32 hours

That little number in the title there is how many hours it has been since I woke up to begin my Roman adventure yesterday morning. It is also approximately how many hours I have been without sleeping. Therefore, consider yourself warned: these words may or may not be worth reading.

That said, there is a lot more to tell. I’ll save you the details of the 10 hour flight across the ocean and just start with when we finally set foot into the historic district of Rome at about noon today. We were a starving, exhausted tribe of easily disgruntled travelers who just really wanted a panini, a pillow, and a hug. Well, some of us were. Others of us happen to have that unbelievable ability to go hours and days without sleep or sustenance, blinking good-naturedly at the weary whining of the weaker ones. I am of the first category: the ones for whom either sleep or food must be present in satisfactory amounts in order for any cognitive function to continue. In the absence of both, my capacity for intelligent conversation, decision making, and successful jaywalking are all diminished. When the must-eats and the don’t-cares collide, wars ensue, and such was the battle we fought in our initital hour and a half in the Eternal City.

Eventually, food was had by all, and sleep is coming very soon, so the first day has been conquered–and soundly. Not only did we survive, we thrived, making our way from the Piazza Nuvona to the Pantheon to the Trevi Fountain and more all before dinner time. The capstone of it all was a perfect Italian dinner sitting 14 to a table in a tiny cobblestone street, drinking wine, eating ravioli, and just generally soaking in the end of a good, oh-so-long day.

So far, I’ve managed to experience gelato, ravioli, wine, and a panino just as they are meant to be known.

The city is overwhelmingly lovely: I only wish we were right in its heart, rather than a 15 minute bus ride outside the city wall (which is a legit brick wall remaining from the original city wall… amazing). I am exhausted and half-alive at the moment but I am thoroughly looking forward to tomorrow’s adventures… even though they begin at 8 in the morning. Apparently tomorrow is a national holiday here in Italy, so some kind of festivity will be had. Hurrah! Here’s to eating and praying and loving (loving life, that is… not any Italian men, Ty) in a city where all three are celebrated seemingly all the time.

Autobiographical.

I had an assignment to invent a title and a book review for my autobiography, if there was such a thing. All had to be written in an hour or less. I finished in 59 minutes exactly. Thought you all might like to see the result…

 

I Can Dance On That Table If I Want To: A Spirited Life

By Annie Morgan

“People tell me I have a way with words—by this, they usually mean that I can talk about nothing and make it sound like something.”

These are the opening words of Annie Morgan’s autobiography, and they are absolutely true. The author, from the first page, warns the reader of what’s to come: a plotless account of a young and unexciting life, delivered in a captivatingly conversational tone. Morgan succeeds in harnessing the very mundaneness of her life in such a way that the reader is transported from one chapter to the next without stopping to wonder whether the plot ought to be appearing at some point. Instead, you find yourself nodding in fierce agreement with the smallest of statements: like the way it feels when the trees on a college campus unfurl their leaves and spring appears in all its delicate verdure. Or the sense of displacement that comes with leaving that campus and entering post-grad life. Human experience runs deep in Morgan’s work—the types of experiences that everyone who ever grew to be twenty-one in America has probably had, but that Morgan expresses with a uniquely thoughtful voice.

While plot is not a main feature of the book, the thread that maintains a consistent place throughout is that of Morgan’s own “lagniappe spirit.” Thus, the book is titled I Can Dance on That Table If I Want To, a direct quotation of Morgan’s saucy words to her grandfather at the age of three. It is from the platform of her own infantile cheekiness that Morgan themes her autobiography, holding it accountable for all the moments in her life when she surpassed her own—as well as others’—expectations. These moments range from stepping across the pond to study abroad at Oxford University, to crossing the finish line of her first half-marathon. All in all, not riveting material, but well-expressed and ultimately inspiring.

It would have perhaps helped the book to incorporate more of the trials and travails of Morgan’s experience as a home-schooled child. Her independent education from kindergarten through twelfth grade is scarcely mentioned, except to discuss the heroism of her mother as primary educator. This aspect of Morgan’s life is unique and, when it appears in her story, easily infused with both humor (picture a P.E. class that consists of just “running around”) and gravity (stemming from a front-row seat to her mother’s struggle with depression). More focus on this season could offer an even deeper connection to the reader, while simultaneously capturing the uniqueness of Morgan’s story. 

On the whole, Morgan succeeds in captivating her audience, but does not fully delve the depths of what she calls her “limited experiences.”  Self-deprecation is perhaps Morgan’s least inviting trait: it is clear to the reader that more of Morgan’s “nothing” would turn out to be worth much in the end.

Awakening.

Morning falls thick on the Isis when it is cold. Autumn lays herself softly down upon those waters, tresses of rolling, curling fog spilling out in all directions, calling up the sun to stream through her wisps of white. We arrive while she is still trying to woo him awake, and in the blackness all we can see are the lights from within the boathouses, casting long shadows from captains, coxswains, and rowers as we gather by our boats. Our breath hangs in the air around us as we wait for the last members of our crew to appear out of the cloud covering Christ Church meadows. Quiet conversation cuts through the morning calm. We are the shivering, breathing bit of humanity that disturbs the river’s stillness with our persistent waking—our determination to learn how to move as one.

Here’s to the small things…

Gonna try and write more, but smaller, and see if I can start capturing some things that are worth writing down.

 

Today may not be the best day to start.

 

There is a critter crawling around our immune systems here in rooms 84 and 85–my suite, and Ty’s across the hall. When he came down with it a couple of weeks ago, I only half-heartedly tried to stay well, because the rest of my heart was saying, “Take care of this sick person whom you care about so very much.” So, that’s what I did. And then, as the rest of Ty’s suite proceeded to come down with the Nasty, as our critter friend shall heretofore be known, I was surrounded with little chance of escape. So far, though, aside from losing the use of my sinuses and coughing every now and again, I haven’t been to terribly ill. I did, however, spend all of this blustery English day indoors, reading Lewis and drinking tea all by my lonesome.

The happy news for this week, though, is that the rowing captains sent out crew selections, and my roommate and I made the A-Boat–which is kind of like being on the first string in basketball, but not quite. We’re still novices, and we’ll be rowing in the novice regatta the week of Thanksgiving, but this does not reduce my excitement in the least. I’m like a kid at Christmas every time I think about it.

Really, I’m just super pumped because, as a home schooled kid, I never really got the chance to play on any kind of a team. Even in college, my cross country coach pretty much took me in spite of my running abilities, not because of them. So it feels great to have tried out for something, especially something completely new and different, and to actually have made the cut. Now, we’ll see how I feel about it when I wake up to get out on the river at 6AM Wednesday morning.

 

Also, let it be noted that the first all-nighter of the term has officially been pulled by almost every member of our little Oxford family. I would really love not to do that again. I’m gonna be a pro at hammering out genius essay material in less than 5 hours by the time I get back home–either that, or I’m going to learn how not to sleep.

VICTORY

Urgent news here in flat 85: we will survive the winter.

Just in time for the cold to come creeping slowly in (especially slowly for this time of year in England–85 fahrenheit last week!), Sarah and I figured out how to turn on the heaters in our cold little flat tonight. Therefore, provided we don’t run out of gruel or catch the plague, we will survive the bitter English cold that is supposedly coming our way.

I am rather happy with this.

In other news, we are presently in what the Oxonians call “Nought Week” or “Zero Week.” Next week is First Week, meaning that tutorials will be in full swing. As for me, I feel like I’m definitely already swinging: the stack of books on my desk is already bigger than what I might normally read in a lit class for a whole semester. And I’m supposed to have them read in about two weeks. My mom very delicately informed me today that this was impossible. I am rather sympathetic with this view. In spite of the apparent impossibility of the task before me, though, I look around and see a sea of other hopeful “freshers” (as they call us beginners) who are planning to tackle the same beast, and I think–surely this can be done.

But only if I stop blogging and start writing that first paper.

At least I’ll have warm toes while I do so.

Oh, and for your viewing pleasure, here are some pictures from a run that Ty and I went on the other day. We happened to just saunter into a herd of less-than-wild horses, and so we stopped to make some friends. They were breathtaking. Some of them were excessively friendly–we saw a group of picnickers surrounded by about 6 very curious steeds. I am loving this country.

Tyler having a chat with the boys. He named one Rupert.

I couldn't get very close to this guy--he was pretty grumpy. True story: some of the other ponies were even smaller.

Saying hello.

Bod Card Day.

Today I got my Bod Card. That’s slang for a library card guaranteeing access to the Bodleian Library–the second biggest library in the UK. It is the card that means I can walk through crowds of eager tourists taking pictures of the outside walls and straight into the buildings themselves. So, today, along with some other Bod-card-bearing “freshers”, as they call us here, that is exactly what I did.

And this is my life right now:

 

Oxford is kind of a dream come true, folks. And I’m gonna keep telling myself that as I tackle the long list of books about the life of Charles Dickens that my tutor sent me this afternoon. Bod card, prepare to be wielded.

That’s all I wanted to say, really. If you have the time and inclination, look up the Duke Humphrey Reading Room on Google Images… and then buy yourself a plane ticket. Oxford (and a small but comfortable couch in Venneit Close) awaits!

Worthy tales.

My mom reminded me today that writing down stories isn’t to please anyone who might be eager to hear them so much as it is to say the important things that should be remembered. The tales worthy of recounting should be put into sentences not spoken aloud, but ordered into writing, so that later they can be told as they really were. And, as usual, momma’s right. The things that have happened in the last two weeks are definitely worth remembering well.

Beginning with Sweden.

Ty and I spent a wonderful 6 days there visiting his family on his momma’s side. They live in Tylösand and Halmstad, which are neighboring cities in the South of fair Sweden. The trip was remarkable for a whole host of reasons, from the loveliness of the Swedish countryside, to getting to spend time with his sweet family, to eating real Swedish meatballs (and a TON of other good Swedish foods… his is a family of chefs), to seeing the history of this part of Ty’s family all laid out in one place. How incredible is it that the bakery owned by Ty’s great grandfather was housed in a building still standing in the Halmstad city square? Or that the world-class golf course where his Grandfather Per owned a restaurant for most of Ty’s life (and before) is a ten minute drive to the restaurant now owned by Uncle Jonas, Per’s son? In the picture above, we are standing on a beach near the spot where a very tiny Tyler was given his final swimming lesson–a fully-clothed leap into the freezing, salty surf. (A test that he passed with flying, gasping, shivering colors.) And perhaps my favorite of all things…

… getting to stand on the steps of the beautiful chapel where Ty’s parents, 25 years ago, were wed. I know, you are shocked that I loved the part that had to do with weddings. Can’t. Help. Myself.

Most of these things (and a few extras), we explored by bicycle one morning–another of my favorite Swedish things. There are bike paths almost everywhere. I think I could love that country.

Basically, lots of good food (candy is now a food group)…

… good people (still, mind you, with a focus on the food)…

… and golf (aka, beautiful places to walk and watch Ty do his thing).

It is also worth telling that our trip to this wonderful holiday did not quite go as smoothly as one might hope. And by that, I mean we practically chased the plane down the runway. Let me a’splain.

Our plane was supposed to take off at 11:59 AM. Therefore, we needed to catch the 7AM bus to Gatwick to give ourselves plenty of time to check in, especially with traffic going into the city potentially lengthening the ride. At 2:30AM in the hours before we were supposed to board that bus, I was tossing and turning, not at all sleeping, feeling trapped in some kind of alternate universe in which very sleepy people have such cold feet that they cannot fall asleep. No metaphors are implied in that statement–my toes were so freezing, I laid awake for hours. I finally solved this problem by putting on an extra two pairs of socks, another pair of tights, and an extra cashmere sweater. My ankles looked nine months pregnant, but my plight was ended. Sleep came–but the damage was already done.

I woke up at 6:37AM to the sound of Ty banging on my door as much as someone can bang when they are trying to wake only 1 of the 4 sleeping people in a flat. Luckily, I heard the summons, and sprang out of bed, muttering some less than happy words with myself as I rushed to the door. I think I said five words to Ty and then ran to my room to get ready, but it was too late. The 7 o clock bus seemed a hopeless endeavor (though we later learned that it leaves at 7:15… a maddeningly important distinction), so we settled for the 8. Technically, if the bus got to Gatwick in 2 and a half hours as we’d been promised it would, we’d have a decent amount of time to check in and get through security. What actually ended up happening was that the bus took about 3 hours, we sprinted to the check-in line and prayed to God that they wouldn’t tell us it had closed.

They did. Four minutes ago, they said. Sorry. Tired and desperate, we pressed them–was there any possible way?

And what followed, my friends, you might not believe. It’s okay, I didn’t hardly believe it when it was happening. All I knew was that we were checked in, given our boarding passes, and told to tell the lady at security that we were running behind. Now, all of you who have traveled through the Hartsfield-Jackson airport probably know that this kind of information would have about the same effect on a Hartsfield security officer as if you told her that your shoelaces were untied. This is your problem, not theirs, so don’t bother.

So when we walked up to Gatwick security, showed our tickets and mumbled something about being very, very late, I was utterly dumbfounded when the lady exclaimed, “Oh goodness! You are late! Follow me.” She then proceeded to walk us past the whole lot of people waiting in line at security, and began to plop bins down onto the conveyor belt for our things. We didn’t ask questions. We probably said thank you a lot. And then we got moving.

Ty got through security first, no questions asked. I had on laced boots and had to spend a minute or so untying them so I could walk through. As I was setting them into a bin, the lady behind the conveyor belt held up Ty’s Nalgene water bottle, filled with about 28 ounces of water, and said “You can’t take this with you.” Now, this is something I’d done before, on my flight from Ty’s house back to Atlanta over the summer, and I asked then if I could drink the water rather than either leaving the bottle, or going outside to dump it and then back through security. In Florida, I received a very firm “No” in response to this inquiry, but I seldom learn a lesson on the first go round, so I tried it again.

“Can I drink it?”

And lo and behold, she said yes, so I grabbed the bottle and began to guzzle it down.

I guess the fact that we’d been rushed in straight to the front of the line had got everyone’s attention, or perhaps just the sight of me guzzling was enough, but in about 10 seconds the entire room had stopped to participate in the saga. Ty said the people who had already made it through the checkpoint were standing around watching me go. The guy behind me started chanting “chug, chug, chug!”, and the security lady was offering feeble reminders not to make myself sick. When I handed the empty bottle back to her, though, people applauded, and I even got a high five from the guy at the x-ray machine.

In spite of my wild popularity, my bag still ended up getting searched for some unknown reason, so by the time we had all our luggage on our backs, it was a full out sprint from security to our gate. Of course, the gate was one of the furthest possible away, but we made it there–panting, and Ty having run all that way carrying both of our bags–just in time to board, sit, and grin at one another in disbelief.

So, how’s that for adventure? And all of it before we’d even left jolly old England! Never a dull moment, I tell ya.

Oh, boy. I meant to tell so many more tales tonight, but perhaps I’ll save them for another day. More soon.

So much to say!

Finally, it is the weekend, and I feel free enough to ignore the homework at hand and put some thoughts into words.

I’m sorry to anyone who has been waiting.

This city, this Oxford life, is all-engrossing in many wonderful ways. And, perhaps, I’ve not been extremely self-disciplined. Either way, at the intersection of happiness, busyness, and inattentiveness, I take my stand: it’s time to write something.

That said, I’m not sure where to begin, exactly. Essentially everything that I’ve experienced in the last two weeks seems important in some way, although I’m sure you’d be quite bored if I actually tried to say it all. One of my most favorite things about being in this country so far, though, is the walking. If that seems trite or unexciting, let me explain.

Now, this city, unlike the great ATL, seems to be ruled by its cyclists and pedestrians in a way that makes walking even more appealing than usual. It is, I have been told, “what the British people do” –they walk, for entertainment, or for exercise, or for transportation, and therefore walkers invading the shoulders on roads as they spill off the sidewalk in their profusion are neither honked at, nor squashed, nor scolded. On Cornmarket street, the main road that traverses the heart of Oxford, pedestrians own the whole space–a car trying to creep its way down that asphalt would find itself entirely outnumbered and quite unwelcome. And I love it–at least partly because I never have to think about throwing more money into my gas tank. But that is only the beginning of my delight in this ambulatory society.

On Saturday of last week, I had a craving I would not silence: a hunger to explore. Nike-clad, I left our apartment building and the streets of the city behind, and took the footpath that follows the bank of the Thames. For thirty minutes, I pressed on in that direction, ultimately ending up in a wide open pasture, brushing shoulders with cows, the river curving softly away to my right. Beyond the pasture, I came to a village, and after wandering the streets and across a bridge, I found a trail, and along the trail I discovered the Oxford Canal, which led me eventually back to my home by another route. That last bit of information, by the way, is key–I came home by another route. I ran and walked in total for nearly two hours, counting the city exploration I did for a bit after I found Oxford again. Along the way I passed by several opportunities to take new paths, explore new trails, and end up somewhere completely different. Yet I still covered so much ground, and every inch of it teeming with greenness and boat-laden rivers with blackberries lining their shores, apple trees and weeping willows bending over the banks. All of it in perfect sunshine, thrilling autumn wind, and without a map. I was, more than once, quite lost except if I were to turn around and go straight back from whence I came–but that was no option. I could have walked for twice as long and not minded, except for wishing I’d had company along with me. Next time, I shall.

And that, my friends, was the first of many excursions for this very contented foreigner. There is, apparently, something here to the effect of a Trespasser’s Right, which entitles pedestrians to follow footpaths through or around privately owned land. Literally, the English world is rightfully mine to explore, and I shall not miss my opportunity!

Speaking of which, there is yet another exciting frontier to conquer: the rivers. Apparently, the Oxford Rowing team takes on newcomers and beginners and lets them row in a big competition called the Regatta, which takes place around Thanksgiving time on the American calendar. I’ll be honest and say that the idea of joining a rowing team at a school entrenched in the sport intimidates me significantly–particularly since the practices are at 4:30 every morning. Yes, morning. So, when you Georgians would be heading to bed, I’d be rising to greet the cold morning air and fog. But, really, can one resist such an opportunity? More specifically, can Annie Morgan say no to such a challenge, especially when her roommates are all claiming to be on board with the plan? (No boat puns intended.)

The answer? I’m undecided. But I’m leaning ever-increasingly in the “how could I not do this?” direction, I think.

 

Now, that’s all for tonight, even though there’s plenty more to say. But, as I said, it is the weekend–more shall come soon.

The Fantastic Five after church on our first Sunday--we kind of look like a band. Or a cardigan-loving band of college kids. Either way.

Note the street name! It's not the real one--we'll have to wait to go to London for that.

Sarah with three of the Bywater children, who belong to Kevin, the director of Summit Oxford, and his lovely wife Angela. These kids are stealing our hearts.

Little Harrison--sweetest two year old on earth. See the hat? It's been beautiful in general, but that was a cold day.

Ty and Roderick, who is 4.

A street corner in Eynsham, the village where the Bywaters live.

One of my other favorite discoveries--a single-serving French press for a pound (aka, $1.70!).

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loving it.

To the few devoted ones who may have been waiting for me to write words, I apologize for the delay. I’m still not sure I’m prepared to try and set down into sentences even a smattering of the things that have happened in the last couple of days, but I think it is worth the trying. Although, it perhaps would not have been a good idea up until this point–yesterday, upon our arrival in the UK at 6:00 AM, Tyler, our new friend Lauren, and I had not slept in approximately 24 hours (unless you want to count the naps we took in flight, which were slightly refreshing at best). By the time we went to bed at 9:30 the next night, I didn’t even know what day it was, much less how to communicate coherent thoughts. However, because I resisted the nap I so badly wanted yesterday, today I am feeling very un-jetlagged, and I’m hoping this will continue to be the case.

During the day of nightmarish exhaustion, however, the four of us Summit Oxford students (minus one of our girls, who came in today instead) trekked about the city on a walking tour led by Kevin Bywater, the director of the Summit Oxford program. In spite of our sleepiness, I think it is safe to say that we loved Oxford from the moment we laid foot and eye on it. It is not exactly what we imagined, perhaps mostly because it’s been uncharacteristically sunshiney these last two days–the locals keep telling us not to get used to it, although I wish it wasn’t so. So, because of the summery weather, the streets are filled with all the clamor and bustle of a lively city during tourist season. People of every nationality brushed by us, murmuring to themselves or laughing back and forth, all in accents and languages apart from our own. It’s hard to feel like an outsider, really, because there isn’t a distinct British-ness to the people we see. Sometimes I have felt like a “silly American”–mostly when my 90 pounds of luggage was blocking off the sidewalk–but rarely have I felt like an oddball. This is a good thing.

Things I’ve had to quickly get used to so far range from looking right instead of left when I cross the street, to saying “pounds” or “quid” when talking about money. The first one I learned rather quickly, and thankfully so, since it is a matter of life and death. Saying British words will take a little longer, although I have a high incentive to do so, because you really do sound very silly trying to spend money that doesn’t exist on this island.

As far as living situations go, I have to believe that I might have ended up in the best place any study abroad student ever did lay her head down to sleep in. I am in Venneit Close, which is just across a little bridge outside of Oxford city, about a 15 minute walk away. You can look it up on Google images and be amazed–the pictures are true. We have a common room, two beautiful bathrooms, one room with two beds and two single bedrooms, and a kitchen complete with oven, stove, fridge, and washing machine. And yes, I do mean a laundry machine. Apparently the Brits like to multitask.

Even better than the room, though, are the people who live in it. My roommates are wonderful–all from the Summit Oxford program, and all sweet, interesting, beautiful women. I feel so blessed to be with them and I know the semester will be so much sweeter because we are together.

What else shall I do except show you proof of the wonder that is Oxfordshire? See for yourself…

We went to the dining hall at Christchurch College. If it looks familiar, you might be a Harry Potter fan--this is Harry's great hall.

More of the Christchurch hall. The folks sitting at the table in the back are faculty of the school or possibly dignitaries of some sort--important people. That's called a "high table."

The gang, minus myself, walking through the Christchurch College grounds. This was after we ate lunch by the canal. It is so beautiful.

Beautiful doors line the streets here--some like these, but many just carved from beautiful wood. I took this mostly for my mother, who loves doors and bright colors.

Yes, those are dead pigeons. They sell them as food here. Maybe when the budget starts to run out...

The whole gang, minus me: (from left) Lauren, Tyler, Sarah the First, and Sarah the Second (also known as Sam). We went out for dinner and drinks tonight at the Eagle and Child--the first pub that the Inklings met in, before they moved across the street to the Lamb & Flag, allegedly because the E&C changed the wallpaper without consulting them. Picky much?

One of the street bands we saw on Cornmarket, the main street that runs through Oxford. I was enthralled with them. What would the British people say if I burst into spontaneous song and dance mid-street, you think?

And that’s all for tonight–bedtime approacheth. Thanks, as always, for reading.

Taking Flight

Blog finally named and created: yes.
Many new cute things waiting to be worn: yes.
Sweet letters from nearly everyone I love: yes.
Bags packed: yes.
Goodbyes said: yes.
Plane taking off tomorrow: yes.

Ready in my heart to leave: ask me later.

 

This will be the place in which I document my adventure to the City of Dreaming Spires. Thank you to every person who has made saying goodbye so much harder: I feel so very loved. And thank you to those who read my words. I look forward to writing them, but even more so to telling you all stories face to face when I return in December.

Until then, tally-ho! I’m Oxford-bound in the morning.