Gardening is the grasp of my sister thousands of miles away. Potatoes hot with yogurt, cheese and chives. Expanded berry patches and herb areas that fail to frown at these raging rains.
This song plays in the background as I fill my mind with asylum laws, "The Shape of My Heart." And I realize that this is the song I played to as a child, listened to in my neighborhood amongst the closest of friends, a song of cards and love, at once (a failure at a poker face in tune). The girl I babysit for is on the Facebook and has photos of adventures in Morningside Heights. I can't believe how quickly time has passed by...
Two nights ago I sat with Paul at the noodle bar inhaling some of the best food I have had since I got here. I was approached by a little witch, all ready for today (Halloween). "Trick or Treat," she announced. And when greeted by our surprise and tickles of laughter, a second attempt:" Trick or Treat. Seriously." It wasn't even Halloween. No one had candy at dinner. Oh, how I try to understand England...
But of course I can hardly stop laughing. Laughing when we are "late" for formal dinner and scolded. Laughing when I am soaked on my bike in a dress and tights (how young I feel in tights!). Laughing when the iron won't heat (I have turned the knob the wrong way--life feels backwards here). Laughing at the thought of HalloQueen. Laughing at tea breaks and rowing callouses, speed bumps called humps, stories of identifying pregnant spies.
It is within unfamiliarity that new pleasure arises, thick amusement at the novel. I feel like I am back in third grade, dipping my hand into a paper bag, squealing at the many treasures I have stumbled, blindly, upon--not always seen, but felt in my very core, in my most ticklish of selves.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
On Tea
A bridge leads to the playground, as a bridge leads to all secret spaces—a stronger pathway than rabbit holes or catapults to our skies. One edge is rounder of this bridge; arranging it as a halo or a teardrop face that looks up at you, then up at our sun. Mothers with quilted babies steer over the resulting hump, swirling down to what look like tugboat trains and borderless, well-fed fields. The sky, as always, is plump with sadness or joy: it is ready to burst into tentacles of tears.
The playground itself is sandy from such persistent storm. Children beckon their parents forward, flailing in the open air of slides and swings, swallowing the darkness with their sallow eyes. Somehow, this playground seems toned down, smaller than my American encounters, centered by seesaws sucking in the wind. My own, small charge leaps forward, when I ask him what he would like to do. “Run” he says and whips himself into the flighty air, his hands red as cherry ice pops, his tongue salivating at the freedom of his feet. Rather than fall, as I am afraid he might, he climbs onto a round ride, centers himself in the middle and waits for me to spin him. Yet I am the one who is disoriented, who feels the skies are somehow smaller, who pulls back the blinds but still must seek out sun.
What I write from, for, is the perspective of one young woman abroad. An American girl in Oxford. A place that, given the lack of language barriers, should saunter slowly into home; but one so unlike my home that I am taken aback by everyday encounters (fried toast!, un-refillable coffee, separate faucets for hot and cold). Here Flapjack is a pastry not a pancake; smiles mean so much more than good-day; stores are filled with racks of gray clothing; the city sleeps at the same moment in which Cinderella’s carriage disappears.
I wander slightly past dawn at the Covered Market. Fruit and vegetable stands are filled with fresh produce; women in paper caps carve cakes out of hardened sugar; the surrounding stone is cold, a bright sky a symbol not of warmth but dry dreariness. The market is charming, with red leather shoes in windows and a scattering of delectable sandwich shops. We sit in Browns, a British diner in my eyes, and order wide dishes filled with meat, eggs, beans, toast (or fried bread!). I think about ordering tea. I opt for my coffee option and am duly disappointed with the dank taste. Tea is the right choice here, even in the Grand Café. Tea and long walks in the rain.
The playground itself is sandy from such persistent storm. Children beckon their parents forward, flailing in the open air of slides and swings, swallowing the darkness with their sallow eyes. Somehow, this playground seems toned down, smaller than my American encounters, centered by seesaws sucking in the wind. My own, small charge leaps forward, when I ask him what he would like to do. “Run” he says and whips himself into the flighty air, his hands red as cherry ice pops, his tongue salivating at the freedom of his feet. Rather than fall, as I am afraid he might, he climbs onto a round ride, centers himself in the middle and waits for me to spin him. Yet I am the one who is disoriented, who feels the skies are somehow smaller, who pulls back the blinds but still must seek out sun.
What I write from, for, is the perspective of one young woman abroad. An American girl in Oxford. A place that, given the lack of language barriers, should saunter slowly into home; but one so unlike my home that I am taken aback by everyday encounters (fried toast!, un-refillable coffee, separate faucets for hot and cold). Here Flapjack is a pastry not a pancake; smiles mean so much more than good-day; stores are filled with racks of gray clothing; the city sleeps at the same moment in which Cinderella’s carriage disappears.
I wander slightly past dawn at the Covered Market. Fruit and vegetable stands are filled with fresh produce; women in paper caps carve cakes out of hardened sugar; the surrounding stone is cold, a bright sky a symbol not of warmth but dry dreariness. The market is charming, with red leather shoes in windows and a scattering of delectable sandwich shops. We sit in Browns, a British diner in my eyes, and order wide dishes filled with meat, eggs, beans, toast (or fried bread!). I think about ordering tea. I opt for my coffee option and am duly disappointed with the dank taste. Tea is the right choice here, even in the Grand Café. Tea and long walks in the rain.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Never-Never Land
This life is lit by small moments, slight miracles. Here, in Oxford, I encounter situations I never thought possible, never-never lands that don't require wings.
On a promise to a friend (our very own John Kennedy) I will write of what I have come to know as home here. The warm, wide room that looks out onto Woodstock Avenue. A college that borders Caterbury Road. Perhaps it is the rain, the raw, fallen leaves of autumn, but it is no mistake that Alice in Wonderland was drawn out of this small world. There are winding streets--North Parade, a cobblestone avenue where Christmas lights blink year round; Merton street, a precious, if empty street, strewn with short, smiling homes. There are nights at the late bar, 2 pound ciders and rounds of pool (and Boggle!). There are long bike rides on my rickety, purple-pink Raleigh bike...basket filled with groceries and articles, an overwhelming desire to wear tights. Conversations about prime ministers and converse sneakers; everywhere is decorated in scarves.
This is a place I never expected to be. And, due to that realization, I am able to capitalize on what are the true magical moments: small winks of wild surprise that take my breath away each day: the skinny staircase at New College made out of giant stones; a chapel library; year-round Summertown; wicked right turns; radishes from the garden club; rowdy rugby matches; school girl outfits; babies with British accents; Harry Potter outfits; dancing, daring, laughing, laughing, laughing.
The people I have met here have (honestly) far exceeded my expectations. While there are, of course, women I have befriended, I am shocked by the close male friends I have made...something that was (aside from the few special ones who know who they are) never a big part of my life.
Of course, what I am studying matters very much to me. However, my desire to write is overwhelming, incredible. If I was not so excited by the still-novel nature of this city, by sandwich shops and long walks, by the university parks and the way my windows open directly onto this world, I would write my life away here. There is not enough space, in writing and time, to describe this place I have found and carved out for myself. I sit here, staring at the ripening green tomatoes on my windowsille, my own collection of scarves, 1970s decor, strawberry scented laundry, and I know that I belong.
On a promise to a friend (our very own John Kennedy) I will write of what I have come to know as home here. The warm, wide room that looks out onto Woodstock Avenue. A college that borders Caterbury Road. Perhaps it is the rain, the raw, fallen leaves of autumn, but it is no mistake that Alice in Wonderland was drawn out of this small world. There are winding streets--North Parade, a cobblestone avenue where Christmas lights blink year round; Merton street, a precious, if empty street, strewn with short, smiling homes. There are nights at the late bar, 2 pound ciders and rounds of pool (and Boggle!). There are long bike rides on my rickety, purple-pink Raleigh bike...basket filled with groceries and articles, an overwhelming desire to wear tights. Conversations about prime ministers and converse sneakers; everywhere is decorated in scarves.
This is a place I never expected to be. And, due to that realization, I am able to capitalize on what are the true magical moments: small winks of wild surprise that take my breath away each day: the skinny staircase at New College made out of giant stones; a chapel library; year-round Summertown; wicked right turns; radishes from the garden club; rowdy rugby matches; school girl outfits; babies with British accents; Harry Potter outfits; dancing, daring, laughing, laughing, laughing.
The people I have met here have (honestly) far exceeded my expectations. While there are, of course, women I have befriended, I am shocked by the close male friends I have made...something that was (aside from the few special ones who know who they are) never a big part of my life.
Of course, what I am studying matters very much to me. However, my desire to write is overwhelming, incredible. If I was not so excited by the still-novel nature of this city, by sandwich shops and long walks, by the university parks and the way my windows open directly onto this world, I would write my life away here. There is not enough space, in writing and time, to describe this place I have found and carved out for myself. I sit here, staring at the ripening green tomatoes on my windowsille, my own collection of scarves, 1970s decor, strawberry scented laundry, and I know that I belong.
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