It's been a long time

Well, I'm home, I guess.

That's never the way I expected to start this entry, which I've thought about for two or three months now. I was going to give you the typical (if there is a typical?) post-study-abroad-run-down: I'm back, I love my home, I miss England, etc., etc.

I don't think that's in the cards, here, in this post, which has taken me so long to actually put into words because I don't really have the words.

I always knew it would be hard coming home, but I guess I imagined that it would be hard in some sort of tangible way or ways: Oh, everything here is just so ugly compared to the 13th century cobblestones, or, Gosh, it's weird not having formal hall and then heading to the pub, or maybe even, Huh, home just feels downright dull after so much traveling. None of that is really true; I do miss the cobblestones and Hall and pubs, but it's a missing in the way that I can remember and smile and know I'll be back someday (high table? perhaps?). And home doesn't feel dull. It just feels...different. Being here is hard in so many intangible ways, and I think maybe that is what all those cliches and lectures about "culture shock" are all about: you are in shock, because you feel out of place, and you don't exactly know why.

The analogy I keep using, when people ask me how I feel about being home (and when I think they're not just asking to be polite), is this:

Pretend that I, Claire, am a room. A year ago, I left. While I was gone, someone, or something, came into that room and touched everything just a little. Maybe a quarter of an inch, maybe even a half an inch. If you, reader, walked into the room today, you wouldn't notice that anything was different. You'd probably sigh happily and say, "Oh, it's so good to have you home!" or "Wow, you must have some amazing stories!" But I walked into the room and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Who the HELL touched my stuff?"

That's how I feel.

It's uncomfortable, like stepping into a pair of shoes that always used to fit you, but now one of the heels wiggles a little when you walk; or sitting down in the car and finding the seat lever is stuck, so you have to drive sitting on the edge of the seat so you can reach the pedals. Okay, maybe that last one only applies to those of us who are 5'3, but you get the idea. It's strange.

Don't get me wrong--it's wonderful to see my family and friends.

And it's great to do so many Seattle-y things: the top photo is from a Shakespeare in the park performance; the bottom one from a Mariners game.

I've spent time with some old friends, and that has been wonderful, and validating, in ways I couldn't have even guessed at.

And I've also been enjoying some of my favorite places in the beautiful summer weather.

The dog park, Lake Washington at dusk.

Reading in the sunshine on Kite Hill, Magnuson Park.

All of it has been great. I've also been exercising a lot, playing with my new toy, and cooking...a lot. Some of the tastiest hits include chocolate-raspberry ice cream; kale with tofu, garlic, and lemon; and carrot salad with harissa, feta, and mint.

I guess I'm writing all of this with a dual purpose: firstly, to tell you that coming home isn't always what it has been in the past; and secondly, that that isn't necessarily a bad thing, but just takes some adjustment. I'm working on that second part. For those of you around me, thank you for understanding, and for those of you reading this, thank you for taking it as an honest post, and not a melodramatic call for sympathy after an amazing, amazing year of my life. Quite possibly the best year to date.

Maybe in another month I'll have some wisdom for you on how I've changed, because I have. But for now-- I'm back.

Not good-bye

(I bought a postcard from every place/country I visited this year. Here they are!)

I know I promised you all a "wrap-up" post; a post that would attempt to sum up what has certainly been one of the most amazing years of my life.

Not yet.

I'm still in Oxford, getting high tea for the last time, going to the pub once more, packing up my room, and hugging all my friends. It doesn't seem right to say good-bye, not yet.

Besides, I know that this has been a life-changing experience for me, and I want to do it justice. I dislike the phrase "life-changing" anyways, only because it's so vague; what does it mean? Anything that happens on a given day could be life changing. You order a new drink at Starbucks and it becomes your go-to! Life-changing. You run into a woman at the park with a Husky puppy and decide it's time to become a pet-owner yourself. Life-changing. You read a particularly moving article or book. Life-changing. So, you see, I need some time to better express how this year has been "life-changing." I won't be able to realize exactly how, I think, until I've left.

So this isn't good-bye, but I would like to share a couple of things:

1) I'm going to Africa! Eli arrives in London tomorrow; we fly to Morocco on Tuesday morning. We'll be in Marrakech for a bit, then down to the Sahara for a two-night trek (camels!), back to Marrakech, over to Essaouira, up to Tangier. Then we take the ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar to...

2) Espana! We'll go to Granada, then Valencia, and finally, Madrid. Back to London, and then fly to the U.S. We won't be back in the States until July 7th, so don't expect regular updates or emails until then, since I have no idea how much internet access we might or might not have.

3) In honor of my wonderful, supportive, and loving father (who today celebrated BOTH his birthday AND Father's Day), I'd like to tell you about a card that I found in the back of my desk drawer, while packing up my room. I remember reading it what seems like eons ago, back in October, when I first got to Oxford. He gave it to me in Seattle, and I think I read it on the plane, or maybe once I arrived. I hope he doesn't mind me sharing this short bit:

"This will be a very special year in your life. While Oxford is one of the best universities in the world, perhaps the value of education you will get at Pembroke will be overshadowed by the incredible opportunities to meet and visit people and cultures so different than ours."

How right he was.

So: this isn't good-bye; to blogging, or to Pembroke College, Oxford University.
But it is the end of my junior year of college, my year studying abroad in the U.K. I don't exactly know what comes next (aside from the aforementioned sibling travels). I'll be back in Seattle this summer, for around six weeks. And then: senior year.

But I'm trying not to go there, mentally, quite yet. Right now, I'm relishing the Chapel Quad in the pre-dusk blue-grey light; the fun I had moments ago watching the Brazil-Ivory Coast World Cup match with a roomful of Brits; the promise of tea with my pre-examination British staircase-mates, and a final night in this, beautiful, beautiful place.

Until next time.

Here's lookin' at you...

The Rad Cam.

The hundreds of narrow, secret passages and lanes. (This one leads to Pembroke...see the wooden door?)

The cobblestones.

The meadow.

Living HERE...

...with these girls.

Don't worry. This isn't the inevitable "What I Learned From Studying Abroad and How It Changed My Life" post. That comes in the next couple of days. For now, I want to celebrate what has quite possibly been one of the best years of my life with a list of my Top Ten Oxford Favorite Moments/Experiences/Things I Wanted to Share, in no particular order:

1) Pembroke College. Walking into Chapel Quad every day: in the morning, afternoon, evening, and night; in the rain, snow, and sunshine; with friends, family, or by myself. I delight in stopping, just for a moment, especially when I'm alone, to look up at the stone walls and remember for one second the feeling I had so many months ago when I walked through the arched opening for the first time and saw the Quad. I don't think it will ever, ever grow commonplace in my eyes, and I'm already anticipating that the desktop photo on my laptop for much of senior year will have to be some view of the beauty that is Pembroke College. (I'm going to cheat, and tag the Rad Cam, pictured at the very top of this post, onto this...I have the same sense of wonderment when I look at the Cam; it's definitely my favorite building in Oxford).

2) Pembroke Spirit. I love Tufts. I loved SAAS (my high school). I love rooting for my friends' sports teams and for the Mariners (sometimes). But no cheering I've done in the past has even come close to the enthusiasm and excitement of that in Summer VIIIs ("Summer Eights"). Two of my good friends and staircase-mates, Lydia and Margot, were both in the first women's boat for Pembroke, and I went down to the river to watch them every day, Wednesday through Saturday. In order to do well in Summer VIIIs, a boat must "bump," or catch, the boat in front of them, for the boats have a staggered start along the river depending on how they placed last year. Sometimes it's a direct hit; sometimes the cox of the boat will concede the bump. Either way, it's incredibly exciting, and the goal is always for a boat to bump four days in a row. Extremely rare--for not only are you trying to bump, but you're trying to avoid being bumped. And the Pembroke women were AMAZING. On Saturday, with three bumps under their belts and one to go, the pressure was on. It was raining, but the banks of the river were packed. Bri and I walked down closer to the starting line and waited anxiously; I couldn't believe how vicariously nervous I was. As the race started, the first update over the loudspeaker declared that Pembroke was closing on the boat in front of them! As soon as the girls came into view, we ran alongside them, screaming "GO PEMBROKE! GO PEMBROKE!" It was clear that our boat had their rivals; the bump was imminent. I don't think I've ever been so excited while watching a sporting event, and I almost felt like crying when the cox of the boat conceded and Pembroke got its fourth bump in a row. This is what school spirit feels like.

3) The Pub Culture. I didn't expect to enjoy pubs so much, but from this latest one, which Bri and I tried last week, to old favorites like this or this, I've really enjoyed the social scene in Oxford's pubs. I've never been much of a clubber; I think I prefer the talkative atmosphere in pubs and bars more. There's something so traditional about grabbing a drink with a friend, or a group of friends, sitting around a table or perched on a stool, laughing and sharing your news. I also discovered that pubs were wonderful places to bring visitors: Tufts friends, family members, old Seattle friends...all seemed to appreciate the charms of Oxford's pubs.

4) Formal Hall. Sadly, I almost forgot this one, because we haven't had a "real" formal hall since February. The Hall at Pembroke is under construction, and so we've eaten in a temporary hall this spring. But thinking back to the first two terms: three times a week (Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays), we dressed up, put on our robes, and went to formal. The candles were lit; the portraits on the walls looked unsmilingly down upon as we were served three courses (and wine on Sundays!); and the atmosphere in general evoked many a Harry Potter reference. I loved the chance to sit, with people whom I might not normally dine, and just chat for 90 minutes. It was a forced break from essay-writing, a new cultural experience, and a quintessential Oxford tradition.

5) The cobblestones. A love-hate relationship. Quaint and adorable, but slippery when wet, painful when wearing flats, and a general nuisance for cyclists.

6) Christ Church Meadow, pictured above. If you haven't been reading my blog this year, then you've missed copious references to the meadow--whether punting, running, rowing on the river, or just hanging out in the sunshine. Pembroke is 45 seconds away, so I usually walk/run through the meadow at least once a day. I ran there today and was struck, like one is on a Saturday in Central Park, by the wide range of people in the meadow. There were the ubiquitous tour groups (German, Japanese, Chinese, Spanish, French...they all talk about Harry Potter and Alice in Wonderland), the families with young children holding drippy ice lollies (popsicles), and the usual suspects. See, there are a few odd characters who "live" in the meadow. When I'm running laps at 9 a.m., or even earlier, at 8 or 7, the same homeless, drunk, incredibly cheerful man is always feeding the ducks. He always says "Good morning!" and though I have my iPod earbuds in, I smile and say hello. At first, I remember being a little creeped out--because, after all, it's a little unorthodox to drink beer and feed ducks at 8 a.m.--but I realized, after talking to other runners, that the man is always there. It's his place. And then there's the fragile old women, who might be a little crazy, but very quietly so. She sits on a bench on the other side of the meadow, with huge sheets of butcher paper across her lap, making the most detailed, extensive drawings of trees. I like that I've been here long enough to recognize these regulars.

7) Ben's Cookies. If you haven't had one, I'm sorry. Try and fix that soon.

8) Staircase 15. I certainly don't think I would have loved Oxford as much as I did if I hadn't loved my staircase. Margot, Lydia, Bri, Vivien, Evie, and me. Just six of us! First of all, when will I ever live in a college dorm with six people? Only at Oxford. And even at Pembroke, our staircase is definitely one of the smaller ones (if not the smallest). I love how our doors are usually open--unless it's exams, of course--and how we had so many teas together in the first term, and how I can shout up through my ceiling to Bri, directly above me (usually in reference to a trip we're planning), and how we all know each other's goings-ons because you can tell whenever someone leaves or comes home. I love it.

9) Words I learned which non-Oxfordians might not know. Essay-crisis (a definitive state of essay disrepair, sinking in a certain number of hours before essay is due). Massive lad. Chunder (and Gap Yeah). Pidge (pigeon hole = mail slot). Plodge (porter's lodge). Bop (party, usually with a theme). Battels (bills). That's only the beginning...

10) Wearing robes. To dinner. To exams. And the fact that the uniform underneath is called sub-fusc (sub-fusk). Enough said.

Whew. I don't think I even came close to listing everything I love, but this is getting ridiculously long, and I still have to do some packing tonight. 

A final tally, and a shoutout

Michaelmas Term (October - December 2009)
Two papers ("courses").
Sixteen tutorials.
Thirteen essays.

Hilary Term (January - March 2010)
Two papers.
Twelve tutorials.
Eleven essays.

Trinity Term (April - June 2010)
Two papers.
Twelve tutorials.
Twelve essays.

In total:
3 terms
6 papers ("courses")
40 tutorials.
36 essays.
Approximately 380 pages, 1.5 spaced.
Over 150,000 words.

...one year at Oxford.

***

A special congratulations to my one and only brother, who graduated from high school last night. He graduated with high academic honors, ambitious plans for his gap year, a job offer at U.W. for said gap year, and a reserved spot in the Middlebury College Class of 2015.

I couldn't be prouder of his accomplishments.

But it wasn't the thought of his academic and professional achievements that made me choke up during his "Hot Seat"--the personalized speech given by the Seattle Academy head of school about each senior. (Thanks, Dad, for emailing me the video!) It was the knowledge that I am fortunate enough to have known this generous, thoughtful, compassionate, intelligent, hilarious guy for eighteen out of my twenty-one years. He is the brother that always welcomes me back to Seattle with a hug--and I don't even have to ask for it; the brother that notices when I'm wearing something new and compliments me; the brother who makes our parents cry (happily!) when he writes Mother's and Father's Day cards; the brother who never ceases to crack me up with Chuck Norris jokes/movie quotes/random stories; the brother who I cannot wait to travel throughout Morocco & Spain with. He is, in short, the best brother anyone could wish to have, and I am so proud to be his sister.

(He is also extremely humble, and probably annoyed at me for writing this. Too bad.)

The photo at the beginning of the post was Halloween, probably 1995-ish. We're aged 6 and 3.

We both look a little different now--I don't have glasses; his cheeks aren't so chubby. Oh, and though you can't tell from these photos...he's a lot taller than me. He'd want me to mention that.

Congratulations, Eli!

Land of cheese and canals

"You know," I said, while we were walking down a straight one-lane road, surrounded by wooly sheep, shaggy cows, and vibrantly green grass, "it's easy to forget how much I wanted to do this, now that I've actually done it." We were walking toward a lighthouse perched on the Dutch coast, right outside the tiny fishing village of Marken.

The "this" referred to was both big and small. It referred to walking out to the lighthouse (which Rick Steves had recommended, but we had briefly considered skipping, and I was glad we went ahead and did it). It referred to our trip in general--I'd always wanted to go to Amsterdam. It referred to the idea of weekend trips; of using a European year abroad as an excuse to take off on a Saturday for the Netherlands and not return until Tuesday. And it referred to studying abroad, to the long-ago thoughts and plans that floated inside my head, back in 2006, and 2007, and 2008 and 2009, all whispering: Go for it. Take this year and plunk yourself down on the globe in a new place; live and study and do something completely different, for just one year.

That's enough introspection for now; there will certainly be plenty more, I'm sure, over the next few weeks, as my time at Pembroke comes to an end, and I leave Oxford and start out on a new adventure for two weeks before returning to the U.S., and to my home. But suffice to say that weekend trips like the one Bri and I took last week to Amsterdam were one of the main reasons that I wanted to study abroad in the first place.

Our trip began on Saturday, when we rose in the late morning after the late-night Macbeth, and made our way via Tube and EasyBus to Luton Airport. Our transportation was shockingly stress free, and the 45 minute flight to Amsterdam sped by. Navigating the train to Amsterdam's Central Station, and then taking the Metro two stops, we found our way to our home for the night. Way back in November, I wrote about my Grandma Inge, and her cousin Phil, and their journey to America. Phil's daughter, Gwen , lives with her Dutch partner, Jan Jaap, and their daughter, Caitlin, in Amsterdam. I'd only met the family once before, three years ago, but they so very generously opened up their home to us for the night and were the most wonderful hosts. Gwen cooked a delicious dinner, complete with pasta, fresh mozzarella and tomato salad, and blueberries and ice cream for dessert. We felt pretty spoiled. Plus, there was an adorable five-month Bernese mountain dog puppy, and Gwen spent an hour or so going over a map of the city with us and getting us oriented.

The next morning, saying our thanks after tea, coffee, and organic muesli and yogurt, Jan Jaap walked with us to our hostel.

The Friesland, a "cozy boat" as its description promises, was just that. Yes, it was still a hostel, with shared bathrooms and less-than-ideal showers, but we had our own miniature little bunk room with a round window.

As for the rest of our trip, I'll let photos do most of the talking...

One of the many reasons I love my traveling companion: our shared interest in red wine, Moleskine journals, and quiet corner cafes.

We took a day trip to Waterland (VAH-tare-land), per Rick's recommendation, and visited three tiny towns in one day: Edam (home of the cheese), Volendam, and Marken.

Sleepy Edam.

The square where the Kaas (cheese) market is held on Fridays. We agreed that we'll have to come back on a Friday...

Edam

Volendam

Marken

Marken

Marken--our walk to the lighthouse.

You almost didn't get to see these photos, because I stupidly put my camera in my raincoat pocket and didn't zip it. And it fell out, and I spent a frantic and upsetting half an hour running up and down the waterfront of Marken (which isn't that big), looking for it. Thank goodness for kindly Dutch men, or one in particular, who had picked it up and was keeping it in his office. Camera saved! Photos saved! Jubilation! I celebrated with some Dutch fries.

It was back to Amsterdam, then, where we enjoyed wine and dinner at Kantjil de Tiger, an Indonesian restaurants recommended by Rick, Gwen, and our map. We had to try it. And for all my clamoring about ethnic food, and how I love it so, it was a shock to look at a menu where I recognized not a single item. But we went for it anyways, and ended up with quite a vegetarian feast. Indonesian food, I like you.

And that, my friends, was my last weekend trip...this year. Sad? A little. But it was certainly a good one to end on.

Macbeth at Midnight

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'ld jump the life to come.

I know, I know. I've kind of fallen off the blogging bandwagon as of late, for a variety of reasons. The year is coming to an end, and I've been spending more time enjoying Oxford than writing about it. Probably more significantly, I've been dealing with personal issues that don't have a place on a study abroad blog, and thus my personal journal has been getting a lot more love lately. If you've never written in a Moleskine notebook or journal, I suggest you go out and buy one immediately. I am currently using three: one for notes, directions, lists, library book tallies, and generally anything I need to write down and remember; one as my weekly planner, which is amazing because it actually gives you enough space to write everything down; and the aforementioned journal. But I covet yet another Moleskine. If anyone just has the total and complete desire to spoil me, just because, I am putting in a shameless plug for this. Moleskine + cooking = amazing). (Edit: Thank you, Dad!) Or maybe Moleskine will read this and so appreciate my marketing for them that they'll send me a bunch of free samples.

 Present fears

Are less than horrible imaginings:

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,

Shakes so my single state of man that function

Is smother'd in surmise, and nothing is

But what is not.

A week ago, Bri and I went into London to see Macbeth at Shakespeare's Globe on the Thames. We bought our (5 pound!) tickets in February, and it was kind of surreal to actually be going after so long. Here's one of the best parts: the production began at 11:59 p.m. Yes, p.m. A midnight Macbeth, we thought, was a once-in-a-lifetime. Especially at the Globe!

We weren't disappointed. (Though for reasons you'll soon understand, Bri may never forgive me for making her stand up front, at the front of the stage).

Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,

Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,

Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day;

And with thy bloody and invisible hand

Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond

Which keeps me pale! Light thickens; and the crow

Makes wing to the rooky wood:

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;

While night's black agents to their preys do rouse.

Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still;

Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.

Our tickets were standing tickets, so we were let into the theater first, with all the other groundlings. The set-up in the yard for this production was unusual: stretched from the very front of the stage to the back of the yard, where the covered seating began, was an enormous black cloth. There were head-sized holes cut in the fabric, and you had to stoop quite low, go underneath the material, and find a hole to poke your head through. Of course, I was bent on being absolutely as close as possible...not only because it'd be awesome to see the actors up close, but because I didn't want to be stuck behind some tall guy who blocked my view. We were RIGHT against the stage, a few feet to the right of downstage center. I couldn't believe my luck.

Maybe this is a good time to tell you about the photo we laughed at in the lobby of the Globe.

We thought it was funny then.

See, one important part of the black-cloth set-up was that you had relatively no view of what was going on underneath you, in between people's legs and bags and such....which allowed the witches to make their entrance, creepily, eerily, sneakily, running in and around underneath the cloth. I particularly enjoyed when they got onstage, cackling, still amidst the gasps and nervous laughter of the surprised groundlings. One of the witches reached behind her back, laughing especially proudly, and brandished a leather wallet, indicating she'd taken it from someone, and then walked downstage to point at the poor person who was "missing" his wallet. (For some reason, this exchange, which had everyone laughing, made me think particularly of one theater friend who would have appreciated it...Hi Kenna!)

But I have none: the king-becoming graces,

As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,

Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,

Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,

I have no relish of them, but abound

In the division of each several crime,

Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should

Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,

Uproar the universal peace, confound

All unity on earth.

At some point, a man, screaming, jumped out of the trapdoor in the stage, approximately three feet from our faces. His head and torso, writhing, emerged from the trap. He was covered in blood. And I don't mean a few sponges of red here and there--this was no student production with limits on the expensive consumption of stage blood. He was dripping. Drenched. And behind us, from platforms underneath the black cloth, amidst the terrified groundlings, two more bloody men groaned and screamed, twisting and bleeding.

"When shall we three meet again?" The play began.

Throughout it, we were nearly drooled on by the Porter. Really, he let an ENORMOUS mouthful of drool land about six inches away, on the black cloth. We were nearly bled on, on so many occasions that I won't list them all. We nearly had a bucket of "urine" tossed on us by the Porter. We saw the tears glistening in Lady Macbeth's eyes ("I would, while it was smiling in my face, had pluck'd my nipple from its boneless gums and dashed the brains out, had I so sworn as you have done to this..."), the disappointing lack thereof in Macduff's "All my pretty chickens and their dam in one fell swoop...", and how unbelievable attractive Malcolm and Donalbain were.  Oh, and Lennox.

It was awe-inspiring. And exhausting. I don't know if was the cement floor, or the fact that the show ended at 3 a.m., but I was so tired. It brought me back to all three productions of Macbeth I've been a part of: Short Shakes, Bathhouse, and SAAS. 

She should have died hereafter;

There would have been a time for such a word.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

Gahden Pahtay

Last Saturday was the Pembroke College Garden Party, on the main quad. Too bad it rained...but some of the older ladies there had elegant hats on, so their hair wasn't ruined. I love Britain.

In other news: I finished my last essay ("American Women & Conservatism") today! Hooray! Now all I have is a sort of wrap-up/project proposal/annotated bibliography, done mostly for my own benefit in writing a senior thesis next year.

But before I even start on that...we're going to Amsterdam.