Wizards and more old books

We show-goers (what I've dubbed Marlo, Lara, Tim, & I after our adventures in London...and those to come in Stratford this week) finished out last week in true Oxfordian form: catching the new Harry Potter movie. After forcing Lara to stuff my gummy worms in her coat pocket to avoid the leering eyes of the ticket collectors (I, alas, was pocket-less), we made our way to the theater--albeit amidst swarms of pre-teens and their parents. But that's not the point. Wizardry and horcruxes and such. That's what it's all about. Well, that and the gummy worms.


Quite a fun show, and well-worth the ridicule we faced from our peers the next day at breakfast. Friday brought us to our last library tour at St. John's College, and, to drop a total cliche, one worth the wait. Jim Bracken, one of the seminar leaders and Assistant Director of Libraries at Ohio State, organized a fabulous exhibit of a range of early printed books and manuscripts, including William Caxton's (the first printer in England) 1483 copy of Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales and John Eliot's so-called 1663 "Indian" Bible (translated into a Native American language). We even got our first, and probably last, group shot and had time to dig into the books resting in their almost-authentically-early-modern library stalls. Most important of all, though, were the many individual "reading Chaucer" pictures taken that day.

'Tis Pity...really.

In round two of "Marlo, Emily & Laura hit the town," we went to see John Ford's rarely performed revenge tragedy, 'Tis Pity She's a Whore, last night. If you're not familiar with Ford, don't get scared by the title...well, I take that back. It's a pretty disturbing play--but, not in the way you might think. Granted there's eye gauging and conniving secretly-Spanish servants and a bloody still-beating heart (and did I mention the incest??), but it really is--in theory--quite good. Sadly, we decided to take our chances with the local theater scene, hoping above hopes that it's England after all and this is where theater should be good everywhere, in a permeating-the-English-genetic-pool kind of way. Oh, and did I mention we walked two miles to get there? Yeah.

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.

To understand how we felt afterward, take a look at Marlo's dramatic reinactment pictured above, in which she poses with the program for the play, all while Emily empathizes with her pain.

O vegetables, how I miss thee

Ok, so if anyone knows anything about England, they know three things:

1. There was that Shakespeare guy.
2. They still have a queen.
3. Finding good food here is a serious feat--unless you enjoy a tasty batch of fish n' chips every night...and afternoon...and as soon as you wake up.

#1 and #2 we can forgive them for, even applaud. But it is the last point which has consumed my thoughts--indeed, my daily existence--for the past few weeks. So much so, in fact, that a fellow seminarian, Matt, has kindly given me his favorite post card from our travels because of how perfectly it expresses my misery (see above). Thank god for immigration...and for Marks & Spencer pre-made salads.

Why Jude Law...I mean Shakespeare is always worth it

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.

Tim & Marlo had the right idea with how to pass the time (see above). Once we arrived, the line had already started forming (freakish fans came at 5 a.m.), but we still secured some standing room tickets. These were no mere "groundling" spots, though--but more on that later.

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".

Retracing the roots of hobbits, orcs, and other such Middle-earthean lore

[top: Lara & Matt; bottom: Mark, Tim, Rabia, & me]

Together with our fearless & wise leader, Mark, we embarked on our most serious literary venture yet: a walking Tolkien tour of Oxford. Several things were working in our favor yesterday afternoon: first, 8 out of 9 of us have a deep-rooted love of The Lord of the Rings (thanks, Dennis, for ruining our stats); second, the British weather gods were working in our favor with a sunny, 70-degree afternoon; and, third, "The Eagle and Child" pub (where Tolkien, Lewis, and other inklings gathered regularly) was dangling in front of us like a carrot as our post-tour reward.

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."

Why all of those British comedies suddenly make sense, or, "Salsa in Oxford"

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.

Oh, and did we get lucky. Simply put, what can be more delightful than taking a local bus to a strange intersection ("Barracks Lane" and "Hollow Way"--who needs Dickens when we have streets like that), only to be rewarded with our destination: Lord Sheffield (Heffield?? Holfield??...no difference) Club. Think: VFW Hall meets YMCA meets lower rung country club...with a good smathering of suburban British types.

Once inside said "hall," we were greeted by a woman at the front desk who said, "Oh, hello. Are you here for the communion?" Me, fighting back laughter: "Uh, right...um, no. Not the communion...didn't know about that. Salsa, something with salsa?"

Discovering that we had 45 minutes before the adventure really began, we did what any normal group of women waiting for a salsa night at a suburban Oxford VFW/YMCA (on the 4th of July, no less) might do: we hit the bar. There, we encountered the Russian bartender. I'll call him Max. Max, as we soon found out, was "filling in" for a friend, which became rather clear as Marlo had to resort to her seventh choice of drinks because Max hadn't exactly gone through the Ivy League of bartending schools. Once we had our proper beverages of choice, we wandered to the "outside garden" area only to discover said communion, complete with a tempting spread of hamburgers and hot dogs. I'm convinced it was the universe teasing us for being in England on the 4th of July. We squeezed into our picnic table and drank, contemplating a day where we might have worn red, white, and blue and flaunted our freedom from British colonial oppression...clearly something we didn't follow through with.

And then we took our salsa lessons, danced, laughed, drank a little more British ale, and took turns "shaking our groove thang" on the disco-bus we inadvertently caught to take us home to "Teddy Hall" (not before weaving amongst the drunk Oxfordians to get to "Ahmad's Bar B Q" and a delicious late-night falafel). A successful night had by all, thanks especially to Lord Neffield, Max, the disco-bus, and Ahmad.

Addendum: Marlo has poignantly reminded me of one additional crucial tidbit from our salsa-rific evening. We had a UFO citing while waiting for the disco bus in the freezing night air. Really. A UFO. Hovering above Oxford. Beat that.

When in Oxford...

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?

Well, pretention or not--sherry or not--once a bibliophile, always a bibliophile.

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