the girl who cried "WWOOF!"

Yes, I have returned from my WWOOFing venture into Wales! And yes, I am probably just as surprised by this triumph as you are. And I have to admit, it was definitely one of the COOLEST things I have done since coming to the UK. Even that whole manual labor part. Really. Look how happy (and how devilishly good-looking) I am working the logging machine.

So impressive.

Anyway, to give you an idea of how great my WWOOF hosts, Lizzie and Dave, were, I give you an anecdote:

Lizzie: I like to bring my WWOOFers to the Montgomery Field Society meetings. I think it's good to educate them.

Me: The WWOOFers?

Lizzie (archly): The Montgomery Field Society.


It's really impossible for me to remember everything that happened over the past week, so again I give you some extracts from my journal (expanded, elaborated, and exaggerated where appropriate):

Day One:
The wind is blowing something wicked outside. I'm in my own attic room at the top of a mountain in a two hundred year old farmhouse in north Wales. Everything shakes and creaks and moans. Lizzie and Dave are bell-ringers and as soon as they picked me up they took me to the cathedral tower (as its Sunday) to watch them bell-ring. Lizzie let me climb to the very top of the towers and see the bells. It was FREEZING and dusty and the bells were HUGE and I had to crawl on boards between them (a rather precarious situation in retrospect).

Day Two:
The days start off here with tea in bed.
The shed is called the Wendyhouse.
A microwave in Welsh is called a popty ping.
I'm now addicted to Bara Brith.


Day Three:
This morning while making paths in the vegetable gardens I caught a glimpse of the neighbor, a man wearing one of those old man caps, out herding the sheep with a border collie. It would be mighty fine to have some sheep. And a border collie. And an old man cap.

Day Four:
I've acquired Lizzie's habit of saying "jolly good" all the time.

I helped Lizzie make a "beany stew" for dinner before being whisked off to Scottish country dancing, which despite all appearances to the contrary was a JOLLY GOOD TIME. I laughed SO hard and got asked by all the old men for every dance (most of whom were wearing kilts) and met one who had been a Merton man (not wearing a kilt). I also befriended a woman who was known in the town as "Maria" even though it was her middle name because at her work they had got it mixed up, and then the woman who was supposed to fix it went on maternity leave and so it never got changed.



Day Five:
Lizzie and Dave were sweet enough to give me the day off and recommend that I visit the Centre for Alternative Technology. It sounds like a hippie place because it kinda is, and was started by a group in the seventies. The place is at the top of a quarry and sort of has the feel of an educational commune. I learned LOADS, but I also spent a good deal of two hours walking around and trying to look impressed by compost and PV panels. I did manage, however, to be embraced as a fellow friend of the earth once it was discovered that I was in Wales as a WWOOFer. Extraordinary.

Day Six:
I JUST WENT TO A CASTLE. Something went wrong today and instead of the clear brisk day that we were all expecting we woke up to meet an almost impenetrable fog. While this made logging more difficult, it made everything that much more magical. I was a proper lumberjack too. Helmet with face mask and ear muffs, work gloves, and the disrespectable farmer's wax jacket. Lizzie and Dave were so impressed (okay, perhaps "amused" is more fitting here) with my final appearance that they took photos of me working the wood splitter.

Anyway--Montgomery Castle--think "I Capture the Castle"--fog--muddy, winding roads--cold (bitterly so)--crumbling stones--dank air.


And so end my adventures into the country with more sheep than people.

endings and beginnings

Michaelmas term is officially OVER and I am off to North Wales! I have been warned by my schoolmates that I might

a) see lots of sheep

and

b) be surrounded by people actually speaking Welsh.

Despite these horrors, I'm off to Cefn-y-Pwyll Farm to WWOOF until next Sunday and hopefully will come back with lots of sheep-and-Welsh-speaking filled stories!

mince pies and mulled wine

I know what you're thinking. What IS mince pie? And don't I mean mincemeat pie? Doesn't that mean that there's meat in it? And the answer is NO, ignorant readers, IT DOES NOT (although I still love you). Mince pie is something entirely different than the meat pie I had imagined as I quite suddenly discovered yesterday. Although they are made with mincemeat (and can be called either a mince or mincemeat pie), the filling no longer contains any meat although it did originally. I'd try and explain the whole thing to you but it's really quite confusing and I fear I've made quite a mess of it already.

Anyway, our reward for completing a thoroughly humbling circuit workout (painful, painful experience) for crew practice was our very own mince pie (below).

As you can see, said pie is a "festive British pastry" (I stole that quotation from Wikipedia), containing raisins, spices, and other gooey substances. Apparently these are what British children leave for Santa along with a glass of brandy. And I always thought I wasn't helping his figure with all those milk and cookies.

So mince pies were a great beginning to a very Christmas-y evening, as last night was the Pembroke Three Kings Caroling night. BEST TRADITION EVER. Apparently this happens every year. About a hundred (completely sober, I swear) Pembrokians took it upon themselves to bring Christmas cheer to all of the other Oxford colleges. I may or may not have attended. Merton may or may not have kicked us out. I may or may not have heard a porter respond to a student extolling the virtues of his own voice by yelling "You really suck, mate!" I'd also like to take this moment to mention that there was also a fair amount of applause, and that "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" was a popular favorite. But again, pure speculation.

Ahem.

ALL TOGETHER NOW!

this blog likes Italian food

Wait- good food in Oxford? A joke, surely. Wait- pumpkin risotto? Some more, clearly.

Claire and I had no need whatsoever to pull an Oliver Twist at Jamie's Italian last night, and didn't even have room for dessert despite our best efforts (I mean, I like REALLY REALLY tried). A very worthy find in a city of mostly pub food, fish and chips, and jacket potatoes.

Also, watched half of Lawrence of Arabia last night. Seriously questioning my decision to study abroad in a camel-less country.

we gotta regatta

FINALLY, SOME SUBSTANTIAL PROOF THAT BRIANNA IS A ROWER:
Here we have them, the lovely Hippos, the Pembroke College Novice A boat at the Christ Church Regatta held last week. We are very proud in our pink, thank you very much. Despite a tragic loss (two rowers caught a crab), we gave Teddy Hall a good run that I personally hope they gained little satisfaction from. Tufts rowers will probably not be impressed to learn that the course only took about three minutes to row, but they must also admit that this was a wise decision considering that major collisions that occurred (one boat lost a huge section off it's front end). The rest of the regatta ended up being canceled, but we still got to attend the celebratory Christ Church Regatta banquet (black tie like always) that was absurdly fun with lots of sconcing and jokes and where I learned one of my new favorite terms: MASSIVE LAD. All caps are required to convey the emphasis of coining someone a MASSIVE LAD. A lad is the type of guy who walks into a bar and buys drinks and pats you on the back and talks about rugby. A man's man. A MASSIVE LAD is the laddiest lad of them all. Claire and I have adopted the (possibly irritating) habit of calling everyone/thing a MASSIVE LAD. This is really more fun then it sounds.


For instance, we decided that Fiyero in the West End production of Wicked that we saw last night was a MASSIVE LAD. This show was so breathtaking that I actually felt depressed when it was over and my only consolation was that I could come back and watch the songs again on youtube. Thank goodness for technology. The musical really Disneyfied the book though, which surprised me a bit. Our foray into London for the show also afforded a great opportunity to do some sightseeing including the London Eye, Millennium Bridge, Tate Modern, and more of those delightful German Christmas markets.

no pumpkin pie

So, there does seem to be at least one minor (although, in my opinion, this far exceeds the definition of "minor") fault with this country. NO PUMPKIN PIE. You can only buy it in gourmet sections and even then you can tell everyone's wondering if you actually plan to eat it. This makes for a pretty crap Thanksgiving. Members of the Warren may be interested to know that squash pies actually seem to be all the rage here. Go figure.

Fortunately for us, Tufts (or perhaps I should say our coordinators, Jaki and Simon) really came through for us, planning a Thanksgiving meal in London for at the Hilton London Euston Hotel. It was so ridiculously schmancy that Claire, Davis, and I thought we'd walked into the wrong room. Seriously, we even asked at the desk. We'd arrived rather early after touring around London with stops at The Sherlock Holmes Museum, London Beatles Shop, Regent's Park, and Wellcome Collection founded by the luxuriantly moustached Sir Henry Wellcome (you really want to click that last link). This last stop was so strange I can't even begin to describe it. Let's just say I had my iris scanned for my "biometric idenity" and colored pictures of unicorns all the same room. I kind of felt like I was in some sort of futuristic world where everything was white and shiny and all sorts of experiments were being done on me. Unfortunately, you could tell the British don't really get Thanksgiving because all the courses were of reasonably sized portions that were ultimately quite disappointing, although tasty. I did manage to have some pumpkin soup and apple pie, but still. At least there weren't any potatoes. Actually, now that I think about it they make have snuck some into the main course. I guess that's just the way they punish us for dumping all that tea into the ocean.

You have probably been wondering about that stunning picture at the beginning of this post. Note Anna's and my very intense game faces. We are hardcore Arsenal fans. Obviously. Note also the SCARVES. That's what makes us legit. We just had to go watch some good old English football, so earlier this week we traveled to London and got a good dose of it. We had STELLAR seats. It was AMAZING. The really hardcore fans were a bit intimidating. They showed up hours before hand, got hosed, and made the stadium absolutely red with scarves. Really quite impressive.

Anyway, a belated Thanksgiving to all! I hope you had pumpkin pie (there's absolutely NO resentment in this statement, I promise you).

this blog likes rowing

This is what I see almost every day at six or seven in the morning. Sometimes it's worth it just to see the mists over Christ Church Meadows.

Actually, it's always worth it.

the outcasts, the underdogs

"Where the telescope ends the microscope begins, and who can say which has the wider vision?- Victor Hugo

Danielle, my current guest from MIT (here to debate at the Union-some pretty serious stuff there) and I, along with other Americans traveled to London last night to see Les Miserables (apparently, the world's longest running musical) performed in the West End. The only downside to the whole trip may have been my utter ineptitude regarding the bus system between here and London, but what I like to think is ultimately important here is that we made it to London and back again. Let's just not talk about the inbetween. Moving on then.

Set: GORGEOUS. Songs: SENSATIONAL. My perspective on life: CHANGED. Danielle and I: DEVILISHLY CHARMING AND GOOD-LOOKING (as always).

See what wonderful things happen to people who visit me?

Also, quickly back to the bus discussion, one result of that whole episode was the discovery of the Animal War Memorial in London. Who knew? At night, the memorial was a bit eery. And creepy.

Also also, a newly developed addiction: G&D's mochas.

Poll Results: Merlin and Robin Hood tie for most fashionable dressers. My personal opinion is that the new fad will be to fuse the two styles (robe plus tights, anyone?).

baked expectations

Yesterday was one of my personal favorite holidays, that is, the triple-birthday of Chelle, G-ma, and me. That's right--twenty one years and I'm still kickin'! Despite being the golden age for most American college students, the usual significance attributed to turning twenty one is sort of lost here in the UK. Although, one of my stairmates did inform me that I can now legally take out a mortgage in England. Useful.

I hope that you shall all be delighted to know that I spent the majority of the day doing things of the utmost triviality and self-indulgence, and had the most lovely morning helped along by the well-wishing and generosity of so many others here. It was truly delightful--A THOUSAND THANK YOUS TO EVERYONE! You guys know who you are.

One of the BEST surprises was at formal hall I was suddenly confronted by candles (in addition to those already afire on the table) and the loud echo of many unrehearsed voices yelling out in unison that most classic of birthday songs. And then I was presented with the biggest cookie EVER. A double chocolate Ben's Cookie the size of (here the proper metaphor eludes me, but it was big and you get the idea). If you have yet to hear me rave about the genius of Ben's Cookies, then now is the time to inform you that it is worth going to Oxford just to have one. And by that I mean pack your bags immediately and get on over here. Do it. According to the seller, this cookie size serves thirty hence the Dickensian allusion in the title of this post. Only Pip never had it so good.

Again, THANK YOU everyone! It all really meant a lot.

just don't invite the madhatter

I recently received a message from a dear friend of mine (famously known for her dashing wit, affinity for snowmen, and impressive knowledge of all things pertaining to Seinfeld) containing a single line:

"One question: How is the tea?"

Really Ginny Joseph. In England that is the equivalent of asking me to summarize the French Revolution with bits both before and after thrown in just for kicks.

Tea is really just THAT much of a defining cultural and social activity here in England. In fact, I bet the English drink more tea per capita than anyone else in the world.

I was wrong.

Apparently, Iraq heralds a first for tea consumption per capita according to some sources, while others claim that the Turkish and Irish are the greatest tea consumers. Apparently, it all comes down to what you call "tea."

Whatever.

Back to English tea: I like it. A lot. One of my new favorite pastimes is having tea with my stairmates as a well-timed study break, which if I had my way would occur every other hour throughout the day.

I also recently had the semi-terrifying experience of having tea with my tutor. My last tute was rescheduled to 9:30 am at my tutor's charming cottage in the St. Anne's principal lodgings. Unfortunately, that morning I chose to live out every college student's nightmare and slept through my alarm by thirty minutes. Charming. In a superhuman effort, I managed to make it to the lodgings EXACTLY on time through a labyrinth of ghastly drizzle, newspaper sellers, and suicidal bikers. I'm still recovering. At the door I was greeted by the smiling nanny who took one look at me and insisted I warm myself with a pot of tea in the library/dining room (there was a ladder for the bookshelves!). She also brought me biscuits. My love of biscuits almost outweighs my love of tea. Almost. So yes, my one class of the day was an hour over tea and biscuits in my tutor's home.

Pretty wicked, I know.

Gunpowder, treason, and plot

I haven't posted in AGES (i.e. four days now) and I can't imagine how you all have borne it. I hope that you've been filling your time with informative and intellectually stimulating substitutions such as The New York Times or Wall Street Journal, but then I'm not one to judge. Personally, I've been enjoying some one-on-one time with my favorite 19th century men, the illustrious Dickens and incorrigible Wilde, who insist on teaching me lots on morality, Victorian crime, and personality based on multiplicity. Good times had by all (especially that wicked Dorian Gray)!

I did pull a Cinderella earlier this week and made an appearance at the Oxford Union Midnight in Paris Ball. Alas, no pumpkin, but I was home by midnight (Mumsie and Poppers, kindly take note of your responsible daughter) and managed to make it back still in possession of both of my shoes.
Anyway, I can't even begin to describe the fabulousness of this ball. There were flamethrowers. Chocolate fountains. Photobooths (obviously). Men making mouth-watering crêpes. Too much cake. ICE CREAM. Giant star-lit tents. Jugglers. Casino games. All this took place in the ancient libraries of the Union and outside surrounded by those amazing heat lamps, and it was not unlike entering Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory for the first time. Or maybe I just felt that way since I was so transparently there for the food.

In other news, it was also recently Guy Fawkes Night. Contrary to what you might think, we burn effigies of Guy Fawkes on his night rather than celebrate him. He even has his own little rhyme:

Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason, why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, guy, t'was his intent
To blow up king and parliament.
Three score barrels were laid below
To prove old England's overthrow.

By God's mercy he was catch'd
With a darkened lantern and burning match.
So, holler boys, holler boys, Let the bells ring.
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the king.

And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!

They really aren't all as civilized over here as they would have you believe. Man getting burned=just cause for epic firework display. Just don't ask.

EXCITING LIFE UPDATE: I will be WWOOFing in Wales from December 6th to the 13th! I'm going to be gardening/learning how to make preserves and hopefully will have the opportunity to make my way around the Welsh countryside a bit before heading home for that classic Vermont white Christmas. Whippin' out those wellies, baby.

bangers and mash

That's right, no stay in England would be complete without the consumption of that much loved staple: bangers and mash. No worries! The vegetarianism is still intact! Bangers and mash is just THAT important that there's not just one vegetarian variation, but apparently up to ten.

To fully capture the enthusiasm of the staff and students on the illustrious day when we receive bangers and mash, the menu was actually written in capitol letters. A recreation of our weekly meals listing below:

Monday: Indian Curry (we eat this quite a lot actually), Mixed Vegetables (always potatoes-squash too if lucky), Cardamom Pudding (NOBODY LIKES THIS BECAUSE IT IS NASTY)

Tuesday: Carvery, Veggie Tart, Salads and Fruits (this always unfortunately turns out to be a blatant fallacy on the salad front), Assorted Puddings

Wednesday: BANGERS AND MASH

Bangers and Mash are apparently so exciting no side options are necessary to entice hungry college students. And, I must admit, I was rather a fan of the bangers. The mash, not so much. There was mustard mixed in it. I find the British mustard fascination a constant source of personal misery.

Poll Results: John Donne, Tony Blair, and Hugh Grant tie for most attractive Oxford Alumnus. You people never fail to surprise me.

macabre mascarades

I am rather proud to say that this year I managed to celebrate Halloween in style. Although, I'll admit I was thrown a little off-guard when I looked at the Halloween dinner invitation and realized that required dress was "black tie fancy dress." "Fancy" here has an entirely different connotation from that back home. It means "in costume," and not like you are going to the ball with Marie Antoinette (unless, of course, you wish to go as a member of the sixteenth century French nobility). As I very quickly learned, it is not altogether easy to look dashing and ghoulish all at the same time. This is especially difficult for boys, since they are the ones ostensibly wearing the black ties. I was disappointed, however, that I didn't see a single one of them go as a penguin. Adorable was completely displaced by the macabre, and there were far more devils and demons than their more huggable alternatives. Personally, I'd rather sit next to a bunny during my three course meal than a man with a knife through his head, but whatever.

I made the rather classy choice of going as a fairy. No pictures seem to exist of this elegant costume, but I rather like to think that I made an entrance not unlike Drew Barrymore in Ever After. To make the moment complete there was even someone wearing my secret favorite costume from that illustrious ball--that of the horse. Unfortunately, I did not win the prince's heart (alas, alas).

In fact, upon reflection I seem to have failed as an even mildly responsible documenter of the night's events. Upon entering the hall, we were greeted by lines of tables lit by jack-o-lanterns, black streamers on the walls, and silver tinsel bedecking the room. Did I capture this moment of Gothic wonder filled with the lurking monsters, saucy imps, and not just one charismatic Mephistopheles? No. My one photograph of the night seems to be of the choux spider I ate for dessert.
NOMNOMNOMNOM. I really have nothing else to say for myself here. If you require a more tangible visual of the night than that of my eloquent description above, I revert to my oft-made comparison. Just think Harry Potter.

Oh, so you go to MAUDlin?

No longer satisfied within the cozy confines of Pembroke College, Claire and I set out to explore two of the bigger and better known colleges at Oxford: Christ Church and Magdalen (pronounced MAUDlin- if you say Mag-da-len, no one will forgive you and you may be banned from conversation altogether).We sauntered onto the grounds as if we were students of college and even received a friendly wave from one of the porters at Christ Church. Once you pass through the gate you are greeted with the above view. While gorgeous, it's a much more stark environment than the climbing rose gardens of Pembroke. In the short time I've been here, I've already managed to amass quite a bit of Pink and Blue pride.
We managed to find THE famed Harry Potter dining hall, and now I'm pretty excited to sign up to go eat there on some Saturday. Since Pembroke doesn't have hall on Saturday nights, we are allowed to dine in Christ Church every week if we so choose. Tomorrow Claire and I may test out our own culinary skills (We found an oven! In the very very very very posh staircase 8. The rest of us poor folk make do with microwaves), so we will have to save that adventure for another week. WINKWINK and NUDGE: I can bring guests to dine here!
I also finally managed to make it to my first Oxford Union debate last night on This House Believes that Western Liberal Countries Have a Moral Obligation to Spread Democracy to Other Countries, by Force if Necessary. It was SO intellectually exhausting. The debaters dress up in WHITE TIE (think tuxes and gowns people) and have a highly ritualized way of speaking and manner of addressing the house. I was sitting in the gallery literally on a windowsill to try and get high enough to see the floor, and the whole building is so old and creaky you'd think the chairs were rheumatic. My absolute favorite part is that when you leave, you vote on who won the debate by exiting either through the "Ayes" door, or the "Noes." I've never seen so many well-spoken people in my life. I feel so verbally-challenged.

a little note on bellringing

They ring bells here all the time. And rarely in moderation. And when they aren't ringing for some specific reason, they ring them just for the heck of it. Last night while walking to dinner I noticed that the bells had been ringing for ages, which I then commented about to the general public.

Me: These bells ring an awful lot.

Other Person: Well, the bellringers have to practice.

Me: You mean, the bells are rung by REAL PEOPLE? They aren't just recordings???

Other Person: .....

Needless to say, I once again stunned the general British population with my endless well of worldly knowledge. I may or may not have brought up Quasimodo at this point (not an impressive move).

Interesting fact about Oxford as well: Old Tom, the tower at Christ Church rings a 101 times at 9:05 pm. Apparently this has some traditional origin relating to 101 scholars who used to dine at that time. Also, Oxford time is five minutes behind the rest of the world. Everything starts at five past. This ensures that when we leave our little Oxford bubble we will always arrive fashionably late.

I'm delighted to announce "dishy" as the Britishism of choice in this week's poll. Well done, gentle readers!

pretty much as you like it (or not)

As any self-respecting English major must do in the course of a year long study in Ehnglande, I made my "pilgrimage" in a milieu of Tufts students to Shakespeare's birthplace: Stratford-Upon-Avon. Pretty straightforward, right? Well, actually, no. Very little is actually known about Shakespeare the playwright, and there are many different schools of thought concerning the bard. Shakespeare the commoner, the man that we know lived in Stratford may not have written the plays at all. Don't mention this to Stratfordians, though. It's a pretty hot point of contention.

Anyway, I'm going to pull an Oscar Wilde and shamelessly plagiarize myself when I say that Stratford was almost nauseatingly bucolic. And that thatched roofs make me happy inside. Our first stop was at Anne Hathaway's cottage (see above) the wife of Shakespeare (maybe, or maybe not). This is where history gets really dodgy. However, I did learn from the token awesomely British tour guide inside the cottage the origin of a phrase concerning something near and dear to my heart: bread.

The story of the upper crust: So, back when people baked bread over an open hearth (note to self: must try this), the bottom of bread would get all ashy and blackened. Gross, right? Well, using their good sense people used to cut bread horizontally instead of vertically, giving the burnt part to lessers, i.e. children and servants, while reserving the nice poofy top part for the head of household. Thus the upper crust. It must have been a great class equalizer when they finally started cutting bread the other way.

Our next visit was to Shakespeare's Birthplace. I still have not recovered from how incredibly absurd that was. Think Disney World meets Romeo and Juliet with a little bit of Leonardo DiCaprio and a lot of dramatic music and voiceovers. I'm still laughing inside. Don't take me wrong-- I loved it. It was not unlike the Tomb experience in Boston, except less self-conscious of its commercialization. Seriously, though. STILL LAUGHING INSIDE.

The unfortunate consequence of so much diverting and amusing sightseeing was a bunch of famished college students in middle of the afternoon. After much strolling and debating, we found an easy lunch place where I stuffed myself on my first English pasty accompanied by the traditional chips (hot french fries from the oven) and beans. They love beans here. I'm still figuring out the beans and french fries combo. At the time, however, my famish state rendered the combo one of the most satisfying things ever to enter my tummy.

We drove home through the lovely Cotswolds (see above) arriving home (I just called Pembroke home! Touching moment.) just in time to go out to dinner at staircase mate Lydia's house in Oxford. She was amazing enough to have all of Staircase 15 over for Saturday dinner (they don't feed us in hall on Sat-we're left totally to our own devices) and to kick-off Margot's twentieth birthday this weekend. It was absolutely wonderful: we ate the best food I've had all week, met her charming parents, and were just made very much at home. I feel that I'm justified in saying that I ended up in the best Staircase possible at Pembroke (even more touching moment).

Being Posh

My newest development here in the Oxfordian world is becoming a member of the elite Oxford Union (and thus, becoming rather elite myself). Belonging to the Union is not unlike going to a country club- inside there's a special member's bar, library, club, etc. Yesterday, Claire and I decided to start making good on our investment (which was bloody expensive) and went there for lunch. I ate soup. It was good soup. In fact, I've been eating a lot of soup lately. There's something about England that makes one want to eat soup. I think something like 25 Prime Ministers were and still are (full term undergraduates buy member ship for life) members of the union. That's pretty posh. I wonder if they ate soup while they were there.

On Wednesday all the visiting students were invited for drinks and canapés in the master's lodgings. I thought that Bacow's house was the most beautiful on campus home ever, but Bacow doesn't have anything compared to Giles Henderson. We had to duck under a Hobbit-esque gate to enter a wonderful rose vine filled garden with a charming white table and chair set set to the side. Lovely, right? Believe me, I know it. And inside I was able to drink pineapple juice to my heart's content while playing with the master's two yellow retrievers, Gracie and Ellie, in a dark wooden beamed living room with a large hearth and grand piano that we were invited to play. We really get the special treatment here. Lovin' the posh.

Shut Happens

Yesterday, Claire and I went on a whim for a much needed lunch break to Café Puccino's off of Cornmarket Street. Omgshbesttomaotobasilsoupeverrrrr (as you can clearly see to the left there- and the ciabatta was even all warm and toasty!). Didn't I promise food pics? Victory, huzzah! Perhaps my favorite thing about the cafe though (as if the amazing cappuccino wasn't enough) were the messages painted throughout the café. For instance, my cup saucer informed me that "In the dishwasher nobody hears you scream," and my brown sugar packet kindly reminded me that "brown sugar is for snobs." All very good things to know, in my opinion. Apparently, the café is designed by Jim Smith. He must be a pretty funny bloke.

Also of note was my first crew date yesterday. Crew dates are huge social enterprises here- in fact, a lot of people row just so that they can participate in crew dates. Last night the Pembroke ladies met up at Jamal's for curry with the M1 boys from Queen's College. We ate family style alternating boy-girl-boy-girl and there are all sorts of traditions and "rules" that were completely foreign for me. For instance, "pennying" in which you want to make sure that nobody gets a penny into your glass when you aren't looking (otherwise the "Queen," whose face is depicted on the coin, will drown). All good fun and a pretty non conventional way to meet people from other colleges. In addition to all this, I received a very long and detailed presentation and analysis on the difference between northern England, southern England, and Welsh accents. I was also informed that my American accent "sounds funny." I still like to fancy that it makes me sound exotic.

The format of this post is extremely haphazard because I'm lamentably not very tech-savvy. Oh, English majors.

This JCR resolves to form a toast society

In order to ensure an increased sense of democracy here at Oxford, each college's Junior Common Room (JCR) holds biweekly meetings to encourage all undergraduate students to participate in governmental affairs. Rumor has it that in order to entice students to venture from their rooms on Sunday evenings the JCR spends about 300 quid on food and drink for attendees!! That's a lot of pizza, beer, and ice cream. Topics of debate are fairly interesting as well; for instance, the initiation of the Pembroke Toast Society and the motion to buy wool capes for the Welfare representatives.

In order to do the administration justice, here are some extracts from the meeting minutes for your perusal:

7. Pembroke College Official Toast Society (CARRIED)

This JCR notes that there exists no College-sanctioned society for the appreciation and advancement of toast eating.
This JCR believes that toast, particularly when taken with Marmite, is the most effective restorative for flagging student spirits. Therefore, the academic results and the general well-being of the student population would be improved by the creation of an official support structure for those who wish to eat toast.
This JCR resolves to form a Toast Society, to nurture the toast-eating ambitions of the students of this fine College.
Proposed by Arthur Leigh-Pemberton
Seconded by Paris Penman Davies

Henceforth Arthur Leigh-Pemberton inherits all responsibility over the managing, organisation and discipline of the Pembroke Toast Society

9. Welfare rep capes (CARRIED: WITH AMENDMENT)

This JCR notes that welfare reps are integral members of our JCR, on 24 hour duty

This JCR believes that the hard work of the welfare reps should not go unnoticed

This JCR resolves to buy capes for the JCR welfare reps, and make them wear them around college so they do not go unnoticed

Proposed by: Ed Sorby
Seconded by: Jigar Patel

Amendment: The capes must be made from Wool

Obviously, it's nothing but work work work here. The pains of making sure that justice is upheld.

Also, popular opinion holds that Charles Dickens is most likely to ask me out on a date. The results of this poll make me seriously question this blog's readership.

ma-ma-matriculaaaaation

Thats right, there we are the poshest/best looking Tufts in Oxford group to ever walk the cobblestones of Pembroke! We wear our subfusc well, if I do say so myself. MOST EXCITING DAY EVER. It's so cool seeing all the freshers dressed up running all over the city. Below are some of the other rockin' visiting students from a variety of schools. Pretty sweet.

Also, I'm disappointed that no one has noticed my poll over there on the right. Somebody please remedy the situation pronto.

I've also noticed that I haven't been informing everyone of my culinary adventures, and this is TRAGIC. Today I had a grilled ciabatta with brie, avocado, basil, and roasted tomatoes with a cappuchino from the covered market. I'm going to take more pics in the future. Promise.

The Bird and the Baby

As you may or may not already be aware (if you weren't, pretend you were and impress me), Oxford was once home to both C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein. They used to meet as part of a group called the Inklings in the Eagle and Child pub which is literally a stone's throw from Pembroke. I managed to make my way there last night, and this place just extends FOREVER (think Diesel Cafe, but majorly oldtown). The front is filled with cute velvet green booths and creaky floorboards that make you feel as if you are on a ship embarking on a wonderful journey. The Inklings used to meet in front of the fireplace in the Rabbit Room- really a lovely place. I'm sure that in such a cozy corner even I could have dreamed up Narnia. Well. Maybe. Also, the best thing about this particular pub is it's plethora of nicknames. The Bird and the Baby. The Buzzard and the Bastard. The Falcon and the Fetus. That last one is a bit of a stretch in my opinion. The first is what the locals mostly use. And now even more importantly, me.

I also went to my first tutorial today- !!!!!! I couldn't even keep up with what my tutor was saying she was speaking soooo fast, yet everything she said was so well thought out and well put. I'm in Dickens all by myself, so it's basically a one on one with a renowned expert. They ask you really hard questions in these things, and I honestly couldn't answer half of them. We do get to design our own course though. At the end she just asked me which book I would like to do next, so it's pretty much just like independent research.

I just picked up a painting of Pembroke Square for my room. The art society lends out paintings up to 500 quid in value and all you have to do is go and pick one out. They are even coming to hang it up for me (I felt kinda bad putting my name down for that, but they offered, so hey)! My room is soooo well decorated now. Some of those paintings were pretty atrocious though, I have to say. Cannot believe that they were valued at nearly $1000.

Don't Get Rusticated

Rusticated, ppl. a.

1. Relegated to the country; temporarily dismissed from a university.

2. a. Rendered rustic in manners; countrified.

b. Settled in the country; leading a country life.

If you do something very very bad here at Oxford they don't "suspend" you or "kick you out" or any other such dirty word; no, they "rusticate" you. Essentially, the privileged should perceive this dismissal less as a punishment than as simply "leading a country life" for the next term or two. It's much quainter and lovelier that way and keeps everyone feeling much less disgruntled when the Deans decide that they've been naughty. Actually, right now as I'm writing these papers in frenzied bursts of genius and despair, the thought of being rusticated sounds rather appealing.

Some pleasing and diverting photos from my mid afternoon walk through the Oxford Botanic Gardens:

Other adventures to relate include tank training for crew. Tank training is when they bring a bunch of novices (ooo, me! me!) to a swimming pool surrounded by mirrors with a giant built in boat in the middle of it. This allows people who have never rowed before the chance to master (well, attempt to) their technique without the added difficulty of trying to stay afloat. It was really very cool. And the most exciting thing is that Claire, Margot, Lydia, and I are all staircase mates and are going to be placed together in the same novice boat! Yessssss.

WHAT the Dickens

Omgshhhhhhhhhh.

The work load has ARRIVED. Luckily I get to spend my afternoons/entire days studying in the Bod. I can't actually study anywhere else because you aren't allowed to check out books, in fact in order to even borrow a book inside the library you must write down your name and seat number (my favorite seat is 415) so that they can find you at any time where you must then SURRENDER THE BOOK (it actually says this on the slip they give you- it kind of makes me feel like I'm Paris and the book's Helen). Yesterday it took me an hour to find the book I needed. I'm not sure if this speaks more to my ineptness/complete blanking out during the library inductions, or to the HUGENESS of the library system. Probs both.

While freaking out over very poorly written paper breaked for delicious pie. Excellent life decision.

I haven't just been doing work- Yesterday Claire and I ran with the boat club in our attempts to join the crew team. Our "gentle jog" was horribly misleading as we did a rather decent pace for a good three miles followed by a killer core workout (just to give you an idea, the exercises were called the "crucifix" and the "maggot"- HARD CORE) and a dash to dinner. I think I'm actually going to see this crew thing through. Apparently Pembroke is the best crew team at Oxford (no worries, I'm just a novice) so some of the rowers have represented Great Britain in world competitions. I'm not intimidated.

Tea and biscuits is my new favorite hobby.

The Art of Not Drowning

Behold the Thames!:
When one comes to Oxford, one must row. It's a simple fact of life that I've come to accept since I arrived here exactly one week ago today. It rather holds hands along with drinking copious amounts of tea and breathing (okay, that last one may be a SLIGHT exaggeration- but only slight). Now, I'm not one to shirk away from what's been thrown at me, so off I went yesterday to the Crew Boating Day for Freshers (not exactly a try out- it was to get you in a boat and rowing with some semblance of technique). They threw me on an erg which I fought with for a good ten minutes (no comment on who arose the victor) and then put me on a team of novices to grab our own boat, put it in the water, and take off. Those last three tasks seem simple. They are not really. Those boats are very very heavy. It's like trying to do a ballet in sync with seven other people (that's obviously never been rehearsed) while carrying a very expensive piano on our heads. Somehow we got it into the water. And took off.

At this point in time, all I could think of was Billy Collins as the boat seemed very likely to capsize at any moment and my feet were strapped in. I've heard that it is almost impossible to capsize an eight- I believe we could have done it. From the strain I could hear in our cox's voice, I think that he was of a similar sentiment. However, I like to think that I was starting to catch on towards the end, although it's really rather hard to tell. Hmmmm, we shall see how this develops. JORDY I NEED YOUR HELP. I confess that I rather thought all the commands sounded the same.

Note on vegetarianism: It's very easy to do in England! As my British neighbors have said in response to this comment, "Well, it is an entire country. We don't ALL eat sausages for breakfast." We even went out to eat last night (no hall on Saturdays) and the pub we went to (the Royal Blenheim) had a half veggie friendly menu that was pretty darn good (I ate a melted goat cheese sandwich). It's also a very Pembroke friendly place with pink rugby shirts and stuff up as a lot of the patrons are students.

This is Brianna, rower and pubber extraordinaire, signing off!

Schmoozing

Last night was the boat club kick off event of the year! Apparently, anyone who's anyone MUST go to all the boat club thingies because the rowing club throws all the best shindigs. Everything took place "in hall" where we have dinner (oh, yes AND IT WAS GORGEOSSSSSSS). Here is my sketchy paparazzi photo of the very posh British in our very posh dining hall:

Yes, I know, my photography skills were lacking there. Carrying on now.

We did have to watch a video of the men's team beating somebody which I suppose was awfully impressive but really just made me seriously regret my decision to go to boat try outs this afternoon (HOW DID THEY MANAGE TO CONVINCE ME??). I think my fleeting desire to be one with the water and all that has already passed me by- with luck they'll place me in the last boat. Also, did I happen to mention BEST CHEESE NIGHT EVER??? There were soooooo many different kinds, and my mingling skills were without compare (at least in my very unbiased opinion).

Below: the dashingly beautiful ladies of Staircase 15! Please stop and admire how well we are making use of our staircase.

Fresher

You know how in Harry Potter they are always sitting at those long oak tables by candlelight wearing their black gowns while all the masters and professors sit at one huge table at the front leading everybody in prayer or subjecting them to speeches? I DID THAT LAST NIGHT. Only first I was required to dress "smart," i.e. cocktail attire, and meet my tutors over drinks. I had some pretty chummy convos with my tutors over a three course meal (Omgsh, and it was SO GOOD. I'm really restraining myself from writing out the whole menu right now). Everyone looks like a wizard in their commoner's gown- I'm pretty sure I should be studying Potions instead of Dickens and Charms in place of Wilde.

This is just a very short post. Apologies. I lost steam halfway.

Oh, I also got a free Blackwell's mug! And I'm thinking of investing in a bike. They've all got bikes here. It's sort of a thing. And our tutor meetings are actually very far away from where we live on campus.

Professor Mugglestone and the Silent Disco

So, apparently the cool thing to do over here in the UK is the silent disco. The first thing I imagined when I heard that they would be organizing such an event for us was a bunch of badly dancing freshers moving about soundlessly (somehow this reminds me of Chelle's expressionless dancing) all dressed in matching bright pink (in true Pembroke Pride form). Not quite. Everyone was given headphones with two stations to listen to, so ostensibly about half of the crowd is most likely dancing to the same song as you and the other half to something else. What's really fun is to switch back and forth really fast (30 seconds of THRILLER and then 30 seconds of COTTON EYED JOE-- now THAT'S the way to dance!) or go around trying to convince as many as possible to switch to the same song as you (TWO!, no ONE!, no TWO!, and so on). Even better, take off your headphones and watch everyone else jumping about like idiots.

Also, there are these terrifying rumors that we as students must do loads of work here at Oxford. My first experience with this was meeting with my tutors Dr. Small and Prof. Mugglestone this morning. PAPERS DUE ALREADY NEXT WEEK (not only the paper, but for one class alone I'm expected to read David Copperfield and the relevant criticism before writing said 2000+ word paper). Terrifying, but true to form.

Staircase 15

I live in Staircase 15. Yes, that's right. I live in a staircase, called so because it is quite literally little more than that; six rooms adjoining a creaky, narrow, steep, old staircase kept in from the cold outside by a classy white exterior. I also have the most lovely view EVER (see above picture).

Also of note is my gown shopping experience with Claire. We headed down to Shepherd and Woodward early this morning to get outfitted before all the other freshers arrived and were helped by the most adorable old British man ever. Best moment occurred when we had finished trying on our gowns and went to check out:

Old British Man: You are all set.

Claire (enthusiastically): Fabulous!

Old British Man (drily, while walking away): I know I am.

Poached Eggs

Right. So, have been in England for DAYS now, but lack of internet access plus general intimidation towards starting something new and epic has delayed my blog update progress. Now, just to make things clear at the beginning here I'd like to state that THIS IS FOR YOU 80 BRISTOL. And don't you guys forget it. I can't say no to such cuteness. So heregoes.

As you should probably already know, I've been in England for a few days already having flown out of Boston on September 30th. I went via Dublin, which meant that during that hellish two hours I spent in the Dublin airport at some unearthly hour I was able to comfort myself with BUTLERS HOT CHOCOLATE. Yes, Chelle. BUTLERS HOT CHOCOLATE. I'd write it again but I don't want to rub it in too much. BUTLERSHOTCHOCOLATEBUTLERHOTCHOCOLATEBUTLERSHOTCHOCOLATE. Okay, seriously I'm done now. London was fab. Can't say enough. I'd write everything I did and everything I ate but that would take waaaaaay too much effort and time. So I've decided to include some extracts of interest from my journal (highly edited, fictionalized, and improved) instead:

October 1st: The remaining afternoon was too gorgeous to pass up so we (Mumsie and I) just walked around, found lots of school children dressed up in uniforms, and sipped cappuchinos in the residential side of Kensington. We got horribly lost eventually and had to use the GPS to return to the hotel. Lesson learned: my sense of direction is far superior to Mums'. Synopsis: London is magic. Hustle and bustle and movement and life! No wonder Virginia Woolf couldn't stand to leave. Mum said that her only fear is that I'll never wan to come home again. She has a point.

October 2nd: The British Museum. Oliver! What else can I say?

October 3rd: We went back to Cafe Phillies this morning before leaving and it made us feel like London had already become our city when we walked in and the waiter said- recognizing us- "one cappuchino and white coffee coming up!" It's always been a dream of mine to walk into a restaurant and say "the usual." This time I didn't even have to order. Currently in Oxford and all the students have begun arriving already with their families. Every inn, B&B, guest house, and hotel is completely booked. Basically all of them are so-cute-I-want-to-vom-cute as well. Like, seriously. I want to start skipping and singing Disney songs in this medieval throwback of a town.

October 4th: No journal entry yet existing because THAT IS TODAY. Exciting photos shall arrive shortly.

BUTLERSHOTCHOCOLATE.