Little Shocks of Authenticity: July 2006

Friday, July 28, 2006

Street Post 3

Origin. Starting place. Point of departure. A beginning.

Clarissa Dalloway’s walk begins with a single step outside of her Dean’s Yard townhouse. But we, a group of college students attempting to physically encounter Virginia Woolf’s London, seventy some years later, must actually walk to a starting point. The beginning of the Dalloway walk is not a given; we cannot simply step off of a bus and begin to work our way to the flower shop. For us, even the starting point is a place we must reach. I leap off of the second step of our coach, land awkwardly (and sandal-less) upon the scorching Westminster pavement. As I relieve my pain from the pavement induced burns by hopping quickly back into my sandals, I find myself discovering the infinite possibilities of a day; the immeasurable differences between a stroll in (or outside of) my own shoes and a morning in Clarissa’s.

After standing outside the bus for fifteen or so minutes, organizing our group and nominating Sara as our faithful trailblazer (as always), we begin our trek to the beginning of Clarissa’s journey. We walk in three different directions, incessantly backtracking and overshooting before we find ourselves in Dean’s Yard, where it is suspected Clarissa Dalloway lived. I stood in the middle of the street and spun myself around until I reached a point of dizziness, looked directly at one door and decided that that door was Mrs. Dalloway’s. Even though Mrs. Dalloway is a fictional character, and even though she could have lived in any one of those houses (not just the one I selected) if she actually were real, for my own purposes, I needed a an exact starting place, a predetermined Clarissa began her journey HERE in order to enjoy my own walk. Having traversed unsuccessfully for so long before actually finding Dean’s Yard, and knowing that randomness and chance encounter would be huge determining factors of my own walk, I desired an exact origin.

Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway accounts for the happenings to various interrelated people on single day. The day, the people, the events, the thoughts are exceedingly ordinary. Random sightings and encounters recall (un)certain memories and thoughts. Like Clarissa, I would not have been able to predict my near-tragic incidents with busses, my meeting of someone who is perhaps the nicest little old man to have ever existed, and the minutes spent digging through my wallet to find enough change to purchase a bottle of water. Even as Big Ben marked away the hours, randomness and chance pervaded these neatly measured units of time. My walk and Woolf’s novel both have definite beginnings, certainties that surround and contrast the ensuing variables as I stuggle to retrace Clarissa’s journey with my mind and footsteps.

Museum 3

With Dali’s ‘Autumnal Cannibalism’ already permanently etched to the surface of our minds, Lauren and I meandered around the remaining seven rooms of Tate Modern’s surrealist exhibit, allowing the image to seep beneath the surface and hoping earnestly that another painting might captivate our minds in the way Dali’s had. The multiplicity of subjects, the seamless flow of one human body into another, the indiscernability of the human subject and its permeating landscape boggled my mind and inspired my heart. What other painting could possibly infect me with simultaneous desire and repulsion the way this one had? Even with all of my love for the painting, the act of looking at it for more than a few seconds at a time gave me a headache. We moved on to the rest of the exhibit after a couple of minutes; Dali’s painting still weighting heavily on our minds. As I scuttled about The Tate Modern’s third floor, I attempted to discern what exactly I liked about the painting. I realized I’d seen the placard which read ‘Salvador Dali, Autumnal Cannibalism’ before I’d even glanced at the painting itself. I’ve been an unapologetic Dali for years. Is it possible that I was determined to love the painting before I’d even seen it, based solely on the fact I knew it was a work done by Dali?

We approached a painting several minutes later and instantly began listing off its Chagall-like features—the eroticism, the presence of wildlife, the manipulation of a completely non-realist perspective, its foregrounding of a highly detailed human form with less distinguished animals in the periphery. Lauren and I began to vocalize our adoration of the work and its Chagall-ness. Our diatribe went on and on without us even thinking to look at the adjacent placard to see who the painting was by. It was of course, a Chagall. We burst out in a simultaneous bout of laughter; even with lengthy conversation about how this painting looked like a Chagall, the actual idea that it was a Chagall hadn’t occurred to either of us. I still laugh thinking about it, but I’ve also come to some realizations about my own spectatorship. I’m so incredibly interested in biography and have always found it impossible (and undesirable) to detach art from the individual artist. I’ve always looked at an artist’s collection as a type of biography. Looking back upon our recent class discussions of ‘Dorian Gray’, how could I not look at art in this way? Even though I am completely devoid of confidence in my own ability to interpret visual works, I understand the value and importance in being able to do a simple close reading of a painting or a sculpture, regardless of the artist responsible for its creation. Without trying to sound too self-congratulatory, I suppose this moment of Chagall (un)recognition showed that I am capable of looking at art in such a manner, and I’m quite excited that I was able to do so. I don’t know how, exactly, I might go about repeating the process, but I’m more excited than ever about closely examining visual culture inside and outside of museums.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Dorian Gray Post

My current preoccupation with Oscar Wilde seems a bit over the top when I recognize my relatively recent exposure to the great writer. It was just over a year ago in my E 314 L class that we read The Importance of Being Earnest, thus inspiriting my subsequent obsession with Wilde and all of his texts. A fifty-cent purchase from Half-Priced Books the following fall (Oscar Wilde’s Book of Wit, featuring his most quotable witticisms) displays a cartoon version of the author on the cover in his signature pose. Slightly tilting the left, his hands are placed huffily on his hips while a slightly ridiculous grin stretches across his face. I hesitate at referring to this stance as his signature pose; as I remember it, this has been my pose. Nearly every photograph of my freshman year of college gives supporting evidence.
In the opening paragraph of Chapter 11 in The Picture of Dorian Gray, the narrator describes Gray’s affinity for a certain Parisian novel, a book in which he finds a literary ancestor: ‘And , indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it.’ I am completely fascinated by this idea (especially this particular quote) of our non-genealogical ancestors. I’ll admit that I (semi) jokingly refer to myself as Oscar Wilde incarnate, but there exists a certain amount of truth behind those jokes. Throughout my reading of the novel, I recognized so many pleasures and experiences that were strangely familiar. The total fascination with excess, the visually engaging (and often highly theatrical) ways in which characters never seem to calmly sit down but always ‘fling [themselves] into couches,’ the unbridled interest in the intersection between life and art. The idea that these vectors which have so deeply permeated gay culture and eventually penetrated my own life have an origin, a beginning point, that they have not always been elements of homosexual identity is so mindboggling to me. I feel almost as though I’ve taken certain things about gay culture for granted. While I’ve been familiar with the infamous Wilde trials for years now, and aware of the difference of homosexual identity as opposed to homosexual practice since entering college, I don’t think I had ever realized the extent to which Wilde’s entire life was actually a turning point in revealing sexuality as a possible identity vector.
Just as the Parisian novel has functioned for Dorian, Wilde’s novel has operated for me (though I certainly hope my relationship to the novel produces less dire outcomes).

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Dickens 2: What's in a Name?

''My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funny name?''--Bleak House, page 760

During our last class discussion of Bleak House, I came to a sudden (and what I then thought to be brilliant) realization about the name Dedlock. Not only does Dedlock provide an aura of entrapment and being closed in, it actually rhymes with 'wedlock'--a possibly interesting connection if one considers the illegitimate child narrative which pervades the novel. I wrote down ''Dedlock rhymes with wedlock'' on my notebook and showed it to Sara, who was sitting next to me at the time. She replied with her inclination toward reading it more as a homophonic play on ''dead-lock'' which I had already considered, but in a brief moment of embarrassment, I non-sensically replied with ''and Tulkinghorn rhymes with Mulkinghorn.''

While I do know (tragically) that Mulkinghorn is in fact, not a word, it was not until I decided to make fun of the name in itself that I fully recognized the ridiculousness (and concomitant cleverness) of many of the names of the novel's featured characters. I had made casual observations about the character's names throughout the entire reading process, but had never devoted any time to specifically reflecting upon their names.

Esther. Jellyby. Woodcourt. Mr. Bucket. Dedlock. Jarndyce (and Jarndyce). All of these names (and many of the others) are so incredibly fitting in their extremity and theatricality; appropriateness perhaps derived from the melodramatic structure of the text. As someone who reads plays with a much greater frequency than he reads novels (and thus finds it much more difficult to distinguish the genre of a novel than the genre of a dramatic text), the character names actually played a large role in establishing these characters as characters, and thus influenced my ability to read the novel as a melodramatic text. The heightened nature of the names made it easier to type the characters into the certain carefully chiseled ‘stock’ roles for which they were designed.

I do not wish to simply offer an array of different observations about the names, but I will try to do a condensed version with great brevity just to make my argument a bit more lucid. ‘Woodcourt’ lends itself to several readings—as an overall stoically solid name; as a name in which the strength and sturdiness of ‘wood’ balance the instability of the ‘court’; or as an indication of Alan as the would-be (will be) love interest --he is someone that Esther would court (my preferred reading). The name ‘Mr. Bucket’ has, over the past ten or so years entered popular imagination as a children’s toy that independently scoots around living rooms across America, spewing the contents from its bucket head while children attempt to throw them back in the bucket (only to be taunted by the vengeful bucket immediately popping the toys back out). Despite the ridiculousness of this image, the idea of this more recent Mr. Bucket helped illustrate Dickens’ Mr. Bucket as relentless but nevertheless amiable, which I feel are incredibly important characteristics we must acknowledge in our reading of this inspector. While the name Jarndyce did not do anything spectacular for me when reading the text silently, reading it aloud (especially in a British accent) might allow for the name to be pronounced something similar to jaundice (which is, incidentally, Microsoft Word’s preferred spelling of the name). While I am certainly not offering any sort of interchangeability of the two words or further reading into of the Jarndyce/Jaundice idea, I am certainly interested in the ways different names play themselves out when repeated (and replicated) in a contemporary context. How did the Victorian connotation of the name Esther compare to its contemporary sitcom-esque old-woman stereotype it has enjoyed over the past couple of decades?

Like many of my street and museum posts, I would like to conclude this one with a series of questions. These questions are simply things I’d like to ask myself in future readings of texts because of my new interest in them at this time. While my knowledge of melodrama is relatively limited (other than its level of heightened theatricality and use of stock characters), I’d like to further pursue an analysis of the relationship between character name and genre. To what extent does a melodramatic text call for names of a certain theatricality? What is the connection between character names in other genres?

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Museum 2

I regretted saying it as the words were coming out of my mouth. Panicking, I searched for some verbal rewind button (which I never found). I’m the type of person that says absurd and ridiculous things all of the time, but I’ve always tried to stay on the safe side, that is, never entering the realm of entirely pseudo-intellectual musings. Sara stares at me, her voice and eyes beckoning, ‘What the hell did you just say?’

What the hell did I just say?

Just seconds before, as Sara, Erin and I stood in part of the ‘London as Global City’ exhibit in the Museum of London, I had actually felt the need to ask the question, ‘What if the Museum of London was in a Museum?’ I don’t think I initially understood the question I’d posed, and it took Sarah herself a couple of minutes to process the question as well. When she asked me to repeat what I’d said, I tried to escape with a simple ‘never mind,’ hoping my stupid comment might be lost among maps, grand pianos and glass fixtures. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that, however ridiculous it may be, there actually is something interesting about the question I’d asked—it really propelled me to think about museum culture.

The typical objects often found in museums are circulated frequently throughout popular imagination. While this list is far from entirely inclusive, works of art, belongings of famous people, and artifacts from indigenous or somehow otherwise exoticised cultures are often some of the first objects that come to mind when the word ‘museum’ is overheard. While all of these (and any of the other seemingly infinite museum subjects) vary in size greatly, what is the size limit? Both the Dickens House Museum and Soanes House Museum could be easily placed in larger museum settings (the latter might especially benefit from it). But what does it mean to encounter an object in a particular museum? A fork belonging to Charles Dickens might easily make its way into the Dickens Museum, but the same fork in the Museum of London might mean something entirely different. How do we decide which museum (or other space) is most appropriate for a particular object to inhabit? How does a museum as a single object (and not just a collection of other objects) function, and might it, like the artifacts it houses, be collectible?

I realize I’ve generated many more questions than answers, but that might be the best for now. I’m still relatively inexperienced at visiting museums and understanding how I need to navigate them in a way that is suitable for and appropriate to me. I don’t mean to suggest that entire (or even partial) museums might one day be singular exhibits in a museum of a much grander scale, but my initial question does lead me to ask, ‘are there limits? What are they? What are we excluding?’

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Street 1

A boy in his early twenties sporting a belly-shirt, showing off his lean body as it asymtopically approaches eating-disorder status, complete with faux-hawk and Diesel jeans. A middle-aged business executive with a sports coat tossed over his shoulder and Armani shirt slightly unbuttoned, revealing just enough chest to suggest he'd spent hours in the gym prior to that morning’s board meeting. An androgynous youth who may or may not be old enough to legally enter any of the bars in an area; the quote on the back of his t-shirt is some homage to Judy.

None of these types existed in the male-dominated portion of the Soho district we immediately entered following our trek from the nearby Covent Gardens. Women were few and far between, and seemed to be heading quickly for one of the few bars designated specifically for lesbians. The occasional heterosexual family with young children passed by with a relatively low frequency.

For the most part, my introduction to the gay district of London marked (at least this part of Soho) as nearly exclusively male, masculine, and white.

I'm not quite sure why I expected Soho to be more representative of a femme male population than a masculine one (thought I can undoubtedly at least partially ascribe my expectations to my own desires and, I'll admit, masculine-phobia). Nevertheless, I never expected there to be (what I initially perceived to be) a nearly exact delineation between butch and femme. And I'm not going to lie: I had a small internal panic attack. Where were all the fem boys at?

We walked around for a bit, perusing both sides of the street. A visit to a porn shop (with a surprisingly large collection of straight porn, artificial vaginas, and oral sex simulators) was terminated moments after we entered and we continued our search for the appropriate gay bar. The act of actually entering a bar was delayed and delayed because of the vast number of only butch men crowding around outside the bars while drinking from overcompensatingly large mugs of beer. Were there any bars not specifically marked as butch? Finally we settled on entering Duke Wellington's. It was getting relatively late and we still needed to eat dinner prior to meeting the bus at nine o'clock.

And there they were! The boys from before, the ones I had projected onto the Soho I imagined. Raging queens, total nellies, and I suppose one or two boys in the middle, were all inside of the bar. It took me a while before I actually decided to contemplate why there was this fem boys inside/butch boys outside dynamic; I was just relieved to find them!

The indoor clientele was the first of many surprises at Duke Wellington’s. The bar also featured an all gay bartending staff (in contrast to the often all-hetero staff hired in many gay districts in America), each of whom fit a specific type. One typical pretty boy with a tan and Abercrombie shirt. One more ‘punk’ looking androgynous guy in his 20s. One (dare I say thicker) young man, donned jean shorts and tank top. Popular fem types were represented not only as frequenters of the bar, but as employees, perhaps designed to specifically target the various gay crowds.

I am still unsure as to how I feel about the butch/fem division of men in Soho. Granted, we were in the part of Soho that bordered with other London neighborhoods, and I speculate that this proximity to other London neighborhoods might actually grant easier access to closeted men, (we overheard a man on his cell phone tell his secretary to let his wife know he’d be home late tonight, as he entered a bar simply, though appropriately, named ‘gay’).

While I find the butch/fem delineation problematic in many ways, I feel I immensely benefited from engulfing myself in a butch male environment. My own internal homophobias of masculine gay men, while not immediately resolved, were called to my attention. And even though I remain critical about some parts of the gendering and whiteness of Soho, I enjoyed myself immensely. Is the structure of the gay district perfect? Of course it isn’t. But there remained something in the air, some repeated exhalation of satisfaction and comfort that such a place existed. Gay bars end where the theatre district begins, what more can a boy ask for? I cannot wait for my return in a couple of weeks. Next time I’ll know where (and how) to look.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Museum 1

Two glass cases past an exhibit on ancient forms of undergarments, just prior to an exhibit containing yet another loud green gown that I demanded to be released to my personal wardrobe from its exile in the Victoria and Albert Museum, stood a small glass case containing two different men’s outfits. Decisively smaller than most of the women’s exhibits, and much less flamboyant than the only other male showcase (which featured a purple dress suit—yet another must-have), this case contained two outfits: one set of foxhunting attire, complete with red hunting jacket and taupe breeches, and one set of less formal riding attire, accented by a dull blue sweater and one of those caps most popularized by the young entrepreneurs in the Disney made-for-television musical Newsies. A former equestrian myself, I re-imagined myself in these examples of riding garb. In my competition days the traditional loud red had been replaced by a more subtle navy blue; the top hat evolved into a black velvet cap offering little, if any protection for my head. While I’d seen foxhunting attire before (though I’m not prepared to defend the authenticity of the wardrobe during the foxhunting scene in the movie adaptation of Auntie Mame), it served as a nice reminder that yes, everything I wear, but some clothes specifically, have elaborate and extensive histories. Every time the ten year old me donned a hunt jacket or struggled over the decision between matching black or brown (brown eventually won) garter belts and jodhpur boots, I was attaching myself to those histories.
Opening my eyes a few moments later, I realized a small blurb located next to each outfit in the glass case. I hadn’t read it yet—I didn’t need to. But I took a moment and I glanced over the description, re-learning facts I forgot I knew. The blurb mentioned something about aesthetics and functionality, that the evolution of men’s business suits is rooted in hunting attire. The outfit in this case, for example, led to the transition away from frilled shirts beneath and a more trim, tapered appearance. Once I moved past the irony of this placard describing the outfits utility (how does one utilize something blocked off by a glass case and a series of sensors and alarms prepared to go off at any moment, should one offer an object safety from idleness), I began to think more and more about the circuitous relationship between utility and aesthetics. An object designed for its functionality may or may not meet popular expectations and demands for aesthetics when it debuts to a given generation, but perhaps it might act as a historical motif, recurring according to certain fashions and trends.
I’m reminded of a recent special issue of Vogue which featured ‘Victorian Dress in the Modern City.’ The magazine featured sleek models in dress inspired by the aesthetics (and functionality?) of dress from centuries past. Discussions in regards to the advantages of aesthetics as opposed to utility have been central to the ‘Sister Arts’ class I am taking concurrently with this one. We have posed questions as to the justification of allotting a space to have a pure aesthetic value? Is a desire for beauty enough to not use land more ‘productively’? I like to consider myself an aesthete, but more than satisfy any of my desires to just look at beautiful objects; the Victoria and Albert Museum filled me with questions. What is the exact relationship between functionality and appearance? What comes first? How do we praise an object for its utility and then lock it up in a glass case? How do we wear something gorgeous and risk staining, tearing, or otherwise reducing it in quality, when it might be better off clung to the figure of a mannequin in the Victoria and Albert? How can I get that purple suit?

Novel 1 (Bleak House)

''They [Richard and Ada] brought a chair on either side of me, and put me between them, and really seemed to have fallen in love with me, instead of one another; they were so confiding, and so trustful, and so fond of me. ''

—Esther, Page 211, Chapter 13 (Penguin Edition)

''My experience teaches me, Lady Dedlock, that most of the people I k now would do far better to leave marriage alone. It is at the bottom of three-fourths of their troubles.''

—Mr. Tulkinghorn, Chapter 41, Page 658 (Penguin Edition)

Even within the opening chapters of Dickens’ Bleak House, the third-person narrator(s) suggest the family unit as a microcosm for England. Just as depictions of London render the city as foggy, filthy and therefore non-functioning, nearly all of the nuclear (and perhaps, pseudo-nuclear) families are in some way broken and in need of mending. Given the interestingly situated gender and sexuality structures in the novel, this portrayal of family life as comparable to (or even equal with) a healthy government and nationalist/imperialist stance is complicated and often contradictory. When Dickens purports this allegorical relationship between family and state, it seems that he would then also privilege the heterosexual romance as a device with which to both drive the plot forward and seek conflict resolution. In the world of Bleak House, a typical male/female romance resulting in marriage suggests a happier future in which a ''healthy'' nuclear family may symbollically restore both the state of the home and the state of the nation. Interestingly, Dickens avoids this heteronormative narrative and divulges a landscape that prioritizes both female and male homosociality (and sometimes homoeroticism) as the relationships that must be maintained for the benefit of future generations and a more sanitary, honest London.

The presence of female homosociality comes primarily in the form of Esther’s relationships to other women. Even as early on as her relationship with her toy ‘dolly’, her friendships with women are privileged over any heterosexual plot. When the opportunities for active heterosexual participation arrive, Esther often rejects them and finds solace in her female companions. In the early scene in which the shock of Mr. Guppy’s marriage proposal drives Esther to tears, she runs off to her room, seeking ''the dear old doll, long buried in the garden'' to alleviate her frustration and confusion with her own entrance into a traditional heterosexual plot (114). Similarly, when Esther receives the proposal from Jarndyce, she escapes to her bedroom, kisses Ada, who, for the first time since Esther’s disfiguration, is now allowed to watch her dress. At the end of one Chapter, Esther finally reveals that another male (the young surgeon)was a dinner guest; she avoids mentioning him earlier in the chapter as not to distract the reader from the Esther/Ada narrative with a superfluous heterosexual plotline.

While Esther enjoys homosocial bonds with any number of women in the text (Caddy and Charlie, among others), it is in her relationship to Ada that homoerotic potential is most prominently figured. Immediately upon becoming friends, the two women use words such as ''my pet'' and ''my dear'' to describe one another, never omitting words such as ''pretty'' and ''beautiful'' to publicly reference their physical attractiveness. Esther is the first to admit the nearly ridiculously early point in the friendship at which point the two feel comfortable expressing the physical and emotional affection for one another and openly acknowledges physical attractiveness as a prominent fulcrum upon which their friendship is balanced. Figured most evidently in the first citation above, Esther basks in the idea of Ada being in love with her. In her enjoyment of Ada’s affection, Esther re-imagines the notion of an erotic triangle; now it is the singular male, not singular female, functions merely to facilitate homo(social/erotic) encounters between two women.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Bar Hopping!

Last night was absolutely lovely. After a week of pretty intense reading and academia, not to mention incessant travel, Erin and I finally rewarded ourselves with a night out on the town. Wasted. A group of about 10 or so of us went out.

The events of the night were as follows.

1. I washed clothes so I could look cute going out. The dryer broke. I wore wet clothes. With my new blazer. It ended up being ok.

2. Me thinking I lost my credit card.

3. Drinking a bottle of ''vodka blue'' wall reading Bleak House. This was fine and all until I realized that there is a mirror at the end of my bed...so every time I glanced up from my novel, I got a glimpse of myself drinking from a huge bottle and reading Dickens. Not the cutest sight.

4. Going downstiars to the pub at my dorm and doing a shot of vodka with Erin. Then drinking a ''loopy juice''--consisting of 2 shots of vodka with soem sort of smirnoffy mixer. (Sound familiar Anthony?) Megan came down and we all headed out to bar hop.

5. Bar #1. Pretty cute place, but kind of low key--it seems like it'd be a great place to stop at for a beer in the afternoon. If you are into beer. Or afternoons. Several of us did Vodka shots (thanks Lauren!) and then waited on people to finish their beers to find a place a bit more exciting. There should be a lovely picture of my pink shot glass next to Spencer's enormous beer cup.

6. We went to the purple turtle...which was lovely. Once again, we had a vodka shot, followed my a cranberry and vodka. Much dancing ensued. I'm sure I looked beyond redic...but whatevs. I think it is arround this point that I decided that whenver I saw Phillip I would scream ''PHILIP'' (in what can only be described as the most hard cor manner). Luckily, my screams were usually promptly returned with ''PATRICK'' being screamed in an equally enthusiastic manner. At some point I got a picture with the new object of my obsession, a local black dancer (dances like CRAZY) named Felicity whose (husband?) is the DJ at the Purple Turtle. One more cranberry and vodka later, we all decided we need Madonna or Prince to be an integral part of our evenings. When the DJ would not provide desired music as such, we decided to find a gay bar.

7. The only gay bar we directed to was entitled ''The Jolly Farmer''...and I'm not going to lie, the title made me pretty nervous. By the time we got there we noticed that it was low key and full of old large gay men. Who would have thought? So we left.

8. Erin realizes she has lost her wallet. We return to purple turtle.

9. Erin finds her wallet...and then runs into one of her good friends from high school who is studying abroad as well.

10. I have another cranberry and vodka.

11. Megan and I have our G and T's....it was one of the best G and T's I've ever had in my life. I'm pretty sure at some point I asked Megan if it was ok if I became obsessed with her...why do I say things?

12. Now I'm awake, it's early, and I'm not sure if I want to make the trip to Stratford today. Part of me just wants to lay around here and do my reading for the weekend, etcetera.

Kisses and puppies to everyone from last night.

Monday, July 10, 2006

Oxford Update # 1

I'm finally taking the time to start updating this blog, just as I sit down to conclude my second full day here in Oxford. I'm not sure exactly where I should start with this, so I'll start from the very beginning (which, if my Sound of Music CD serves my memory correctly, is a vey good place to start).

I flew out of Austin (to Dallas) circa 3:45 on Friday, landing in Dallas virtually moments later. Within a few moments Erin arrived at the airport and any fears I had of a six week period of social awkwardness was immediatly alleviated. Once in Dallas, however, the flight was unfortunately delayed for about three hours, but eventually, around 10 pm, I believe, we began our 9.5 hour flight to London. I got to sit next to Erin, which was lovely, but I didn't get any of my work done, nor did I get to catch up on sleep. What I was able to do, however, is overhear my flight attendents say ridiculous things.

Ridiculous Flight Attendent Moment # 1

Flight Attendent (to Cory, donning a UT burn orange hoodie): Oh, so you go to UT? My son went there. Now he drives a Mercedes and makes more money than me. (storms away.)

Where do I even begin with this?

Ridiculous Flight Attendent Moment # 2

(To man sitting directly behind Erin and Me) Would you like a (in the most ridiculous attempt at a French accent I have ever heard) croissant?

First of all, this is airplane food, thus, any carbohydrate mascarading as a croissant is actually just bread dought baked in a crescend mold, thus any attempt at authenticity (verbal or otherwise) is something I must deem null and void. But then again, one must consider that this is the same flight attendent who repeatedly asked Erin and I how we were enjoying (in reference to our vegetarian options) our ''special meals.''

We finally arrive in London circa 1:30 PM (English Time), approximatley 7:30 AM Central Time, and stumbled our way to our luggage and eventually to a bus (aka ''coach'') that woudl take us to Oxford.

One quick note: in the bathroom of the hostel I found that paper towels were not used for drying hands, rather, a communal towel is used. I'm not quite sure how I feel abou this. And when I say I'm not quite sure how I feel about this, I mean I don't like it.

Once on the bus with the entire Oxford group (and sitting with both Erin and Sara, whom I knew vaguely from my British Novel in the 20th Century class last fall with Mia, but am growing to adore more and more each moment), Sara and I noticed various signs with the word ''HUMP'' written prominently on them. Apparently speed bumps in the US are humps in Britain. Needless to say, many a picture of such street signs were taken.

Approximately 1.5 hours later, we arrived at Brasenose College (part of the Oxford University campus) where we are staying, and its absolutely gorgeous. Its a series of beautiful gothic buildings from the early 14th century that has enjoyed little external change and (slight, and I do mean slight) internal remodelling.

We were randomly assigned rooms, or, in my case, closets. I am convinced the room I am staying in once served as servants quarters. It has a ceiling that slants at a 45 degree angle, and the floor serves as a meer intermediary between my bed and my dresser (which also functions as a desk). Its small, but its fine with me, if I wasn't aware of Erin's giant living quarters (complete with living room, sitting area, and working sink) I wouldnt even have thought of complaining. But here I am complianing. You know how I roll.

I unpacked immediately, knowing that if I didn'd do it the moment I got in that I wouldn't get a chance to do it at all. After this we set off on a journey to pick up all of our forgotten supplies (such as a plugin converter/adapter and ethernet cord, silly me).

Got back, fixed up our rooms, and went to dinner. The dining hall (where we ate the first night) was quite gorgeous, which, as luck would have it, so were the waiters. The vegetarian option had somethign to do with cous cous, which, I soon came to discover, would be the case at every meal. Luckily, I love cous cous and haven't gotten sick of it. Yet.

That evening, a group of 8 or so people went out to find a bar just to have a drink (for the premise of it) before we all passed out in an effort to recover from jet lag. We found a place with room for us to sit called ''The Goose'', definitely not the most enchanting of environments, but not the worst either. We split 3 (small) pitchers of ''On the Beach''--which I'm guessing is essentially the same as ''Sex on the Beach'', minus the ''sex.'' What sort of liquor or mixer equivilates to sex I might never no, but it did the job nonetheless. We stumbled (out of tiredness, not drunkenness) back to Brasenose, where I passed out oh so quickly.

Waking up Sunday morning wasn't terribly difficult, and the breakfast was much better than the mediocre dinner from the night before. Somethign with eggs, beans, and hashbrown. It was good, regardless. We then set out on a tour of several gardens in Oxford with Lisa Moore. I swear pictures will come eventually, but for right now, I'm afraid I can only offer verbal descriptions.

The gardens are absolutely gorgeous, the effort that must go into them is astouding, I simply can't imagine the process. We stopped at the garden at St. Edmund's College, and, most impressively, the garden at Magdalen (pronounced Maudlin) College, whose alumni includes, that's right, Oscar Wilde. Needless to say I got a picture of myself in my infamous Oscar Wilde pose at the entry to the college. Lisa promises I'll have plenty of opportunities to return to the spot and roll around in all of the Wilde glory. I can't wait.

Speaking of famous Oxford alumni, guess who lived at Brasenose, where I'm staying? CS Lewis! And just outside of my building stands a lamppost...the very lamppost the inspired him to use one as a demarcation of the transition from the wardrobe to Narnia. I hope to find a scruffy man, convince him his name is Mr. Tumnis, and then have pictures taken with him by the lamppost. Surely this is an accomplishable goal?

After all of the garden business and a little bit of relaxation, Erin, Travis, Sara, Daniel and I ended up going to an Italian bar (The G Bar) for the World cup. The bouncer was some sort of angry woman (imagine female gestapo meets dominatrix meets Mama Morton from Chicago) who yelled at us upon entrance, letting us know that if we were ever seen without a drink in hand, we would be asked to leave. Needless to say, this ended up being an expensive outing for me. I mean honestly, how long have I ever been able to keep a full drink in hand? Never, never before have I been able to achieve such a Sisaphysian task. I had one cranberry/vodka (tasted so good! like juice...possibly because it consisted of mostly that...juice) followed by, that's right...a beer. You know how I feel about beer. Not a big fan. It ended up being a good option because since I don't like it that much, I was able to drink it quite slowly, and not purchase any more drinks during the first half. The bar was stuffed full of Italians ( a mob of whom, crushed Erin behind the bathroom door, luckily she's ok) cheering loudly, throwing lit cigarettes, and waving Italian fags. One man was so excited that he started throwing lit cigarettes (according to Erin, he threw them at the screen, but my point of view he was throwing them directly at my face, whatevs). It was a three story pub with standing room only, SO packed. And you all know that I'm not a big sports fan. Nevertheless, something about scoring via headbutt inspired somethign of a fan in me. But then it never happend again and I got real bored. Luckily I was with great company and was able to escape the bar emotionally (and, after an Italian riot, physically) unharmed. We have lovely videos of Sara running down the sidestreets screem ''Ee-tall-ya, ee-tal-ya'' (Italia, Italia) at the top of her lungs.

We stopped at a small foodstand on the way home that advertised it served ''hamburgers, hotdogs, and vegetarians.'' I'm not sure if they understand the misstake, but regarddless, I'm not quite flattered by the idea of being served on a sesame seed bun along side a pot full of lose meat. But what's a boy to do?

That brings us up to today, the first day of classes. I was too busy staring at the attractive waitstaff this mornign to actually eat anything, which I regretted immensely as soon as I got to class. Lisa's class was great, we just went over the syllabus and then did a brief freewriting assignment, which she thought I did quite well. Then right after Lisa's class we had Ann's class at 11, and she seems like she'll be ridiculously fun to learn from as well. We got a small break from 12-1250 during which we grabbed a quick lunch and then headed on to the bus so we could make our first field trip to Stourhead Garden, which was undoubtedly the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

It's the location in which many of the scenes from the recent Pride and Prejudice movie was filmed and it was absoltuely increidble. Every step I took resulted in me looking at yet another picturesque seen. I'm pretty sure I took over 400 pictures during my 1 hour there.

And don't fret, Erin and I did take a picture of a reenactment of the proposal scene from P and P, with Erin as Mr. Darcy (of course). We then bussed it bac to Oxford, where we had dinner and I am now plunging into an intense night of homework, which includes this blog. I'm glad I got to get this all written out, I'm sure there is a ton I'm forgetting, but from now on I should be writing briefer updates on a daily basis. But don't worry, I'll do my best to keep everybody up to date on everything going on here. I hope everything is fabulous with you all!

Little Shocks of Authenticity