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.