Oxford, version 5

I'm about to go downstairs to the basement lounge and conduct my pre-Paris briefing, having once again walked the route from this University of London dorm to St Pancras International in advance of our Eurostar departure tomorrow, trying to leave nothing to chance: what if there is road construction, what if the route isn't exactly as I remember it, etc.  But I want to seize the moment and update the blog even briefly, since I can't get psyched to mark more of the in-class essays they wrote on Thursday.

It was a little disconcerting to have every student show up at the suggested-but-not-required time to walk with me to the Russell Square tube station and head to Marble Arch for the bus to Oxford. Usually we are in at least two clumps, but evidently a fair number of them hadn't bothered to bring the handout I'd made, and were counting on following the crowd. So the poor driver had to sit there and deal with a bunch of £20s making £6 change for every student day return (and for my Senior day return, says the newly minted sexagenarian). But we got underway eventually, blasted up the M40-A40 and into the City of Spires. I have to say the Oriel experience was less wonderful than it was the first couple of years--I'm not sure why but the librarian doesn't seem keen on letting a group of reverent American undergraduates into the Senior Library... But as it turned out, we were shown into Hall ("A miniature version of Hogwarts' dining hall, one said again--and I pointed out that Christ Church, aka Slytherin, was the place where they filmed some of the banquet scenes, aided by CGI magic) and then into the Chapel, where again I think they were slightly blown away by the idea of so many centuries of continuous worship in the same location. Oriel is attempting to fund-raise for its Campaign 2026 target, celebrating 700 years of incorporation as an institution of higher learning (well, let's not get too technical about the distinction between drinking clubs and medieval halls back in the day). I decided not to try to lead this group in a round (I'd been able to persuade my 2015 cohort to have a bash at Jubilate Deo just for fun) but I did do my extremely idiosyncratic whistling demonstration that was such a sensation two years ago. It's pretty amazing acoustics in there.

Then it was time for a bit of lunch after some quick walking around (showing them where I lived my first year, with the window that received beer mugs flung from yobbos carousing at the Bear Inn a few doors down), and then a 28-duckling walk up through colleges and the University Parks to the leafy suburb of North Oxford and the Cherwell Boathouse (we were 28 and not 29 because a student was sick with some sort of flu back at the ranch).

This group had a bit more trouble than some previous ones, I'm not sure, and I actually switched boats at least three times to rescue people from willows and demonstrate, up close and personal, that I really did mean it when I said, "Stand well back in the stern, propel the boat with the pole close to the side of the boat, and then leave it all in the water, off the very back, and steer straight before trying to pole again."  These are the magic words I guess, and I have to be actually in the boat for them to be heard.  This person had a terrible time at first (on the way upriver) and then got the hang of it on the way down: "I do so much better after you teach me.  Thank you Professor."  We had sun on the way up, overcast on the way back, meaning less sunburn.  Everyone seemed to enjoy their pint of shandy (most of them followed my lead) at the Victoria Arms just below Marston, and many were suitably effusive in praising this unusual way to spend a day.  I think after the amped-up pace of London, Oxford is just the antidote, and punting caps that aspect.  There was, alas, one "incident" where a boat moved right into the path of another of our boats and got T-boned, sending the pole-er into the drink.  Problem was, there was laughter before the compassion, and the whole thing could have been prevented if someone had fended off.  But the swimmer ironically enough had a friend studying for the summer in Oxford and was able to borrow dry clothes within an hour.  No harm no foul I hope, though I will raise this issue at the briefing in a few minutes.

I want to finish this entry by mentioning that before I left I made my ritual pilgrimage to the All Souls' gate adjacent to the Radcliffe Camera, the reading room I spent so many hours pinned to case-hardened oak chairs.  It was here, back in the summer of 1978 when I was visiting with a long-ago girlfriend before I started my Semester Abroad program, that I had a late-evening epiphany, quite momentous really, when I just felt this overwhelming sense that I wanted to study here, I would tap into this ridiculously powerful tradition of learning, and would do actual graduate study here.  Very few times in my life I can point to as truly life-changing in that way.

There you go.

Some worthwhile stuff going on, I think

Pretty interesting to be plowing my way through this iteration of the GT, worried that I'm forgetting something but basically having some of the routines down. Then something weird comes up as it always does. I'm writing this on the eve of our Oxford field trip, after having successfully crammed in their first-week writing exercise in class, our Globe Theater expedition to see a wackily musical modern-dress postracial genderbending performance of Twelfth Night, and a walk back to the St Pauls tube station.  The weather has heated up, and my room is again a furnace despite my re-installation of cardboard wedges propping open various doors.  It's right at the edge of what I can stand, actually, but I'll just keep taking showers and hoping for a break.

Thought I'd thrown in a couple of funny shots from the past few days.  For some reason the sight of a £300,000 Ferrari in downtown London just epitomizes the craziness of this megalopolis.  Is there a stupider way to spend (and risk) your money?  Dunno.  Of course one of things that I'm noticing around here is that, along with the cigarette smoke that still clings to the gargoyles who hang around just outside buildings, and the clouds emanating from the vape-ers as they ply their trade, there's enough dope being smoked in the nearby parks, mostly by construction workers on their breaks, that you can get a contact high just by walking through Brunswick Square between our dorm and the classroom at the School of Pharmacy.  One wonders what impact this has on the productivity of this cohort of workers...

For some reason I was stoked to see how game these kids were with navigating the Tube on their second day here--this was on Monday after we went to see Wicked, the show tickets arranged for us by our London vendor.  This shot is blurred because I was walking backward, but it somehow captures some good energy.

Dana-the-onsite-coordinator took this one yesterday I think--they are taking responsibility for arranging their own outings, and they are apparently honoring my exhortation to avoid letting cliques or in-group-out-group distinctions poison the collective vibe.

The production at the Globe was a great example of good attitude: I hadn't experienced being a groundling in a long time, but since I hadn't been able to splurge on seats for everyone, I had to count on a handful of folks being willing to join me in the courtyard.  It was wonderful to be so close to the actors, the music was a trip, and even with some loss of subtlety on the wordplay aspect...  The students that I talked to were blown away and surprised at how much fun they had at a Shakespeare play--let's hope the trip to Oxford goes as well.

They've all arrived, and we're off

In an hour and a half I will go downstairs and gather people up for their "Welcome dinner" a few blocks away at a none-too-fancy eatery, figuring that spending a ton of money on a nice dinner in London is a waste, especially for a bunch of jet-lagged students who have been staggering around on the "Hop-On-Hop-Off" Bus as much of the day as they could stand.  For me that was about four hours' worth: a remarkable percentage took me up on my "Meet me at 9 AM for a 9:15 departure, meet Dana at 10" offer, and we enjoyed a picture-perfect sunny-but-not-too-hot morning on the top deck, eventually ending up on the included Thames cruise from Westminster Pier down to Tower Bridge just after midday.  In between, some unthinkably crowded conditions around Buckingham Palace, where roads are blocked off (presumably to protect crowds from attacks) and the police presence is extremely high.

Yesterday was largely devoted to checking students in all afternoon, taking the load off the front hall staff here and repeating our spiel about not losing the door key or the turnstile key, not losing the Oyster Card (for the Tube and buses), and comporting themselves in a non-obnoxious manner.  They were supposed to be arriving between 2 and 5, but we had a bunch of students waiting to check in by 1:30 (thankfully our block of rooms was ready), several students pinging us by text with stories of lost luggage and delayed flights in Newark and Shannon, and fairly manageable chaos.  However, by the time we finished the short On-Site Orientation downstairs in the early evening, all but one--a fellow flying in from Sydney who had warned us a month ago that his exam schedule had been changed--had safely arrived.

Meeting all these students and trying to learn names is always a challenge for me, and I know it tires me out.  As usual some names come easily and I associate the faces immediately; alas, there are always a few for whom I have to resort to guessing or finesse to avoid busting myself admitting I don't know them.  Hard to get a read on the group.  There are some loud kids, but they are fairly nice so far.  There's a couple of the keep-an-eye-on-this-one variety, including a frat boy (probably econ or poli sci major, a type I know well from all my years teaching writing for future / wannabe lawyers) who has a strange oily demeanor that mixes a little too much praise than is comfortable.  The gender balance, as usual, skews to daughters, whose parents don't want to send their children off to Europe unsupervised, to the tune of 23 to 6.  I've already made an effort to continue my strategy of hopping determinedly from group to group, not only to avoid the appearance of having "teacher's pets" but also simply to try to get to know as many people as I can.  There are some thoughtful kids here, though who knows what lurks for me.

Tomorrow is our first class session, at 10 (I am experimenting with starting a bit later, since apparently the London weather forecast is for not too hot weather, meaning a later start is probably OK), and in the evening we will head down to Victoria and take in Wicked, the live-theater piece of our London vendor's offering (these tickets, along with the bus tickets, were some of the items passed along to me in St Pancras on Thursday afternoon post-Eurostar).  One of the tasks I have to execute between now and then is to compile an updated first week plan, as the pieces seem to have fallen into place (Tuesday, British Museum in the afternoon; Thursday, Globe theater Twelfth Night in the afternoon; Friday, Oxford excursion; weekend, open until a Sunday evening orientation before the Paris leg begins with a Eurostar trip).

The reality of this job is a strange mix of anxiety and pre-planning, and relief when a transition or an outing goes well.  Yes, I am already trying to sort out exactly which evening to try to slot in our fancier dinner in Paris: it can't be too close to Bastille Day (which is a Friday), but if it's the same day as the Versailles field trip, I dunno.  Might not be a good idea to put it the night before Versailles (though there won't be any of wine paid for by Uncle Charles, they may elect to cap the night with more lubricated pursuits as in past years, since they are dressed up for it), and the restaurants aren't super happy to accommodate a huge group on the weekend.

Realizing I haven't included any pictures yet.  I decided not to carry my camera, so everything is iPhone this year.  Yesterday morning I snapped a couple of shots that show some of the peculiar character of this place:

 This is the view out through the conservatory from the dining room in the basement.  Wonderful fresh air actually--but in good British style note the signage everywhere: No Smoking (that's a plus) but also the smaller signs all read, "Strictly No Food Allowed In The Courtyard Thank You."  Let's call those un-picnic tables....

And just to give a nice sense of the monkish digs: