As Long as You've Got Your Health...

From an 1884 advertisement in Harper's Weekly:

WHO KNOWS WHEN?

Steamboats will sink or burn?

Railroad trains will be wrecked?

Boilers or Lamps will explode?

Horses will take fright and run?

Bricks or Timbers will fall?

Fire burn or lightning strike?

Machinery will crush or mangle?

Tools or glass will cut?

Splinters or nails will wound?

Slips or falls will happen?

Hammer or weights will bruise?

Ladder or staging will give way?

Animals will kick or bite?

Limbs will be sprained or broken?

Fatal or disabling injury may be

Caused in any one of a thousand ways

Insure in the Travelers of Hartford, Conn.

No extra charge for European travel or residence

Take THAT International Travel!!

I am happy to report that after at least 50 internet excursions, two phone calls, one visit to a travel agency and about a million emails to various people who were trying to run their lives (without constant interruption from us), we have achieved ticketed status.

Or, actually, we've paid for tickets we don't have. In theory we will pick them up/print them out closer to the date of travel. But let's worry about that another day.

So we now have reservations to take the chunnel train to Paris, then the TGV to Angers, all for the bargain-basement price of a million-gazillion dollars. They break up the trip with a fun challenge in the middle: get off the TGV from London, get onto the Metro, figure out how to get across town on the 4 train, get off at Montparnasse, and get onto another TGV to Angers. I just hope we don't have to do it while dressed as cheerleaders or anything.

We also have flight reservations from Heathrow to Cork, whence we take a shuttle to the bus station, then a bus to Kilarney, then a little walk to our B&B, followed by 3 days of 20k walking. On the plus side, in Ireland there's beer at every corner. Or so I hear.

It's a miracle, I tell you, that these plans are finally in place.

In other news, this just in for J. Bizzle and his crew of Elis:

From the Yale class of 1864, Mr. Ankatell, Edward A., exempted from the Connecticut draft for 'loss of teeth & general debility.'

*I should add, in fairness, that it's sunny and nice. And has been for several days. The fact that I want to fling open my office doors, run screaming out into the Princess Margaret Garden, and flop down in the grass to bake myself, well...that's no one's fault. Probably caused by overindulgence in tea.

It Only Hurts When They Laugh

Nothing happened today. And when I say nothing, I mean that we tried to do something and couldn't. What we want to do is buy train tickets to Angers, France. That's on the other side of this little creek, so we have to take a train rather than walk (like we would do to go to Abingdon to not find a shop).

Now, in theory you can take the chunnel train to Paris, hop off, fling yourself gracefully aboard a Metro train full of elegant Parisians, ride across the City of Light, stroll aboard another high-speed train at the South Station (aka Montparnasse), and emerge into the bright light of Anjou. Home of the Angevin dynasty, burial place of Eleanor of Aquitaine, birthplace of the battered women's shelter (Fontrevault Abbey).

But no. The web version of British Rail/EuroStar/EurRail stole 3 hours of Charles's life, leaving him all but foaming at the mouth. Instead of a trip to Angers he got a trip to angry. Walking through central Oxford, we noticed a travel agency and thought perhaps they could help us.

They were charming fellows, and I would take them for a beer anytime. First, they suggested the web. I told them that we'd tried the web and barely resisted throwing the computer out the window. Laughter. Then they said they don't handle rail travel, but we could call BritRail. We've tried that already, so I asked whether we might just walk down to the station and talk to someone. Hilarity ensued. For the record, we were all laughing. It's just that Charles and I were laughing out of sheer desperation, while the travel guys were laughing because the idea of BritRail employees being helpful is apparently High-Larious. I liked those guys.

They said I should call. I'm going to call tomorrow. If it works out, ok. If not, Charles is entirely willing to simply remain in England, which we like just fine. Here, there's hot tea and shortbread and beer with lunch and everyone says, "Sorry!" at the drop of a hat. And the bookstores can't be beat.

In other news, we passed a house today with a nice sign on the front door:
"Attention! Chien Bizarre"

Sore Feet

Today, we learned that if you take Iffley road way down, past the GreyFriars, past a series of down-at-heels shops, and toward the village of Iffley, then turn right and cross the river going toward Abingdon, then walk into Abingdon about a quarter of a mile, you don't get to a camping store called Go Outdoors.

However, if you then walk north on the Abingdon Road, through a variety of neighborhoods, past the Four Columns hotel (horse, foal, and dog resident in the field next door), and up toward the City Centre, you can eventually walk in a huge circle.

So that's good to know.

A little help with this one, Prof. Bowes?

Seen on the streets of Oxford. Unfortunately, I had no video camera with which to capture the singing and dancing. We're hoping Prof. Bowes can provide some insight on this one.

Killer Birds

Yesterday we walked around Christ Church Meadow. Good views, people punting on the Isis, and lots of water fowl.

The baby birds were very cute, but the adults were a bit menacing.
Fiona was not amused.



On the food front, we tried a very unsatisfactory noodle house on Thursday. After being rejected at two pubs on the food front last night, we once again retreated to an asian venue. This time, the food was better (as Fiona described). What Fiona did not mention is that they had French toast on the appetizer menu. Always game for breakfast food, and immediately intrigued by its presence on the menu at this japanese/chinese restaurant, I looked to see if there was a description on the menu clarifying exactly what was on offer. I was surprised and intrigued to find it described as a battered and fried peanut butter sandwich served with syrup. I immediatly decided that I had to try it. It was served up hot and looked like a very thin monte cristo sandwich. We cut into it with a fork, added some syryp and were delighted to find that it was tasty. Probably the best thing I've tasted on the food front here in Britain. Seriously. Better than a fried Twinkie, but not as good as a fried Oreo; it was light on the peanut butter (a very thin layer between two thin slices of white bread) and went down easy.

Tonight for dinner we had shwarma. Quite good and a friendly place. Slowly, but surely we are settling in.

Finally, I must say that the futon generously loaned to us by Bart and Tony (and delivered to us today by Tony with whom we had a great afternoon) is a great addition to the apartment. We now have a proper place to sit other than a kitchen chair.

Hubbly Pubbly

We have successfuly dined in a pub. That's right. It only took five attempts and one English escort. But we have ordered, received, eaten, and paid for both fish-n-chips (with mushy peas!) and a lamb-n-mint burger. As you may recall, our first 2 attempts at pub entry met with steely gazes, no available tables, and a certain sense of confusion.

Being intrepid, however, we tried again Friday night. On a Friday night, we reasoned, English pubs would be crawling with hungry, lager-swilling young-uns eager to hand over their pounds and pence for a little fried meat. But no. One of our neighborhood pubs, the James Street Inn, home of 10 dogs, 3 children and poo weather, welcomed us with the news that they only serve food on the weekends. Friday doesn't count. But the young lady was so pleasant, and the Guinness taps so shiny, we were all but forced to drink a pint of Guinness and a half pint of Strongbow (cider). That made us a little toasty (no dinner, yet), so we toddled off down the street.

Then we tried the Hobgoblin, and they informed us that they stopped serving food every day around "half seven." It was 7:45, so no dice. The young ladies here were kind, too, but we were already wobbly. No time for more beer.

So that left us to try a restaurant. We walked four more blocks, to a little asian bistro thingy that Charles liked the look of. I knew it would be good when the Buddhist monk next to me smiled. Later, he tried to buy his soup bowl, but the waitress refused. Charles and I think she ought to have given it to him.

One Kong Bo shrimp and one teriyaki chicken noodle later, we emerged happier but no closer to our goal: food in an actual pub. You wouldn't think we'd care so much, since pub food isn't exactly...famous.

But today our deliverer arrived. And he delivered a futon and a wireless router! We immediately swept him down to the James Street Tavern to act as our Englishman-in-residence. With him in tow, we managed to convince the pub to give us actual food, including said fish and lamb burgers. But here's the best thing about lunch in the pub: it comes with beer! For 5.50 (pounds, natch), you get lunch plus a pint of something. I had Strongbow again, as did Charles, while Tony drank Foster's.
So, to recap: pub grub enjoyed, noodle place scouted and approved, futon providing a place to sit other than the bed, many lovely stories exchanged between ourselves and Tony. Unfortunately, Bart was sick at home, so he missed much of my best material. But we plan to visit he and Tony in Milton Keynes next weekend, when we'll try out a "gastro-pub." That's a pub with food people actually want to eat.

Oxford is Soooo Ugly

The British won't tell you this, but they're ashamed of Oxford. Because it's seriously unattractive. Downright hideous. Example:
This town is replete with awful buildings like that one. Check this out:

I mean, people have to try to live there (the Meadow Cottages, according to the sign). It's just sad.

Speaking of sad, I'm going to go drown my sorrows in a pint of Guinness. We're making a third stab at going into a pub. This one is the James Street Tavern, and we think it might work out because of a sign Charles saw there a few days ago. It said:

"10 dogs, 3 children and Poo Weather. We will re-open Tuesday."

Sounds friendly, don't it?

More stuff growing on a wall

This is a wall. With flowers growing in it. And as you walk along this wall (Christ Church College), there are about a gazillion tiny versions of this, brushing your head as you walk by. Today, it was sunny, but doubtless it will rain again soon, and thus the stone will continue to degrade.

Today was a good day for photos, so more posts coming.

Our House, Is a Very, Very,Very Fine House

Two more pictures for your enoyment. (Not going to let Mr. and Mrs. Bowes out-do us on the photo front!). On the bottom, our street. Please note the fact that the cars are parked on the sidewalk. And, this is a 2-way street. Also, note that these cars are approximately the size of a nice riding lawnmower. We saw a VW Golf, and it looked huge. No joke. Also, note the intense variability of the houses. We spend a lot of time on corners, arguing about which way to go. Every street looks like this. We're starting to navigate by the pubs: "Turn at the Black Swan. If you get to The HobGoblin ("Where Even Despair Goes to Die"), you've gone too far, luv."

On the subject of size, check out our milk carton, on the top. We have a teensy little fridge, and so we get milk in this leetle beetsy carton. As you can see, it's not much bigger than the apple. The whiskey comes separately, btw. And guess what? It's 29.90. But they won't tell you that. Lots of things are much smaller here. Yoghurt cartons, sodas (500ml, about 2/3 the size of Coke in the US), jars of spaghetti sauce.

Also, I'm not sure what to think about sweets. Bart tells me that the British don't have the sweet tooth of Americans. And I can confirm that the cocoa isn't as sweet, the yoghurt isn't as sweet, etc. But then there's William Cunningham, whose kitchen is dominated by the candy box (2 feet by 1.5 feet, no lid). And, more evidence, the candy aisle at the Tesco is huge. It's always crowded with people fussing over whether to buy 18 Mars bars or 18 caramel Cadbury's. Then there's the half-aisle devoted to cookies. And the prepared cakes in little boxes. And the refrigerator aisle given over to packaged cream rolls and jelly rolls. And the ice cream. And the frozen cakes. And, finally, the rows of boxes of sticks of cake. Yes, cake sticks. For tea, I guess.

So...the Brits don't like sugar. Or something. I'm a little confused.

Blackwell's

I found 2 pictures online. The first is of the facade, the second of the Norrington Room. Note that the second image is of a single room, in the basement, of this bookstore. Four stories. Yeah, baby. Or, as the Whigs might say, 'Suck it, Barnes and Noble!'

Why Mold Grows on Stone

Because it's raining.

And to prove that life is really unfair, I'd point out the pattern of the rain. Walk to the library: raining a bit. Umbrellas, but nothing crazy. Charles drops me off, I go in, he leaves to walk back (30 minutes), and...the skies open. Not just today, but at least 3 times already.

In other news:
1. A sign on an Oxford college: No Parking. Violators will be Clamped. (!)

2. We found the most incredible bookstore ever. It appears to be just a couple of little shop fronts, nothing special. And when you enter the left side, you come into a tiny room full of tourist stuff about walking tours. You could be forgiven, at this point, for rolling your eyes and daparting. But wait...a stairway. This bookstore turns out to occupy the better part of the entire building. 4 stories up (with a staircase very much like the one at Hogwarts), with a huge (huge) basement level room (the Norrington Room) on 3 levels of its own. The basement room is one enormous space with lofts, devoted to various sub-genres of academic study. In this bookstore, Sociology gets its own area. Outside the Norrington Room, classic literature receives almost an entire floor. Meanwhile, history...not even in the Norrington Room, because it gets most of the 2nd floor. I'm going there this afternoon and I may never leave.

Also, there's a coffee shop. And I pre-ordered the new Harry Potter.

Moldy Stone

Fiona has been fascinated with how wet it is here. So wet that the stone walls here are growing stuff. Here's her favorite bit of growth:

No, Really

It's raining.

But I have an office! A cold office with no pencils, but an office, nonetheless. With lovely glass doors out onto the Princess Margaret garden. And I have at least 2 completely unrememberable passwords to the Oxford system. They require you to use one capital, one number, one symbol, and exactly 9 characters, but none can spell a word from the dictionary. It should be something you'll remember, they say. Right.

Cheerio!

Controversy!

Well, it looks like the British are keeping up in just about every way:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/religion/Story/0,,2090016,00.html
Enjoy.

Graham Has 4 Teeth

Life goes on without us. Miriam laid brick with Will, J. Bizzle painted (and Mrs. Dr. Bizzle supervised, natch), even our dogs are hanging with Grandpa without a care in the world.

We, meanwhile, never leave the house without a jacket and umbrella. We're armed, dammit.

Today, we sallied forth at 9, having dialed the coffee in the presspot back to 5 scoops from 6. The box said to use 9. This morning's coffee was slightly less like petroleum, somewhat more like mud. Charles says he made a pot this afternoon with 4 scoops, and it tasted pretty good. To me, it's all irrelevant, since I've basically stopped drinking anything but tea. So far today I'm up to 5 cups. And counting! I even bought cookies to eat with tea. Shortbread...mmm.

I picked up lunch today at the tuck shop I tested yesterday. Today's selection, since there were fewer people and thus I was less self-conscious: chicken tikka. Basically, this is chicken salad with some Indian yumminess tossed in. They wipe the bread (ciabbata) with chutney, too. Obvy: it was terrible. Truly bad. Inedible. I didn't lick the plastic wrap, though, and you can't prove I did.

So I worked away the morning, reading about how Sallie Edwards (Nast's wife) and her family treated James Parton (her cousin) and his wife badly. They didn't like the fact that his wife was a published authoress with her own money and that she publicly advocated women dressing in men's clothes. They were quite rude. Once, Sallie was talking with Parton's step-daughter, Grace. They had just bought a new house, and Sallie asked how big the drawing room was (does that qualify as scintillating conversation, by 19th century standards?). Grace said it was big enough to do somersaults in. Sallie was so horrified by Grace's unladylike behavior that she decided she and her sisters would not socialize with Grace and her sister. Charming.

After lunch I introduced myself to Linda Kerber. Arnita Jones at the AHA and Miriam said I ought to do so, and I did. Kerber was pleasant, and when she asked how I knew Arnita I said, "Miriam is my best friend." And she said, "A woman with excellent taste!" So there you go.

After lunch I had to stalk some poor girl to get a desk. It's exam time here, so the desks are all filled with unshaven, dirty, muttering undergraduates, madly studying. The Harmsworth library has a 3 story atrium which all the floors overlook. So when the woman behind me answered her cell phone, everyone stopped and looked up. I held up my hands, "not me!" Then she actually said, "I can't talk; I'm in the library." Genius.

So I inserted all sorts of juicy stories today, including the previously unknown fact that Sallie Nast's mother married her father in a total Jane Eyre scenario. She was the governess to George Edwards' daughter and son. Then Mrs. Edwards died. Presto, chango: new Mrs. Edwards. Three more daughters later, Sallie Nast marries Thomas Nast and I start digging around in their family secrets. I figure I'll get a little late revenge for Mrs. Parton by re-telling that story. They should have been nicer.

Charles met me at the Rothermere at 5:30, and we walked up the road to try to check out the Covered Market. I think that the CM is actually a fairy tale, though, because it was closed again. So let's just keep track: Sunday, closed; Monday, closed for bank holiday; Tuesday, closed at 5. We figure that in order to actually get in we'll have to go at 9am, but I wouldn't put it past them to open only on alternate Wednesdays from 11-2 when there's a full moon.

Marching onward through the hordes of Japanese, Australian, and American tourists, we tried first a pub (ack! Claustraphobia!), then a diner (closed, natch), then a greek takeaway with 3 tiny tables. That last one proved the charm, and I had a wonderful square of spanikopita with tomato salad and hummus. Charles had 2 chicken skewers with hummus and pita. I ate his tomato salad. Then I got a triangle of homemade baklava to go.

So far as we can tell, it's an Oxford rule that you have to eat on the street. If you pass 20 people, I guarantee that at least 10 will be eating something. So Charles stopped at a Kabab cart (like LA lunch trucks except they serve: pizza, burgers, kabobs, gyros, fries, and baked potatoes. yes, baked potatoes. And you can get one with beans on it. No joke) and bought a small order of chips. One pound!! That's like a quarter! Ok, actually, it's 2 bucks, but because it's a tiny little coin, it feels like a quarter. And they were really, really good.

Then we walked home, noting pubs that look good and trying to navigate the sidewalks, which are crammed with parked cars and broken beer bottles and overgrown hedges. People here generally walk with their heads down, which might be mistaken for humility. It's actually a survival mechanism designed to prevent falling down. The sad part is: Oxford isn't exactly Detroit. It'd be nice to look up now and then.

Tomorrow: I get an office.

Guess What?

It's raining.

Sorry, Sorry, Sorry

Yesterday's rain proved a harbinger of change. Today, instead of rain, we had rain and wind. Because if there's one thing better than rain, it's rain blowing straight into your face. Personally, I prefer my pants to be wet at the thigh and calf. Dry pants are a cliche. Also, if they're going to be wet, I like it to be about 44 degrees so I can really feel it. That's just how I feel.
Tomorrow promises sunshine, but I doubt it.
Meanwhile, I finally got into the library and did some work. Yes, on a fellowship I worked. The History Police are coming for me, for sure.
In order to do the work, though, I had to navigate a thicket of faux pas. First, of course, was arriving looking like a survivor of the Titanic. The receptionist, apparently working alone because today was a bank holiday, showed me the kitchen and left me alone to make tea. "There's milk in the fridge, " she said. And she was right. When I made the first cup, I discovered that the milk in the fridge was of a very special vintage. Lumpy. Mmm. Cup #2 went a little better, and I managed to dry off enough to feel ok about going upstairs to the library.
There, I happily pounded away on my laptop (after reading the map to ensure I wasn't using my laptop in the "quiet area" where laptops are not permitted. Laptops like to talk on their cell phones and chew gum, so I understand this completely). Lunch was delayed by the rain, but by 1:30 it was down to a mere drizzle, so I decided to find something to eat.
The British have tuck shops, which are like little delis that have sandwiches, sodas, chips, sweets, and little pastries. The one on the corner down the street had a line, which is always a good sign. The line doubled up inside, and as you went down the outside you shouted out your order, then you passed along the inside line watching the 3 food preparers feverishly slapping sandwiches together. By the time you got to the checkout counter, the man simply held up a sandwich and said something like, "Chicken tikka with pesto and avocado, love?" and then "3 pounds twenty." Or whatever.
But not me! I had a lamb pakora and something called a flakey cake. I thought it would be cocoanut, since the famous "flake" bar is...wait, that thing isn't cocoanut. Well, whatever. Anyway, the flakey cake was odd. I think it was cornflakes stirred up with fake chocolate and then pressed into squares. Like a rice crispy treat, only cornflakes and brown. It wasn't awful, and the pakora was delicious. Best of all, they didn't cost a million dollars!!
An afternoon of reading about Fanny Fern (wife of James Parton, cousin of Sallie Edwards, wife of Thomas Nast!) and the proliferation of newspapers after 1833 led to dinnertime (despite the disapproval of one member of the staff who effected surprise that I arrived at 9:30 and intended to leave at 5 rather than 7. My god, the sloth!). I met Charles at the Starbucks on High Street and we repaired to the restaurant where one cannot order bangers and chips rather than bangers and mash.
For the record, I had bangers and mash. No substitutions, no problem. I learned my lesson with the 29.90 whiskey. From now on, I just take what I get.

And I don't like mash . . .

The first half of my day was unremarkable: walk to the Rothermere with Fiona in a cold steady rain, venture to the local department store to acquire umbrellas, return to the apartment.

Things were somewhat more interesting come dinner. After meeting Fiona in the city center, we ventured back towards Hurst Street. We popped into an inviting eatery. The temptation: bangers.

The menu clearly listed bangers and mash as an available entree. Further study of the menu revealed both mash and chips as available side dishes at the same price. My selection made, when the waitress approached, I ordered. Our exchange was more difficult, however, than expected.
W:"Are you ready to order, then?"
C:"Uh, yes, I'd like the bangers and mash."
W:"Lovely."
C:"I see you have chips as an available side. Is it possible to substitute chips for the mash."
W:"Yes, we have that."
C:"Ok, great."
W:"So, that's bangers and mash with a side of chips."
C:"Well, no, just the chips, no mash."
W:"Just mash and chips?"
F:"No, see, he doesn't like mashed potatoes."
W:"Uh . . . "
C:"Can I have bangers and chips?"
W:"Yeah, bangers and chips."

sigh.

Given my trouble communicating here I despair for our visit to France.

I don't like beans

And I don't like spam, either.
Included in our day was a visit to a local liquor store. The large selection of scotch in the window lured us in like lemmings.
After staring at the selection for awhile, we decided on a bottle of Balvenie. The price was marked for the 1991. We only saw the 1993, so we figured it was just an old sign and that we'd see if the 1993 was available at the advertised price.
F:"Do you have the Balvenie Portwood for £29?"
M:"No, it was on special last week."
C:"So all you have is the 1993, then?"
M:"No we ran out of the 1991 when it was on special."
F:"Can we get the 1993 Balvenie?"
M:"Sorry, it was on special last week."
C:"How much is that bottle right there?" (pointing)
M:"£29."
F:"We'll take it!"
This was a remarkably difficult transaction, but everyone left with a smile, and, more importantly, we left with the bottle.