A day in Oxford
We rousted ourselves out of bed too early for breakfast, and hopped on the bus to Victoria station (leaving out problems with the ticket machine that cost me a one-pound coin, sigh—for all its congestion problems, London doesn’t seem to want people to use public transport). Found the Oxford Express no problem, and sat back to watch the grotesquely horrible traffic. Traffic is even worse in Oxford proper, there being far too many motorum borum for comfort.
Our Host was waiting for us as we alighted, and she whisked us off for a quick walking tour that included bits of the Bodleian (Our Host being a reader there), the Sheldonian Theatre, the cavernous basement of Blackwell’s, and a little pub tucked so far away in a back alley that I can’t imagine how it stays in business—but it looked prosperous enough, indeed.
The Bodleian clearly has not gotten the memo circulating in American libraries about patron service—or else they believe they’re above that sort of pandering. I found every Bodleian official we met to be sniffily disdainful and dreadfully bureaucracy-minded, and one or two descended to outright rudeness, even to Our Host, who is neither American nor an Oxford outsider. Eh, well. Eventually I daresay they’ll decide to name themselves something else, since clearly the modern conception of “library” as a place for actual people is shockingly lowering.
Anyway, Our Host then treated us to a delightful bus tour; the weather was warm enough that sitting outside was no hardship at all, and brilliantly sunny, showing off Oxford’s golden sandstone to best advantage. We switched tour guides mid-trip, and our second guide, by the name of “Jane,” was an absolute delight—sharp and funny and clearly in the business for ages. We lunched at a little tapas place, and stopped in at the famous Eagle and Child on our way to the Ashmolean, because, you know, David couldn’t keep his Tolkien cred if we went all the way to Oxford and failed to look in at the Eagle and Child!
(What I’ll remember best, though, is the group of earnest young Oxfordians at the next table dutifully swotting their Xenophon. Too cute for words!)
Our Host being a provident woman, she had made arrangements beforehand to get us into the print room at the Ashmolean. This is not a difficult thing, mind you, but it must be done in advance. It’s well worth the effort; I got to drool (not literally, of course) over some lovely Burne-Joneses. (Aubrey Beardsley? Total poseur. Burne-Jones is the real thing.) And beside us, someone was examining some sketches by Raphael. The Raphael.
The Ashmolean is an odd little place, full of bits and bibelots that don’t bear much relation to each other. If instrument-making is of interest, you really should stop in; likewise glass, clockworks, and silver, of which the Ashmolean has large collections.
When the Ashmolean closed, Our Host took us through the Covered Market, where I picked up some chocolate for my coworkers; bringing treats from foreign parts is traditional at MPOW. We then rested our feet at a pub across the way until it was time for evensong, which we heard in Christchurch. If you go in winter, don’t shed all your winter gear—the churches are cold.
Clearly the Christchurch choirmasters believe in training by experience; a couple of the boys in the front row were four-year-old apprentices learning their trade, joining in only on the most familiar responses and placed next to star singers. The choir was beautifully trained, of course, with some voices to die for. They quite naturally achieve dynamic effects that poor Dr. Mears spends hours on end trying to get us lazy sods to produce.
Dinner was at a to-die-for Lebanese place where Our Host and her partner are regulars. For once, I didn’t have to carry the conversation; David is usually very shy with people he’s only just met, but Our Host and partner were just the kind of people who draw him out and get him talking. Extremely pleasant dinner, and not just for the food!
We got back on the bus to London quite late, but traffic at that hour was merciful, so we were able to tumble into bed about one in the morning. I did notice one odd thing about the buses—is it just me, or are the seats too short? Quite wide enough, even for my ample caboose, but much too short to slouch in, as I am accustomed to do in buses when I’m tired.
Our Host endeavored to explain the Oxford system to us; I can’t say that I grasp it fully, but what I do understand of it strikes me as a not-uninteresting play of checks and balances that might not do badly in America at all, were it to be tried. It does expect a great deal of self-direction and motivation from students, but I’m hard-pressed to see that as a bad thing on the undergraduate level. Wouldn’t work for everyone, assuredly, but might well have done better for me than the system I graduated under. It’s also a much less rigid system for faculty, and I cannot but approve of that.
We spent a truly magnificent day in Oxford, and I do want to once again offer my sincerest gratitude to Our Host, whose great generosity and kindness I shall never, ever forget.