Ephemera

First, three more things that caught my attention:
1. The curbside garbage bins are labeled "litter." Now, call me crazy, but as far as I know, it's only litter when you don't put it in the can. When you toss something in the can, it's not litter anymore.
2. The tea bags here are much stronger than in the US. So the good news is that you only need one bag to get Really F***ing Strong Tea (which is how I like it). The bad news is that when Charles makes tea he sort of waves the teabag near the cup and then runs away with it.
3. British strawberries are ridiculously good. And here's the fun part: they aren't exactly the belle of the ball. Truth? They're ugly. Sort of small, sort of greenish, sort of hard-ish. But...they're sweet and not at all astringent, and they taste cold and refreshing even when they're not actually cold. Bart says they're famous, and I think with good reason. Don't get me started on the yoghurt. It is to American yoghurt what my Crazy Aunt Georgiana's pound cake is to a Little Debbie Cake.

Second, observed this afternoon in a window, while walking. A computer, and next to it, right where you'd need it when things weren't going so hot: a bottle of Jim Beam. Sweet!

Another observation: Oxford can be kind of...mysterious. There were many things we didn't understand in advance. But once here, despite the tendency to reticence so common among the residents, we've learned a lot.

So when a funny thing happened, it took me a while to understand it, but I think I've finally got it. I was walking through town to fetch a birthday present for Charles. At the crossing of Parks Road, an elderly woman stopped me to ask where the Pitt Rivers Museum was. It's about a half-block up the street, so I pointed in the direction, told her she was nearly there, and continued on my way. On the other side of the street, just before I turned into the little alley that connects Parks Road to St. Giles, I stopped to make sure she got to the museum.

What I saw was this: she had stopped a man to ask him directions. She didn't think I knew what I was talking about. Or she got confused in the 30 feet from asking me and asking him. Either way, I was like, "Hmph." He pointed, she peered up from under her rain jacket (did I mention it was, in the local parlance, "pissing rain"?), and on she toddled.

But I think I get it. Nothing we could learn about Oxford before we came was really helpful. Figuring out certain basic facts, even once here, proved a challenge. So is it any wonder she doubted? By the time she met me, she had probably wandered across most of Oxfordshire, looking for a scrambled egg and some decent bagels.

I think she proves that we aren't freaks; getting the lay of the land is hard work. So I am feeling rather accomplished. I can give simple directions. I know where the major landmarks are. I look left first when crossing the street (from that side, I mean. From the other side, I look right. Whatever, you know what I mean).

Tomorrow, we go to France. On the chunnel train, called the Eurostar (I keep thinking, "EuroSTAR! I'm a Euro---STAR!!" imagine Mary Katherine Gallagher with jazz hands), we will depart Waterloo. Paris comes three hours later, then after we dash across the city to the south station, another TGV takes us to Angers. There, not only will our friend Brian welcome us, but also his lovely wife Dominique and his three little girls. My priorities, in no particular order, are: bread, cheese, chocolate.