since I have done anything academic. I loathe to admit that I’m a bit out of practice in all things scholarly, so this week has been a slight shock to my sight-seeing system.

For the past three weeks, I’ve had two lectures every morning on a variety of Elizabethan and Victorian subjects like Pre-Raphaelite art, Tennyson, and chamber music. Some days my notes were more cluttered with doodles than data, but for the most part, I enjoyed listening and learning – no regurgitation required. Sprinkled throughout this ‘Introductory Course,’ multiple excursions have given our group a dose of touristy pleasure. We’ve visited castles and seen a Shakespeare play in his own theatre.

My blissful bubble burst this weekend as I began the essay portion of this Introductory Course – 4,000 to 5,000 words on a topic of our choice. I’m crafting a brilliant piece (is the sarcasm palpable?) on the perception of middle-class women in the Victorian Era. After two days of eight-hour writing sessions, I have become thoroughly obsessed with the word count function (185).

At first I only checked it after each page, now I have to exercise great restraint to keep myself from checking after each sentence (214). Brienne, one of my housemates, informed each of us yesterday that she added 100 words to her essay by changing every reference to England to Great Britain or the United Kingdom (243). I haven’t stooped that low – yet.

One thousand three hundred and twenty nine (somehow it looks less daunting when the actual numerals aren’t glaring at you) words to go…

Cheers.

  Monday, September 24, 2007

Directional Difficulties

“That’s the worst of girls,” said Edmund to Peter and the Dwarf. “They never can carry a map in their heads.” -- Prince Caspian by C.S. Lewis

I was diagnosed with DIR earlier this summer. Now, mind you, it was a self-diagnosis, but unfortunately I believe it’s all too true – I have Directional Intelligence Retardation. Much like buzz or whur, DIR has onomatopoeia properties. Those who suffer from DIR often emit that same sound when trying to follow a map or determine which way is North.

My directional difficulties did not stay back in the States. I thought maybe a fresh start in a completely foreign place might shock my spacial senses into working correctly, but alas, no such luck. I’ve found that my biggest problem is translating what I see on a map to actual reality. Somehow my mental image never transfers correctly.

Last Sunday for instance: Calvary Chapel Oxford meets at Botley Primary School. While still in Oxfordshire, Botley is about two miles away from where I live (in Oxford city center). I figured out which bus to take, what time it left, and wrote out how to get from the bus stop to the school (what seemed like a ten minute walk). That’s where things went wrong.

Problem #1 – I used a different bus company than I had researched so I didn’t get dropped off at the Elms Parade bus stop. Come to find out later, it was just across the street, but I was pointing the other direction and thus completely turned around. Problem #2 – The map I was carrying in my head was way off scale. I was expecting a half-mile jaunt to the right street. Instead it was a few yards. Thankfully, I feel no shame in asking directions. British people are always happy to help out (even if they laugh heartily after the bewildered American girl is out of ear shot).

My DIR is intensified in larger areas. I’ve been to London twice so far, and luckily, each time I’ve had some sort of guide. On our excursion to the Globe, the Warner’s were weaving in and out of alleys to take us to Southwark Cathedral – I barely knew which way was up. This weekend, my housemate’s fiancé showed a few of us around town. Although I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what street we were on, I must have had an invisible sign around my neck that read, “I know what I’m doing. Please ask me for directions.” More than one person made location inquiries – to which I responded, “DIR…”

Cheers.

 Monday, September 17, 2007

'No pictures, please...!' 

Los Angeles is no stranger to traffic. Being from the LA area, I thought I knew what heinous traffic was – until we had our first group trip last Friday. What was listed on our itinerary as an “all day excursion to Hampton Court Palace” turned out more like an all day excursion on the bus. I believe five words are sufficient enough to capture just how bad the traffic was: Sixty-one miles in four hours.

I found out a long time ago that no matter how much you gripe about traffic, it seems to get worse, so the only thing I ended up wanting to complain about was that the one-inch-per-minute flow of traffic left me less time in Hampton Court Palace’s magnificent gardens.

Palatial buildings such as the Palace always inspire awe in me. I was especially struck by the history imbedded in the corridors, walls, and rooms I toured. This place was the stomping grounds of King Henry VIII, Cardinal Wolsey, William and Mary, and countless other famous figures in British history. I stood in the King’s throne room and passed through the Long Gallery where Jane Seymour pleaded with her royal husband to spare her life.

Unfortunately, no photography is allowed inside the Palace to capture those places. I was about to take a picture of these amazing wall murals made out of rifles and swords when an old man, wearing the trademark green suit of Hampton Court employees, loudly announced my wrong doing. He softened up a bit after we chatted about my studies; although, he did inform me that Jane Austen wasn’t his cup of tea. He did, however, offer to open a window (over 100 years old) so I could take an aerial photo of the garden.

Interesting trivia about Hampton Court Palace (shared by my anti-Austen friend): Hampton Court Palace is the oldest building where Shakespeare was performed.

Cheers.

I’m taking over Oxford Daily Photo (or follow the link on my personal blog) for four weeks – Get acquainted with Oxford through a new photo of the city every day.

 Monday, September 10, 2007

Crossing the Pond

The urge to crawl back in bed is pretty overwhelming, but I’m trying to do the right thing to overcome any residual jet lag. It’s a nasty beast – you think you’ve managed to escape it the first day; then it hits you full force on the second. Other than that small hiccup, my arrival in Oxford was relatively smooth. I guess I did get lost once or twice, but that goes without saying for me.

The Flight: Virgin Atlantic isn’t part of the international terminal at LAX. Regardless, the waiting area for Flight 8 to Heathrow was quite the salad of mixed greens. French couples on their way back home from a SoCal vacation flanked me on either side (I did try to put my 3 semesters of Francais to good use, but I could barely understand enough to eavesdrop). Various British people came and went beside me, who in their own right are an international bunch. I sat next to a German young woman on the plane. She had been visiting family in San Diego and was considering returning to study abroad for a semester herself.

The Bus Ride: The portion I was awake for was beautiful – green, woody, and open.

Walk/Taxi to The Warner’s House : When you arive at the bus station, you’re suppossed to make your way to the Warner’s (the couple that runs OOSC) house – a five minute walk. Unless you’re me of course and start walking the wrong direction with two very large bags trailing behind you. A very kind taxi driver realized my plight and pulled over to help me. I was indeed going the wrong direction. Five pounds well spent.

I hadn’t been there 10 minutes when Ryan Gentzler and Janeane Lage arrived. Janeane lives on the same street so Mr. Warner drove us to our houses together. We were quite the vision – four large bags, two backpacks, and three people crammed into Mr. Warner’s compact Toyota. Janeane sat on one of her bags and I had my two bagzillas for backseat travel companions.

Before the day was through we (Janeane, Zach from Hendrix College, and I) managed to get lost trying to find a place to eat dinner. So the adventure begins !

Cheers.

Keep up with my first week in Oxford on my personal blog.