The program should have been our tell-tale sign. First, the director proudly brandished the fact that they put this together in a mere 39 days when it would normally take several months. Second, the group of actors became a company. Note: after they started rehearsing for the play. Third, and the biggest clue, this was to be a perfect blend of amateur and professional actors. Um, amateur??!?? Ok, now I'm feeling guilty. This was the problem actually: a constant pull and tug from being slightly horrified to feeling guilty for being horrified and turning instead to feeling proud of them for doing it, but really just embarrassed in a only-a-relative-could-sit-through-this-and-smile kind of way.
Ok, so if anyone knows anything about England, they know three things:
Thursday began with a taste of the UK commuter life: a 2 1/2 hr bus ride from Oxford to London at 7 a.m. Lara, Tim, Marlo, and I set off like true hardcore Shakespeare fans to get day-of tix to the new production of Hamlet playing in London's West End. And let me tell you, our fanatical early morning trek had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Jude Law was playing the title role. Nothing. Nada. Nope. Definitely not.
After the ticket purchase, Tim & I headed to the library only to find that it was, like Wyndham's Theatre, apparently the place to be. The manuscript room was...how did they put it? Ah, yes. FULL. Um, what?! Full? As in no way to work after taking a 2.5 hour pukey morning commute into London full?! I had a silent hissy fit (it was a library after all), regrouped and contemplated defeat. But in true form, I devised a plan B: stalk the readers in a casual "I'm just walking around looking at random books until one of you slips and leaves your space undefended" way. Sooner or later my plan worked.
For dinner, Marlo had an awesome Indian restaurant picked out in Covent Garden. The whole place was decorated with hanging dolls (see left)--creepy or colorful? You decide. After dinner, we made our way to the play. Tickets have been sold out for ages, so we were thrilled to get standing tickets. 
Of course, I had my Jersey elbows ready to throw if anyone tried to take my spot on the railing. Luckily, no such threat was necessary and the performance was fabulous. Jude didn't disappoint, and there were some other memorable elements (stage design, Ophelia's insanity, doing yoga poses amidst the skull scene to keep my legs from going numb...). Luckily, the bus ride back was uneventful, owing large part to the fact that it took place between 11 p.m. and 1:15 a.m. Rebels that we are, we even had to enter the college through the clandestine "late gate".
[top: Lara & Matt; bottom: Mark, Tim, Rabia, & me]
The trip began in Magdalen College (pictured left) where we walked the same path around the park where C. S. Lewis renounced Atheism with Tolkien. All Atheists in the group trod warily. From there, we saw the last house Tolkien inhabited in Oxford, one of the colleges he worked at in his 30s, and some fun signs advertising "Tudor Music by Candlelight." If there were ever a group of suckers for this kind of signage, surely it's this crew.
Our next stop was University Park where a bench (and some trees that I only pretended to identify) were dedicated to JRRT. Despite my ignorance, I offered to take a picture of Mark in front of a random bush that I thought was more worthy of a Tolkien dedication...good thing Tim & Lara have an eye for such symbolic flora and snapped a real shot.
Before closing out the afternoon, we hit the longest leg of the trek on our way to another of Tolkien's homes in Oxford. While perched on a stone wall belonging to a neighbor, the group discussed whether or not we'd ever buy the house. On the one hand, you get to sit in the room where the Elvish language and concepts like "second breakfast" came into being. On the other hand, you also get to look out your window at small gatherings of bookish tourist types staring at your house, straining to read the tiny plaque tacked to the front facade. It's a toss up.
Like all true Tolkien fans, we concluded the festivities in the famous "Eagle and Child." Since it was Sunday, the desirable "Rabbit Room" was taken (don't ask...the names of these pubs get much, much weirder). With our free St. Edmund Hall dinner awaiting us, most restrained themselves and ordered a pint. I, on the other hand, had no such restraint and ordered the full repertoire of fish, chips, and ale. The last picture I'll include is one I can't resist. I title this: "Mark, serious about Tolkien."
I should begin with a sincere regret that I lack photographic evidence of this evening's shinanigans (in its stead, I offer a sign we passed on our second adventure, one which will make sense soon). As many of you know, I've been on a quest to discover the UK salsa scene--London or, if need be, Oxford. Since we missed our London window, Emily, Marlo, and I decided to try our luck in Oxfordshire.
I felt initiated into generations of literati today as I sipped my first glass of sherry, surrounded by old books in St. Edmund Hall at Oxford. Ok, that sounds really pretentious. But, really--it seems that part of the "pass Go" aspect of academia has something to do with sherry, or at least some sort of hard alcohol consumed amongst volumes of literature. Why? Simply a residual aspect of the "old boys club"? An admission that we need massive amounts of liquor to sweeten the realization that an entire day was wasted wrestling with an antiquated online catalog? Because we're in Oxford and that's just what the natives do?