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.