Oxford. And, the end.

Against the hundreds and probably thousands of books, short stories, poems, letters, and journal entries on the subject of Oxford, I submit this claim:

The place is impossible to describe.

So much simultaneous reality exists here, that attempting a coherent description feels a bit like trying to explain all the meanings of a constellation or celestial phenomenon. It is a thing that has been discovered, interpreted and imagined so differently and so many millions of times, I'm amazed the buildings don't just give up and collapse under the weight of all the things that have been said and told and imagined about them. It must be exhausting, actually, to be Oxford. Such a small place, but making up in imaginative density whatever it lacks in size. Love it, hate it, or ignore it as you will, the incredible unreality of the place can't be denied. After a couple thousand years of continual intellectual and imaginative excavation, of being combed through and through by all the fine-tooth combs of all the visitors and scholars, what else could be expected but a slow and steady slide into the incomprehensible, unreal, and indescribable?

So, I won't try to tell you about Oxford. You'll just have to go and imagine it for yourselves.

And in a way, there isn't much to tell about my last 10 days there, except that they were (like Mary Poppins) practically perfect in every way. I had forgotten, I think, that I have a pretty much fully functioning life waiting for me there, with many lovely and often ridiculously impressive people to see and talk things over with over tea, or coffee, or any number of delicious things that are really bad for me and really, really good. A life that, I now perceive, was even fuller than I realized while living it every day (of course). Distracted as I was by... well... learning things, and by the unnecessary stress of worrying that I wasn't making the most of my time.

Being a former student is, I now see, a better way to experience the true Oxonian's Oxford. Hanging one's hat there for a while as a traveler and a dilettante (without the burdensome distraction of actual study or scholarly exertion) is just the thing, I suspect, that Oxford was designed for. Despite its claims of being a serious institution of higher learning, I think (maybe not now, but for much of its history, and on this trip, for me) Oxford might be better described as a serious institution of higher dabbling. Some would even say 'procrastinating,' but I think the non-work being done at Oxford deserves a more flattering title. It is perfectly acceptable, in other words, when someone asks you what you are doing, to gently slip a leaf out from Christopher Robin's book and say "Oh, nothing," while wandering away into the University Parks, or drifting down the river on a punt. 'Nothing' is a very much respected activity in some Oxford circles, and it is certainly practiced to perfection among the graduate students in the English faculty.

And now, sitting at Briana Harper's desk in her lovely apartment in Brooklyn, I am searching for a way to draw this teensy little project to a close. Here, in the borough where it was born, I see the extreme Spanish tan already fading from my toes, and look over at all the traveller's loot spilling from the suitcase I was forced to buy yesterday in London (the backpack lasted through almost everything, but packed with cider, olive oil, and honey as it was, I just couldn't bring myself to check it unprotected onto an international flight).

And, even as I wrap things up and put them away, I'm sure I'll make use of this space in the future, as I have more semi-exciting things to report. I will, after all, be moving to California in August, and no doubt there will be some describing to do.

But until then, I am so very happy to abandon this awkward and incomplete mode of communication, to release myself from the strange world of the blog, and to hop on the subway (and in two weeks, on another plane home) and come and see you. For REAL. At last.

All my love,

Amelia

Overnight trains, la France, and channel crossings

Sarah had, very generously, loaded me down with olive oil and honey from the farm, and so I decided to forfeit my €12 RyanAir ticket from Barcelona to Paris and take the twelve hour overnight train instead. It was, as very affordable overnight train experiences go, relatively painless. But my initial joy at discovering one of my cabin-mates to be an adorable French kindergartener was somewhat dimished after she spent the first few hours of the ride throwing up on everything. Her mother, very apologetic, was of course unable to actually DO anything about the smelly and unfortunate situation. Although she argued convincingly with one of the conductors that it was really necessary to find me another place to sleep, he pointed out that the train was fully booked and unless I wanted to drag one of the absolutely immovable train mattresses out into the hallway, there was no possibility of resting my weary head elsewhere.

Needless to say, I spent much of the ride staring out the window in the dining car at derelict towns through northern Spain, and then watching the sun come up over French fields while sipping icky train espresso in the cafe. In retrospect, however, I think sleeping comfortably through the journey would have been a bit of a cop-out travel adventure wise, not to mention I would have entirely missed the loud, lewd, and slightly embarrassing exploits of what appeared to be an entire American high school on a trip through Europe. They had, obviously, all watched that terrible movie right before setting out on a whirlwind tour of the continent, and unanimously decided to re-enact it as faithfully as possible (in a massive crowd under the close supervision of exhausted parents and an array of harrowed teachers).

I arrived at last in Paris, and with Nushien's directions to her Montparnasse apartment written clearly on the back of my left hand, made my way from Gare de Austerlitz into the city. In no time at all, I was installed in her beautiful one-bedroom, washing off the train smell, and trying to decide what to do with my very first day back in civilization. Since this was my third visit to the French capital, I didn't really feel the need to hit major tourist destinations, but there were a few absolutely necessary stops to be made: at the Musee d'Orsay to see the Manet exhibit, at the Rodin Museum to finally see the museum itself, and stopping in...oh, about a thousand cafes.

None of this, however, felt especially pressing on my first of seven full days, so I put on my city shoes, strolled over to the Jardin du Luxembourg, and watched Parisiens play doubles tennis. Then, meeting Nushien and friends for dinner in the 15th, I set the tone for the whole week by consuming the absolute most delicious Burgundian cuisine, wandering home past the sparkling Eiffel tower light show, and collapsing at an absurdly early hour.

It seems wrong, ungrateful even, to make disparaging comments about a city like Paris, but the summmer crowds, metro-travel, and overall commercialism was such a shock after a month in the middle of nowhere, that I found I couldn't take too much of the city at once. Since Nushien was heading to Venice for a few days and I had the apartment to myself, I'm afraid I took my days rather slowly and with very little ambition, wandering out mid or late morning, ticking a couple of things off my short list, and retiring early. It did feel, though, as I observed hoardes of tourists rushing to and fro frantically between the Louvre and Sacre Cour, that I was pacing myself more like a normal human being and less like a hamster.

But alas, Paris can make hamsters of us all, and as the days went by I found myself scurrying more and more between things, fitting more and more things in, seeing more sights, going into yet more unnecessary shops... and I was a slight wreck as I sank into the cushioned seat on my train from Gare St. Lazare to Bernay (having almost missed the train by being wayyy too confident) and managed to convince the ticket collector in broken French that I didn't have my ticket because the printing machines at the station weren't working properly, and to please, please accept my reservation number instead.

Either I succeeded in being so winningly charming that he let me ride the train with no ticket, or he was just tired of trying to understand the ramblings of a crazy American, but either way he eventually waved his hand at me and wandered away to check the tickets of those passengers serene and Parisien enough to make it to the station on time and sedately print out their tickets. I rolled smoothly into Bernay a short hour and twenty minutes later, where Jeremy and Marlene waited for me in their new Fiat, and transported me to their beautiful new home in the outskirts of the small village of Serquigney.

I have just put up the few pictures I took during my time with them in Normandy, and I'm afraid the photos themselves will have to suffice as description (http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.930633460922.2432472.107441). All I can say, in complete honesty and with full knowledge of how ridiculously sentimental I will sound, is that it was an absolute honour and a privilege to witness and (briefly) be a part of the calm, considered, and beautiful life they are building up. Of course, when I see you all in the coming weeks I'll be able to tell more about our trips to nearby markets and Abbeys, the cherry trees and sunsets, and walks and bike rides through neighboring woods and fields, but at present I have time for only one final comment and vital piece of advice:

When travelling from Upper Normandy (where you should go as soon as humanly possible) to England (oh lovely England! I'll tell you about her soon), never, ever, EVER take the ferry. Especially if you have just enthusiastically consumed a delicious picnic lunch, left your friends behind on the dock and are by yourself, and have no one to watch your belongings while you spend the entire journey in the bathroom, powerfully sympathizing with that poor little French girl from your overnight train. Sigh.