A Dreaming Spires Sunrise

The very large majority of this week was consumed with writing a paper on castration and economics in The Merchant of Venice. *cringe. I know. It wasn’t what I’d initially planned to write about….it just kind of happened. Anyways, the paper is titled “The Empty Sac: Socioeconomic Infertility in William Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice,” and I’m pretty proud of it!

By the way, did you know that the sun rises in Oxford at 4:30 AM, welcomed by a chorus of what can only be described as croaking from the deer?

Yeah, I didn’t know that either.

As you might imagine, I was up pretty late (early?) working on the paper this morning, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. It literally felt like I was having a sleepover (an all-night-over?) with those same generations of scholars before me, including Keving Niehaus (Duckenfield 2010), who saw his fair share of Oxford sunrises.

Yet while I was a little sleepy this morning (I managed to get exactly 1 REM cycle of sleep, which was perfect! I woke up on my own & felt refreshed, vs. other all-nighters when you feel like death!), I was really glad to have stayed up so late. I watched the sunrise over the spires of Oxford and see the sun’s first rays through the willows in Deer Park. Watching this historic town wake up through my window was an entirely mystical experience and one I will never forget.

Tutorials followed this afternoon. I was really nervous, but once I started to read my paper aloud, my nerves melted away. Professor Johnson seemed pleased with the paper & pointed out what he really liked and what he thought I could improve for next time (he disagreed with my final conclusion that Shakespeare used MoV to argue for a more mercantile-based rather than barter-based system of trade), but I think he was pleased with the paper itself.

I was relieved to find that tutorials were much more laid-back than I was anticipating. (He ate an orange while I read my paper and apparently ate a sandwich in a later tutorial!) While I understand that the informality might be to ease our nerves at attending OXFORD TUTORIALS, I think it is making me even more nervous because it’s so far removed from my expectations of something akin to grueling office hour sessions.

Tonight we’re going to a graduate student party(?) at the MCR (Masters Common Room) Bar to celebrate a successful first round of tutorials. Apparently it’s a student-run bar with £1.50 pints! I can’t wait to meet some ‘real’ Oxford/Magdalen College students! Who knows?! Maybe they’ll have some advice about applying here for graduate school! ;)

Dreaming Spires of Oxford from my bedroom window!

O Happy Day!

Wednesday marked our second weekly excursion. The destination(s) this week? Jane Austen’s house in Chawton and burial place in Winchester!

Chawton is the post-card perfect little town, with winding narrow streets, thatched-roof cottages, and rolling green farmlands. (I nearly died upon seeing some of the cottages. On a scale of 1 to quaint, they put the Martha’s Vineyard vacation homes to shame!)

Chawton Cottages: when can I move in?

We started the excursion at the Chawton Library at Jane Austen’s brother’s former house. While the house was grand, my favorite part was seeing—and sitting at!—the original dining room table, where Jane would’ve eaten while visiting her brother. (Judging by the looks on some of the Austenist’s faces, this was a really emotional moment for them. I can’t wait for that overwhelming sense of connection when we visit Stratford-Upon-Avon in 2 weeks!!!!!)

On the way to Jane Austen’s house, I fed a horse!!! There were two black and one black horses standing at the edge of the farm grazing in the shade. (I didn’t realize just how MASSIVE horses are! I mean, I barely came up to their noses!!!) I just happened to be munching on an apple & decided to feed it to the brown horse we later dubbed ‘Duke.’ In a whirlwind of panic, excitement, and muted squeals, I held my half-eaten apple on my overly-flattened hand for fear of my fingers being munched with the apple(!), when Duke walked over, sniffed my hand, and gobbled the apple in one bite!

:D

It was one of those moments when you realize the ferocious beauty of nature and how destructively violent, yet gentle and calm, she can be. (I now have a new understanding of riding accidents you read about in (Victorian) novels…Duke could’ve easily squished me with one hoof!) Yet as I stroked the baby-soft skin on his nose (snout?), I was dumbfounded at how gentle he was. It really was a priceless moment. So thank you, Duke, for not squishing me in exchange for the apple. I hope you enjoyed it. I know I did!

Duke!

 Jane Austen’s house followed my date with Duke, and while the house was again beautiful, I was disappointed at how few of Jane Austen’s pieces they had at the museum. They did have her quilt, lace collar, and cross-stitch sampler (all of which she’d made!), in addition to her writing table, shawl, and riding jacket. In the kitchen, they’d set up “Write-with-a-Quill!” and “Make-a-Lavender-Sachet-like-Jane-Austen!” craft stations for the kids, both of which I enjoyed thoroughly. (More so with the lavender. Good thing they had a donation jar to help with replenishing the supplies…)

Me in front of Jane Austen's House

I thoroughly enjoyed the morning at Chawton, but the highlight of the day was to come in Winchester!

Jane is buried at Winchester Cathedral, but once we saw her grave, many of us were simply too tired to tour the rest of the church. I’d grabbed a Winchester map from a tourist center en route to the cathedral, so we left in pursuit of King Arthur’s round table!

The table was on the other end of the small town of Winchester, which reminds me a lot of Cantebury. It’s a very quaint medieval village, and it was decorated for the Olympic Torch Relay with banners, streamers, and makeshift statues strewn about the city.

The Round Table was SO NEAT! First of all, there are super old castle ruins beneath the medieval Great Hall, which means they’re probably at least 1,000 years old. The Round Table was suspended beneath a stained glass window & was more grand than The HUGE table was divided into 25 “slices,” each labeled with the name of a knight. King Arthur’s place at the table was adorned with an elaborate of him sitting in what looked something like the coronation chair.

Epic is the only word I can think to describe the table. Not only was the table regal, but the stories of the men who once sat around that table—whether they actually were the Arthurian knights we know today—were truly epic, war-torn, and least of all, awe-inspiring.

Once I’d gotten over the initial shock at seeing the table, I turned around and BAM! On the opposite wall of the Great Hall were A) Middle Earth-worthy metal doors and B) a HUGE family tree (?) of the English Monarchs since the mid 1200’s. It covered the ENTIRE wall. And was intricately painted, with scrolls, leaves, calligraphy, etc. 

I got chills. Big Time. (As they say in England, “It was really excellent!”) Definitely one of my favorite things I’ve seen here so far.

We had about 30 minutes before we were supposed to meet at the bus, so we made our way down to a SUPER cute patisserie/café I’d seen on the way in. On the way, we ran into the Olympic torch! We’d seen it being lit the previous morning in Oxford, and while the newly-lit torch had just taken off from Winchester, we got to hold and take pictures with the previous runner! (Apparently he’s a famous American athlete of some sort, but none of us could place him.) It was really neat being THAT close to a part of global history. London 2012, baby! (Did I mention that I ran part of the Olympic Marathon course during the 10K?!)

No caption needed.

The café was really relaxing after a day of so much sight-seeing. Our waitress reminded me SO much of my female celebrity crush, Carrie Mulligan, from P&P, An Education, Never Let Me Go, etc. She was so nice, and talking with her made me want to get a pixie haircut right then and there, but I abstained. I ordered an espresso (my first ever!) and some gourmet truffles they had in the window, and while she forgot to charge/give me the truffles in our haste to make the bus, the espresso hit the spot. It was much bitter than I’d anticipated, but the flavor of the bean was perfect. Truth be told, I ended up taking half of the espresso shot like a real shot, but I definitely can’t wait til my next espresso!

As can be expected, I was WIRED for about 20 minutes on the bus until I dozed off on the ride home.

The Patisserie where we enjoyed coffee and desserts

To top off the perfect sightseeing day with friends, we all met to go out to Open Mic Night at the Cape of Good Hope, one of the bars near Magdalen College. It has a really good atmosphere and a heated terrace out back, not to mention a trap door behind the bar that leads to the beer fridge!)

It was one of the most enjoyable nights I’ve had in months, and after the stress of trying to develop a routine at Oxford, it was nice just to relax and have fun with new friends. (There’s a group of Clemson business students here as an alternative to the Academic Program, and while I was more than skeptical of the group at first—I was afraid and resentful that they’d tarnish our Duckenfield experience—I was completely wrong. While they do tend to be a bit more sociable than some of the other students in the Academic Program, its nice to have a bit of the Clemson family here at Oxford, especially with so many people from Michigan around! ;) (Just kidding, I love my 20-something new Michigan friends!)

Like I said, it was the first truly amazing night in a really long time.

It’s good to be back.

At the Cape of Good Hope Garden Terrace

Croquet Champs

So guess what I did today? Played croquet :)

We played on the lawn in front of New Building (for the only two things you can do on the lawn are sit and play croquet) and the rain held off just long enough for us to enjoy a quick match before champagne in the cloisters, lecture, and high table.

It was so much fun! I’d never played before, and while the game felt a bit like miniature golf, the Oxford setting made it much more dignified. (Note to self: remember to bring parasol on my next trip to Oxford.) With everyone dressed in their formal attire—the gals in their dresses and the guys in their khakis and sports jackets—it felt like I was at a British Augusta National.

Luckily, my putting skills came in handy & while I’m not ready for the LOCA (Ladies Pro Croquet Association), my game was definitely better than some of the boys.’ (Props to my dad for my mad golf/croquet skills.)

(As a golf side note, I’ve met a friend who offered—multiple times—to take me to Augusta in the Spring(!), and while it’s still more than half a year away, it’s still a more-than-exciting prospect for the present….)

Regardless, I had a lovely evening playing croquet with my new friends on the lawns at Oxford.

"Nothing quite as exhilarating as a match of croquet
followed by champagne, eh good chap?"

On a completely different note, I have an amazing new fun fact to tell! Yesterday after the race, I was chilled to the bone, so I decided to stop in for a “cuppa” at the Twinings store on Fleet Street. (They have an open tea bar, where you can try any one of their tea varietiesl I sipped a strawberry mango tea…mmm!) According to Julie (she always seems to know the coolest tid-bits of info!), the tea for the Boston Tea Party was shipped from that very store!!!

:O

I know, right? Wish I had Red Sox shirt with me…THAT would be a picture! I didn’t buy any tea at the store when I was there, so I need to go back the next time I’m in London for some souvenir tea!

Thus, it was a very regal 24 hours, between Twinings tea, croquet on the lawn, champagne in the cloisters, and high table dinner.

Twinings Tea Shop on Fleet Street

There's No Place Like London...or Milton

I took a day trip to London on Saturday, 7 June, the day before I was to run the British 10K.

Turns out there was no race exposition like I originally thought, but there was a festival hosted by Nike...only I didn't find out about it until too late.

O well. Didn't need Nike marketing junk anyways!

Regardless of missing the festival, I saw the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace (I was up against the barricade at one of the gate entrances, so I got a close-up view of the band!), ate lunch in St. James's Park, visited Westminster Abbey (naturally, the High Quire was my favorite part. It made me appreciate--and miss!--my RSCM days), found the baggage drop-off for the race, walked to St. Paul's (where I sang a bit from Mary Poppins's "Feed the Birds"), and visited Milton's birthplace and place of burial.

At Buckingham after watching the changing of the guards.

My High Quire picture. Makes me miss my RSCM days!

At Parliament Square

St Paul's! Toppins a bag, anyone?

In front of Milton's birthplace on Bread St.

Yes, that's right. Milton. You know, the one I've been obsessing over for about a year now? You know, the Paradise Lost guy? Yeah, him. (Oh, and I also saw where Charles I was beheaded--for which Milton was a big, even huge, advocate--at Whitehall Palace.)

Needless to say, it was a very emotional moment, seeing Milton's statue in St Giles-without-Cripplegate  (weird name for a church, huh?), holding a copy of none other than Paradise Lost. (It's good to know someone else looks after Milton, too...)

I'm not sure I've ever been so fascinated--or more intrigued--by another author. Milton wrote Paradise Lost blind (he dictated it to one of his daughters), not to mention that it is one of the most epic works--and yes, I do mean epic...muse and all--of all time. I love the ways he plays with language and gets readers to look at his work vertically and horizontally. I love how sly he is. How clever. How ingenious. (It also helps that I had a killer professor for my Milton class. Wish I could study under him for a Ph. D...)

Frankly, Milton is my literary idol, and seeing his statue standing there in front of me still gives me chills. I must've spent over an hour in that church, photographing his statue and his burial spot in the nave.

I left a piece of my heart beneath that London church floor.

The church was once just outside the London city walls and is very old. Now there is a BEAUTIFUL residential courtyard with the old London wall remains, in addition to a girl's school, that surround the church. Since there is no room to add Sunday school rooms or anything of the sort, they hold Sunday school in the side aisles (there was a mock igloo and reading loft) and use the would-be narthex for storage. In there other aisle is a small church library and gift shop comprised of mostly pamphlets. Needless to say, it is a very small church, but I think Milton would've been happy spending his days there. It felt homey, like it had a sense of warmth and unity about it. I also like to think that he would've liked how the parish adapted the old church to fit its new needs, rather than sticking to more traditional methods of running a church.

St Giles-without-Cripplegate: Milton's burial place

Some very esoteric group was rehearsing for their evening concert while I was there, but their sound guy took a picture of me with Milton. We'll have to see how it turned out, but it's possible I've found my photo to be immortalized in the Holmes basement.

Across whatever time and space boundaries may exist, I think Milton and I are kindred spirits of a teacher eager to teach (his audience anyways) and a devout pupil eager to learn. I ate my dinner of baguette, croissant, and the last of my Paris camembert outside of the church to savor my last bit of Milton time. Yet I feel sure we will meet again, for all I have to do is open one of his books, and it will be as if I never left St. Giles.

Milton and Me
"Of man's first disobedience and the fruit of that forbidden tree..."

An Oxford Initiation

On Monday morning (1^st day of class and Bod Card day!), I jumped out of bed, anxious to start the day and then….

No hot water.

After turning the shower on (rather after figuring out how to turn it on), I stood there. And stood there. And stood there.

And no hot water.

I was all set to pull my hair back and sponge-bathe in my room when I realized that we had our first Formal Funday Monday that night and, thus, I had to look (and smell) lovely.

Just lovely.

I ended up just washing my hair in the shower (avoiding the cold water as much as possible) and sponge-bathing in my room, yet as the cold (and I’m talking ice cold) water surged through my hair, I had to laugh.

This was my Oxford Initiation. No robed tutors knocking at my door. No bench-pressing books (although I’m pretty sure lugging my Shakespeare anthology across Paris would’ve done the trick). No scavenger hunts in the cloister (this would be a great ice-breaker!). Just a simple, very cold—very short—shower. (The cold water was, of course, unintentional and fixed in two days, but at the time, I wasn’t so sure…)

It also occurred to me that my ice bath was the literal manifestation of the rebirth I was expecting while at Oxford; I just hadn’t expected to be baptized on the first big day. Nevertheless, I pretended that the water was a ceremonial cleansing for receiving my Bodleian Library Card that afternoon, in addition to attending my first High Table dinner.

The Bodleian Library Card is, undoubtedly, the best library card in the world. No joke.

Affectionately known as the “Bod Card,” it gives its reader access to not only one library, but to a network of libraries: The Radcliffe Camera, the Bodleian Library, and the New Bodleian Library. Although readers are forbidden to remove books from the library, the Bod Card gives its holder access to over 10 MILLION volumes.

Yeah, be jealous. It’s literally a bookworm’s dream-come-true.

In order to receive a Bod Card, the reader must solemnly swear not to injure or remove any books from the library: "I hereby undertake not to remove from the Library, or to mark, deface, or injure in any way, any volume, document, or other object belonging to it or in its custody; nor to bring into the Library or kindle therein any fire or flame, and not to smoke in the Library; and I promise to obey all rules of the Library."

(I've always been very concerned about 'injuring' books; it took me a long while to get used to writing in them for class. In general, I always try to have one clean copy—in addition to a 'messy,' annotated copy—of the books I love, in order to preserve their original, perfect state. This oath, as you might imagine, tugged from every at my perfectionist, bookworm heart.)

(Here’s a really awesome blog post from another Oxford Student about the Bod Card I stumbled upon before my Oxford adventures began: http://www.rabbitroom.com/2012/01/the-oxford-chronicles-bod-card/) Note to self: visit the Rabbit Room as much as possible.

Needless to say, receiving my Bod Card was one of the most surreal moments of my life. Instead of a white and neon pink(!?) photo ID resting in my hands, I saw a key. A key to unlock any book I could imagine. A key to canonical texts. A key to philosophical works. A key to books I’d never even dreamed of.

And it was in my hand.

Never again will I look at a library card the same way. Now, every time I hold a library card in my hand (yes, even my well-worn Tiger1 card), I will imagine that I am again holding my Bod Card for the first time.

And I will smile. For every time I hold that seemingly normal library card, I know that it, too, possesses the power to unlock a Narnia of literary wonders.

This, with a baptismal shower, a Bod Card in hand, and High Table ritual, I became a student at St. Peters/Magdalen College, Oxford University.

Reading the oath to myself before receiving my Bod Card,
otherwise known as basking in Bookworm Heaven.

View more pictures from Monday, 2 July (First day of class, Bod Card, and High Table) here. (Link is currently out of order...will be repaired shortly!)

An Oxford Introduction

Oxford.

Where do I start? (Here, it might be a good idea to follow Julie Andrew’s advice to start at the beginning. It is, after all, the very best place to start…)

First of all, this is not the first time I have been to Oxford. I was here for a brief three days in 2007 while on a choir tour. (We performed at the Sheldonian Theatre!) As it turns out, I didn’t remember as much of Oxford as I thought I did. What I remembered as High Street is actually Broad Street, and I have virtually no recollection at all of High Street. In fairness, the Sheldonian is on Broad, so I would’ve seen more of that part of the city, anyways.

Over the course of the summer, I’ve had some time to reflect on the upcoming five weeks. To some extent, I feel as if I know exactly what to expect while here (after having questioned former Duckenfielders to near death), yet in another sense, I feel quite the opposite. I feel sure of the academic work yet not the academic structure. I know what it is like to visit Oxford, but not what it is like living there. I know I will have life-changing experiences and self-growth opportunities while here, yet I have no idea what form these changes will take.

One thing is for sure. I will walk away from Oxford a more confident and inspired young woman, but almost more importantly, I will be a more academically confident and inspired young woman. While I experienced major personal changes last summer, I feel as if this summer will fine-tune my academic sense of self and move towards a new, more professional me. (I also hope to gain a sense of direction for post-undergraduate careers while here…) After studying for five weeks with a tutor (Benjamin John Morgan) in one of the oldest and richest academic centers in the world, I expect that I will approach my work with an enhanced appreciation and understanding of A) literature—the work itself—and B) of academic life. After living here for 5 days, it already feels as if I am partaking in a great lineage of tutors, fellows, and students, with our succession linked to this very place and all of the great work and individuals who have passed through Oxford. C.S. Lewis once lived in New Building (my dorm, if you can call it that with a fireplace and deer for neighbors), and I eat my meals surrounded by portraits of Queen Elizabeth and important fellows in Magdalen College’s history. It is as if the air is charged with inspiration and the buildings haunted with former students and tutors rooting for my success.

In fact, I think the Oxford traditions are at source of its magic. After our first champagne reception in the cloisters, followed by a concert and a formal High Table dinner,—otherwise known as Formal Fun-day Mondays—I felt like I finally understood (at least to some extent) the traditions at the heart of the university and, more specifically, Magdalen itself. When Dr. Addison, the program director, said grace in Latin at High Table, I felt as if I was being inducted into the line of Magdalen scholars before me, partaking in the unique Magdalen ritual that make both Magdalen College and Oxford University unique.

It doesn’t hurt, of course, that the walls of the dining hall are lined with larger-than-life portraits of past tutors, bishops, and Queen Elizabeth herself. I mean, who gets to eat 3 meals a day with one of the most fascinating monarchs in global history?

This gal!

As a member of the Harry Potter generation, I find myself surprised that the portraits don’t move, that they remain stationary, frozen in time. (For those of you who haven’t seen pictures, imagine Magdalen as a smaller-scale, more quaint Hogwarts graced with gardens instead of forbidding, mountainous terrain. You won’t be far off.)

I finally had the time on Friday to walk around the college and take pictures. After promising to myself that I would catch up on blogging Friday afternoon, the pattering rain on my windows soon persuaded me to take a nap. It literally rained for 12 hours on Friday (6am-6pm. Trust me, it did; I was up reading the Merchant of Venice), but the sun broke through Friday evening and cast a warm glow over campus.

Naturally, as a (some would say born) and bred photographer, I grabbed my camera and spent my evening wandering campus instead of watching a movie with the rest of the group. (Again, I invite you to think of a quaint Hogwarts.) I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful evening to roam Magdalen and the neighboring Addison’s Walk, a beautiful nature trail on the edge of campus. It was as if the photography gods (Nikon via Nike?) pushed the “perfect weather/lighting” button, a nice reprieve after so much rain.

For me, photography is a sort of celebration of people and places. I like to think that through my lens, I can appreciate the fine details of a particular setting or capture a moment in someone’s life. Either way, I feel as if I can stop time for an instant and preserve exactly what I saw when I took the photograph. It is as if pictures, then, become a sort of pensive (again, for the non-Harry Potter fans, a pensive is a liquid in which you can store memories) into which you can look years later and re-visit your memories as if they happened yesterday.

Although I enjoy writing, I find that it is sometimes easier to tell a story with a picture, to paint visual lines rather than horizontal lines of text. Rather than an Intro, Body, and Conclusion, photos have a Foreground, Middleground, and Background, all three of which are required—as in an essay—for success.

As such, please forgive me if I tend to do a lot of my story-telling via pictures. (I had 600 pictures from Wednesday alone…) Yet for all of my photographic enjoyment, sometimes there are things better expressed in words (or perhaps the visual and the verbal are interdependent, enhancing the others’ aspects that fall short of the mark) and so this blog will remain a journal of my internal musings and academic endeavors of life at Oxford.

********

See pictures from my arrival and 2nd Day at Oxford. (Went to a pub with Dorothy to watch the Spain vs. Italy Euro Cup 2012 final!)


See pictures from Magdalen College (the ones with awesome lighting) here.


See pictures from our Wednesday excursion to Wells Cathedral, Glastonbury Abbey, and Glastonbury Tour (Tower).

My Week in Paris

How did this week in Paris fly by so fast?! I turned around and I felt like it was over! I spent the week walking around—surprise! (not)—for over 12 hours a day, and I’m pretty sure my feet hate me. Tuesday, I thought I had the beginnings of 2 ingrown toenails, and I thought my big-toe knuckle was broken. Turns out my shoes were just too small. And today, I wore at least a 3-skin-layer hole in my pinkie toe (completely skipped blister stage). Owww. I will be walking gingerly for the next couple of days trying to recover. (What I wouldn’t give for an Epson salt foot bath…)

But it was worth it. Oh, was it worth it. (As I sit in my Oxford dorm room writing this, I'm so very thankful that I was able to go back to Paris, but I can sense a new chapter of my life about to begin here at Oxford. I suspect that my time here will be a milestone in my becoming an adult and adopting a more professional persona. More to come in an Oxford blog later!)

Tuesday, I set out with Allie and Will to visit the catacombs, but once I saw the line wrapped COMPLETELY around the median (that’s the wrong word, but that’s what it was: a huge median surrounded by a bunch of intersections) over the entrance. I.e. 2.5 city blocks, with 1.5+ hour wait time.

No thanks. I have better things to do in Paris than wait in Disney-worthy lines.

So I left Allie and Will to wait in a what would become a 3+ hour line. :o Phew! Glad I dodged that one!

Instead, I went to the Panthéon to see where Voltaire, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, and Mme. Curie were buried. It was really neat seeing their tombs, especially Hugo, since I read so much of his poetry in my French Poetry class last semester. <<Je suis oiseau.>> (He thought he was able to rise above normal man, like a bird, and reach the truth…)

There was also a memorial to Antoine de Saint-Exupèry, who wrote Le Petit Prince, which is one of my favorite books of all time. Julie G and I share this love for the little blond Prince, his sheep, rose, and elephant-inside-the-boa, and I very much wished she could’ve seen that with me.

I missed Julie a lot on this trip. We’ve known each other for the past 3 years, but we’ve become very close over the last year. I could’nt ask for a better friend! Julie lived in Burgundy (I’m always terrified that I’m going to slip and say Bordeaux!) for a year and can empathize with my love for all things French. Especially the camembert and baguette. And le Petit Prince. That, and she’s willing to put up with my kindergarten-level French skills, haha. Merci, Julie for your patience with my struggling language skills. I’ll get there one day!

But more than a fellow French fanatic, Julie simply understands. As she said of me in her blog, the same is true of Julie: she is a "part-time sorority sister, part-time therapist, and full-time confidant." One of the things I love most about Julie is her fearlessness at speaking her mind. She is also down-to-earth and brutally honest, which is a nice balance for my over charismatic and idealistic personality. She tells me ‘how it is,’ and I love her dearly for it.

But I digress…after the Panthéon, I ate lunch on the Panthéon stairs and looked out at the Eiffel Tower peeking from the greenry of the Luxembourg Gardens. It is now one of my favorite views in Paris.

Afterwards, I decided to go to Père Lachase to see Edith Piaf’s grave, in addition to the graves of Molière, Bizet, Oscar Wilde, and a few others, but the 4 métro line got stuck for over 10 minutes at Châtlet, so I ended up walking to Gibert-Jeune (a bookstore) to buy an EU paper-sized folder for Oxford and then to a super cheap shoe store I’d found last year and wanted to visit again. (They didn’t have any cute shoes this year, but I’m glad I could find it again for future trips!)

From there, I decided that I might as well go to the H&M around the corner, and I’m glad I did because they were marking things down for the Soldes that began on Wednesday! The Soldes are annual, month-long, Black-Friday equivalent sales held in Paris. Prices are slashed, and I was under the impression that they were already underway, but my trip to H&M told me otherwise.

Since I was there, I did some pre-Soldes shopping and trying-on to avoid the lines the next day, and headed to another store Camaieu (they have the BEST jackets!) to do the same. Afterwards, I headed to my grocery store to get a salad for dinner, and then to my patisserie, where I got a Tarte au chocolate :)

From there I walked to Pont Marie, where I would always eat with friends last summer. (I took a wrong turn on the way there and found my way without a map!) While I was finishing my salad, a man sat down beside me, and we chatted for a bit, mostly about the Seine. He told me about a time when he accidentally fell in! He said it was really difficult to swim in because the currents were very different from those in the ocean or a river, not to mention the trash. He hopes that one day they will clean the river so that people can swim in the Seine. (Even after being cleaned, I’m not sure I would trust that water…)

Afterwards, I headed back to the hostel, where I fought with my computer to back-up my pictures to my flash drive until 2am.

Wednesday was mostly consumed with the Soldes (I left the hostel at 7:30 to beat the crowds). While I was at le Forum les Halles (a HUGE shopping-mall/center), I found a crowd gathered around a piano. Turns out there is an organization that places pianos all over the city so that people can play in public! What a great idea! Afterwards, some men from the mall’s music store came out and led a game of name-that-tune. It was so much fun sitting in a circle on piano benches appreciating the local Parisian talent, and it was a welcome rest from being on my feet all day.

Afterwards, I dropped my purchases off at the hostel, ate a croissant and Nutella for a snack, and headed to Pont Alexandre, where I listened to Adele’s “Someone Like You”, as its where the music video is filmed. Then, I crossed the street to the other side of the bridge and listened to the theme song from Midnight in Paris, as that is the location for the closing scene of the film. I mean, I just had to. Cliché? Yes. Touristy? Yes. Awesome? You betcha! ;)

From there I walked to the Eiffel Tower to find les petit rues with the quaint views of the Tower. La Rue de l’Université (Julia Child’s street!) offered one of the prettiest views, and again, I took a few pictures.

I planned to take the Trocadero métro stop back, and in walking through the park I met a group of adult Parisians drinking and eating dinner at the base of the tower, in addition to an Indian family, for both of which I took group pictures.

As it turns out, Trocadero was a bad choice. That night was the Spain v. Portugal Eurocup match, and unbeknownst to me, there was a viewing party at the Trocadero. Ugh.

There were FLOCKS of people decked out in their orange and red lined up to watch the game. There was also a rock concert pre-game. The crowds was overwhelming to the point where they’d closed down the Trocadero stop for the evening, so I ended up having to walk yet another 20 minutes to the nearest stop.

Back at the hostel, I cooked some potato-stuffed pasta shells and ate them while I watched the soccer match with people from all over the Europe in the hostel. It was a really neat atmosphere, and there was a sense of commonality among everyone who was there, despite being from different countries and speaking different languages.

Thursday morning, I’d planed to give Montmartre another shot after a not-so-great experience there last year, but it decided to rain (big surprise in Paris), so it was the least I could do to visit Shakespeare and Co. :)

Shakespeare & Co. is the only English bookshop in Paris, and it was originally owned and operated by Sylvia Beach, beginning in 1919. For any book connoisseur living in Paris, it is a natural hotspot for its winding bookshelves, inspiring quotes painted on the walls, and all of the reading inglenooks one could ask for. (I visited there last year, but I wasn’t able to take pictures upstairs—event though they aren’t allowed in the shop at all—due to the crowds, so I (of course) simply HAD to go back and finish my undercover, literary photographic mission.

I also filmed the route I took from Hôtel de Ville, the city hall, to my Sorbonne building every morning so that I could ‘re-live’ that experience whenever I was feeling homesick for Paris at, well, home.

It was still a little drizzly, so I headed of to le Bon Marché (THE first department store/supermarket) to get a tote bag with their logo on it that I decided not to buy last year but wished I had. Although they didn’t end up carrying the tote anymore, it was nice to visit the neighborhood again, and I discovered an open-aired market en route to another H&M in the area.

Once the weather cleared up, I headed to Montmartre and the métro stop Absesses.

The Absesses is one of the oldest metro stops in Paris, and it is known for its muraled staircases, in addition to the ‘classic’ green and yellow “Metropolitain” sign above the entrance. Oh, yeah, there is a historic merry-go-round there, too. So needless to say, it is a popular tourist attraction.

No sooner had I made it to the subway exit when Montmartre fulfilled my expectations of being the loopy arrondissement I experienced last year. Sloppy drunk men hanging around the métro exits are the same everywhere.

But nevertheless, I told myself I WAS going to enjoy Montmartre, and that I did. I wandered side streets and climbed a few steep ones until I happened upon Place Emilé Goudeau, a quiet, shady, park-benched area over-looking a picturesque, winding Montmartre street, where I ate my usual Camembert and Baguette. I followed another side street, which led me to Rue L’Epic, which is the subject of the famous Jacques Brel song.

I now know why.

Dotted with two historic windmills and lined with shops, Rue l’Epic (Rue Epic in my mind) is one of the most scenic streets in Paris and certainl in Montmartre. It is a quiet, winding street, and it is tattooed on one building with a painting of le Petit Prince’s “Un elephant dans un boa,” which I absolutely LOVE.

After exploring the understandably epic rue, I made my way to (and skirted through as quickly as possible) Place de Tetre and onto Sacre Coeur. I’ve always felt as if Sacre Coeur’s Eastern architecture is more suitable to a mosque than a Roman Catholic Church, but it fits the neighborhood: a mismatch of cultures, languages, religions, architecture, and everything in between.

(Sorry, I’m realizing now—as I’m frantically trying to catch up on blog posts—that I need to speed things up a bit. I apologize for future brevity.)

Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to visit Canal St Martin, as it is supposedly one of the most beautiful places in Paris. By now, my feet were absolutely killing me, (I’d bought some 5 euro fabric flats in hopes that they’d alleviate my feet pains, but to no avail. Now my toes burned rather than my heels.) so I limped my way out of the metro, and couldn’t figure out for the life of me where I was supposed to go. Finally, I realized the landmark garden was hidden behind a gigantic wall and made my way to the canal.

It is, indeed, very beautiful, as there are bridges between the various locks, with overhanging trees and the park (apparently open to view on one side) at the end. But even the picturesque setting couldn’t provide distraction enough for my feet, so I didn’t dally.

In fact, I hobbled back to the metro so slowly that an approaching car honked at me as I crossed the cross-walk at granny pace. Despite all this, I made it back to the hostel, changed my shoes (aah!), and treated myself to some Bertillon.

You will remember from last summer that Bertillon is quite literally the best ice cream/sorbet in the world. As part of a small family business on Île de Saint Louis, the quality is impeccable. Their blueberry <<mertille>> flavor makes me feel as if I’ve just bitten into a great big iced, plump blueberry that would make Sal very jealous. (See Blueberries for Sal for those of you who didn’t catch the reference. It’s a Cape Cod thing.)

I ate my Bertillon—mango and strawberry—at Pont Marie, where I sat down next to a frazzled, middle-aged (stick-thin) man drinking, you guessed it, Heinekin. (Heinekin is the cheapest, respectable beer in France. It’s our equivalent of PBR, if you could call that respectable. Here at Oxford, Carlsberg is the cheap beer of choice, judging by the trash left in the Junior Commons Room (imagine the common rooms in Harry Potter…)

Anyways, we started talking, and turns out that although he was born in Paris, he moved to Seattle, WA as a toddler and only moved back a few years ago. We chatted for quite awhile about American politics (thank you @ Dr. Wainscott for asking the US politics question in the Duckenfield interview!), the French and American perceptions of each other, the difference in lifestyles, the global economic crisis, etc. It was a really neat conversation, speaking with someone who has such an insiders viewpoint of countries, about the political and economic upheaval in both countries….or it was a nice conversation until he asked me to hold his things—a portable speaker and an iPad (apparently he was preparing to blare music across the Seine)—and I soon quit his presence. (He also kept calling me “Miss” (“You’re rather shy, miss. So where are you from, Miss? You speak English, then, Miss? Ugh. Bug off.), which was also quite annoying.

I then managed some razzle-dazzle and exchanged a sweatshirt I’d gotten for my dad the previous year for a different size, went to the Bastille to buy some fruit at my old fruit stand (owned by a very nice Asian family) and a chocolât noir from one of the Bastille patisseries, and enjoyed my dinner at the Bastille canal before heading back to the hostel.

(Btw, the chocolât noir is the most rich/chocolately/scrumptious thing I’ve ever tasted (a different scrumptious from Bertillon. The chocolât noir is savory, while Bertillon is succulent.) and I gorged myself in the chocolatey goodness until A) I finished it and B) couldn’t eat any more.)

Eating there on the canal, I finally felt as if I was back in my Paris I know and love. Walking around the city was terrific, but it wasn’t until I ate there, in my former neighborhood, at my favorite haunt, that I really felt like I was back in my Parisian home.

And boy, was it good to be back.

Friday was ushered in with a whirlwind of razzle-dazzle (I’d been charged the wrong amount for a pair of shoes and was refunded the difference, all of which I conducted in French!) and last-minute sightseeing.

I was so tired Friday morning that I misread the metro signs and ended up on the wrong line…twice. Ugh. It took me about an hour to get to Cemetière Père-Lachaise, where I saw the graves of Jim Morrison (not my favorite, but you have to go see him), Oscar Wilde (a little too fabulous for my tastes), Bizet (I sung the chorus from Carmen in my head, in French), Molière, Apollinaire, La Fontaine (French authors/poets, both of whom I’ve read for class), Balzac, Haussman, Chopin, Delacroix, Edith Piaf, and Yves Montand.

The cemetery was MUCH larger than I anticipated, and I found myself getting lost (even with a map) amongst the endless sea of tombstones, monuments, and mausoleums, and in order to avoid the cobblestones, I ended up walking on the flat stone curb most of the way. (Ballet flats and cobblestones don’t mix well…)

There was some really great, geometric photo opps in the cemetery, and I let myself take a few photo breaks, but towards the end I had to speed the trip up (I was there for nearly 3 hours!), so I couldn’t explore the design features of the cemetery as much as I would’ve liked….(Photography trip to Paris with my Dad and Uncle Rob?)

Next, I explored la Défense on the outskirts of Paris. After having made the tragic mistake to build Montparnasse Tower in the heart of Paris (it is U.G.L.Y compared with the Haussmanian Paris skyline—or lack thereof), they pushed all of the sky-scrapers to one, isolated location on the edge of the city, known as la Défense. There is an arch there MUCH bigger than the Arc de Triomphe. The arch is also a very modern structure, as are all the buildings, so it feels as if a bit of NYC has been copied and pasted into Paris. It was neat (?) to visit, but I wasn’t particularly pleased or impressed. Lets just say the modern buildings in Dubai needen’t fear those in Paris for competition…

After la Défense, I went back to the hostel, dropped off some of my load, and headed back out to Bastille for groceries. By this time it was almost 9pm, so my patisserie was closed :( Instead, I bought some chocolât tartes at the grocery store, along with another Camembert and some Kinder bars (Cow Tails meet Kit Kat Bars!) to eat at the Bastille canal again.

The chocolât tartes were a HUGE disappointment (they simply filled a crust with Nutella, which I still can’t eat plain after a bout of the stomach flu immediately following a Nutella crêpe binge,) so I simply munched on my camembert, baguette, and remaining fruit until the sun went down.

The next morning, the morning of my departure, I ate breakfast across a group of girls who were apparently in the wrong country. One of them gave away her croissant because “She didn’t like it,” and another tried to give away half of her “roll."

Um, excuse me?

HOW DO YOU NOT LIKE BREAD?!?!? Moreover, how do you not like FRENCH bread?!?!

Also, it’s called un petit pan, NOT a “roll."  Ugh. I’m pretty sure both of their offenses are considered felonies in France. They are in my court of law, that’s for sure.

Nevertheless, I thought I might have some time to grab un café before leaving Paris, but I ended up having the perfect amount of time to get to the train station before my Eurostar(!) departed for London.

Do you remember how, in Joan of Arcadia, God would simply appear as everyday, normal people?

Yeah. That happened to me.

As I stood at the top of the métro stairs with my now 60ish lb suitcase, a man probably about my parents age came over and offered to help carry my suitcase down the flight of stairs. At first lift, he almost angrily exclaimed “Oof! C’est trop (heavy)!”, but he carried it nevertheless. He then asked me where I was going, and when I explained to him that I needed the 5 to Gâre du Nord, he sighed and said that there were two entranced to the métro. The entrance to the 5 was at the other entrance.

Great.

Much to my surprise (and relief!) he picked up my bag and said he’d help me carry it there.

And they say the French are rude?

So off we went…until my métro NaviGo Card expired and wouldn’t let me in (my pre-pay tickets expired the previous evening.), so he waited while I crawled under the bar and slipped through the doors so I wouldn’t have to buy another ticket.

We must’ve gone down 5 flights of stairs, across a platform, and he didn’t stop there. He even put it on the métro for me, since there was about an 8” gap to the platform. I offered to pay him multiple times, but he refused, and simply advised me to watch my things before he walked away. And as he walked away, with me shouting my thanks after him, his snow white hair glowed with the sunlight that came from somewhere else than inside the subway.

Once at Gâre du Nord, I found the check-in station with no problem, due to a dry-run the day before, filled out my immigration card, went through both French and UK customs, baggage check, and due to a group in front of me (two women in addition to a grandfather and wheel-chair bound grandmother, leaving the women in charge of 4 suitcases and carry-ons), I almost missed the train. I scurried around them, running with my suitcase through the station, onto the downward-sloping moving side walk, running faster and faster and faster until…..BOOM! My suitcase went down, and had I not let go at the last minute, I would’ve gone down, too.

Luckily, one of the station workers saw me, hid his laugh, and told me I had time. Of course, my car was all the way at the end of the train, so I had to hurry to get to my car in time. After re-arranging some luggage on the rack, my suitcase was settled, and I soon followed.

I was on my way to Oxford and to the best five academic weeks of my life!