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.
