Let me be the first to say it:
WHAT HAPPENED? Two weeks without a post?! And right before the season finale?!
This was either a product of exhaustion and laziness or a highly strategic
literary choice, leaving the audience with a cliff hanger to build excitement
for the final week’s post. I’m going to claim the latter.
As you may have guessed, I am
writing to you from the beautiful sunshine state where I’ve spent the last week
re-assimilating into American culture, enjoying a visit from my dad, and
celebrating my brother’s graduation from culinary school. Yay, Chase!
Chase on his graduation day.
Oh… and sleeping… yes, finally
sleeping.
Thanks, Mom...
But all this is just to say… my
apologies for taking so long in giving you a bit of closure on my adventures
abroad. So without further ado, here are the highlights of by far the most
eventful and bittersweet days this blog has yet seen.
On the Wednesday of my final
week, I rose with the sun (shocker!) and began the process of writing my final
tutorial paper, a look into the private correspondence of Charlotte Bronte with
her family, friends, and the elite outside literary community. I had spent the
past six weeks poring over the Bronte novels, deciphering their poetry, and
wading through the extensive collection of juvenilia hoping to chip away at
some of the myth that continues to surround this family of writers. This final
assignment asked me to read some of the most personal and revealing documents
still remaining from Charlotte. What I found was a group of young ladies
immensely talented, deeply passionate about literature and about their family,
keenly aware of their precarious position as authoresses during this time
period, and determined to defend their work even against the wishes of the
greater literary community. I wrote quickly and in an inspired state and
finished in record time feeling that I couldn’t have spent my time in Oxford
studying a more worthy collection of texts and authoresses.
The Bronte Sisters
Proudly sitting beside all the books I used for my Shakespeare course and Bronte tutorial. 25 books in 6 weeks!
As I wrapped up my work on the
Bronte sisters, I made my way through the city to bring a close to my
Shakespearean studies as well. Lien and I led class discussion with our
presentation on the female voice in The
Winter’s Tale, coming full circle to demonstrate how much Shakespeare’s
heroines had evolved since our introduction to the playwright in Titus Andronicus. As it was our final
class, Dr. Anderson thought it fitting to hold an “echo chamber.” He asked each
of us to choose our favorite passage from any one of the plays we had read this
summer. So we spent our final hour together sitting in a circle, reading our
passages aloud and explaining their significance to us. I chose Paulina’s brief
but powerful statement in The Winter’s
Tale:
“Tell her, Emilia,
I’ll use that tongue I have; if
wit flow from’t
As boldness from my bosom, let’t
not be doubted
I shall do good.” (2.2.50-53)
Here, Paulina is declaring her
intentions to defend her queen but is also acting in defense of the larger
population of Shakespeare’s heroines who have fallen victim to the misogyny of
his previous plays. She resolves not to rely on her beauty or charm and not to
be silenced by the voice of the patriarchy, but rather to depend upon her own voice
to engender change in the king’s and other men’s perceptions of women. Sitting
amongst the group of people who had labored with me all summer to understand
Shakespeare’s plays, I told the class that this passage resonated with me as a
woman but also as a writer. Certainly, I was proud to see a strong woman
valuing her own voice, but more than that, I was proud to see a woman choosing
to create change with language. As a writer and an English major, I’ve spent
half of my life falling in love with words, being completely enamored with
their influence. Although I started to tear up in during my explanation, I
managed to get across my final point. I may not be as bold as Paulina, but I
hope that I can use my voice, my words, to “do good” in years to come.
After class, I went with Sally
and Alex to the Bodleian Library for the last time, climbed all the way down
into the Lower Gladstone link underground, and researched for my final
Shakespeare paper while surrounded by books. (An English major’s paradise, I
assure you!)
Lower Gladstone Link of the Bodleian Library
Skipping over many an hour of browsing academic articles which
wouldn’t interest even the most enthusiastic blog reader, I packed up my bags,
said goodbye to the marvelous Bod, and made my way to Christ Church for my final
dinner there with Lien. (Being served a three course meal in the Harry Potter
dining hall isn’t a bad way to spend your last dinner, might I add!)
That evening, my final evening in
Oxford, I spent in the splendid company of Alex and Oliver (who was kind enough
to hang out with us Americans and show us the ins and outs of the city for the
last six weeks). We strolled through Christ Church’s meadow one last time
before parting ways.
Ok, I didn't take this picture, but I thought this image pretty well captured how the meadows looked in my eyes on my last evening there.
Alex and I walked back in the dark. Weaving through the
quiet streets, I began to feel a deep sadness creeping into my body, and I
spent the last hours of the night slowly packing my six weeks abroad into a
single suitcase before climbing into bed.
On Thursday morning, I woke up
early and frantically began to tie up all of the remaining loose ends before I
left the city for good. I sprinted around town, dropping off bags and bags of
library books, cleaning up my room, returning my keys, filling out paperwork, printing
tickets and papers, etc etc etc. By noon I was already exhausted, but I made my
way to Café Loco to meet up the three Co-Editors-in-Chief of Christ Church’s
creative arts magazine House Art.
They were kind enough to have lunch with me and to share ideas and solutions
that I know will prove invaluable to me as I start the upcoming semester at MSU
as a Co-Editor-in-Chief of Mississippi State’s own creative arts journal The Streetcar. By the way, feel free to
peruse our latest edition of the journal online at:
After lunch, I made my way to St.
Anne’s for the last time to enjoy one final tutorial with Dr. Johnston. We
discussed the literary aspirations of the Bronte’s as well as my own before
parting on good terms. She told me that she was pleased with my progress in the
course, and all I could do was thank her again and again. I could never begin
to relay to her what the opportunity to study my favorite writers alongside
someone of her expertise for the past six weeks had meant to me. Even now, I
might think the whole experience was a wonderful dream if not for the forty
pages of writing I have to prove it was real.
After my tutorial, I walked back to my flat slowly,
knowing this was my last opportunity to take in the city and all of my favorite
places…pubs and backstreets, gardens and meadows, secondhand book stores and
the fudge shop. I lingered for a minute in front of Tom Tower, and finally made
my way back.
Tom Tower in the setting sun
My wildflower vase, the last thing in my room to go
The ladies of 4 Thames Street
In a little over an hour, I was
standing at a bus station with Alex, Sally and Jamie, ready to depart for our
weekend trip to Paris. Naturally, I lost my ticket somewhere in the madness of
the day, and handed a few pounds to the driver as I boarded the bus. I include
these insignificant details only to bring us to this point: I asked the driver
for a one way ticket to London. Just to make sure he had understood my request
correctly, he looked at me and asked, “You’re not coming back?” I knew what he
meant, but his words hit me hard and seemed to hang there in the air for a
moment. With a lump in my throat, I quietly said “No” and took my seat. It
drizzled the whole way to London.
Farewell for now, Oxford
That evening, we boarded a bus
for the eight hour trip to Paris, much of which I spent writing my annotated
bibliography for Dr. Anderson and fitfully sleeping in an upright position. The
highlight of the trip? The chunnel, of course! The four of us were uncertain
how our bus would be crossing an ocean and how exactly something like a
channel-tunnel worked. But around 2am, I awoke suddenly, looked out the windows
and discovered that our bus had been locked inside of a plastic box being
pulled by a train through a tunnel beneath the ocean. Let’s take a moment to
imagine that… yeah, it was a little unsettling. But in true adventurer style, I
decided the best thing to do was to go with the flow, and I fell back asleep
until morning.
On Friday morning around 6am, our
bus pulled up to a French airport just outside of Paris. We stiffly made our
way off the bus, somehow navigated our way through the terminal, purchased the
correct tickets, and found ourselves in the heart of the city within an hour. I
was impressed with out travel skills to say the least. Because there were so
many sights we wanted to visit and because, at this point, we were certified
adventurers, we decided to forgo the double-decker bus tours catered to
foreigners and preferred simply to get lost in the city of love. We had 15
hours to conquer Paris. And that’s precisely what we did.
Our first stop was the Cathedral
of Notre Dame, a magnificent place of worship that we had all been introduced
to long, long ago as the place of sanctuary for Disney and Victor Hugo’s
hunchback Quasimodo.
Childhood revisited.
The actual building was sans singing cartoon characters,
but I understood how such a place could inspire a man like Disney. It towered
above us, massive and ornate, quiet but wise from age, breathtaking in the
Parisian morning light. We felt humbled just entering through the doors. The
inside was magnificently decorated with stained glass, grave markers and
relics, tall arched ceilings and candles. We made our way to the front of the
cathedral where a service was just minutes from being underway. On a whim, we
decided to take a seat and participate in a mass offered entirely in French. I
was, of course, lost as to the specifics of the service, but it didn’t matter
to me. I was sitting in Notre Dame in Paris catching rays of sun through the
stained glass windows above the alter, seeing the cathedral in use, pretending
I had been transported back hundreds of years. I was content.
Cathedral of Notre Dame
Beautiful stained glass outside..
...and inside!
Statue of Joan of Arc
There was even a St. Dennis present ;)
The center of the cathedral where larger services are held
The towering ceilings of Notre Dame
Massive and ornate entrance doors
Notre Dame
After the service, we shuffled
out of the cathedral and made our way to another nearby landmark: the lock
bridges. Let me explain what I know about these ever-growing monuments. Supposedly,
the bridges attract thousands of lovers from around the world every year. The
lovers bring a lock inscribed with their names, lock it onto the bridge, and
throw the key into the river symbolizing their eternal love.
One of the many lock bridges in Paris
How. Romantic. Is. That?
I absolutely loved the idea, and
as we explored the bridge, we found locks of every shape and size, some shiny
and new and some that looked positively ancient. I thought I would like nothing
more than for Will and I to have our own lock on the bridge, but I resisted. I wanted
him to be present when it happened, and I wanted an excuse to return to Paris
again one day!
Check out all of those locks!
At this point, there's really no bridge space left. Locks are hooked onto other locks or tied to ribbons and bike locks. Love will always find a way I guess!
Lion face lock
Ancient skeleton key lock
A bouquet of roses casually drifted down the river while we were exploring the lock bridge. I'd like to this this is a normal occurrence in the city of love <3
We'll be back someday
When we finally tore ourselves
away from the bridge, we continued to make our way through the Parisian streets...
A Victorian-styled bar!
No wonder this is the city of romance...
...until we found ourselves in front of the Louvre, a famous museum containing priceless paintings and jewelry and relics from all over the world. While we decided not to go inside because of the prices, the lines, and the tight time schedule we were on, we did enjoy the courtyard and gardens surrounding it.
The Louvre courtyard
Entrance to the Louvre
Just casually hanging out next to a famous museum
Alex even treated us to a lesson in Greek mythology, telling us the story behind each of the garden’s statues.
Parisian gardens
Laocoon and Sons
Medea
Nessus and Deianeira
After risking our lives by
crossing a busy Parisian street (a terrifying thing, I assure you!), we trekked
on towards the Arc de Triomphe. On our way there, Jamie and I took a
not-so-brief pit stop at a museum. We were drawn in by the promise of an
extensive collection of Robert Mapplethorpe’s photography, an artist unfamiliar
to me but a new favorite of Jamie’s. It was an excellent decision and well
worth the nine euro entrance fee. We were fascinated with Mapplethorpe’s, at
times, controversial fascination with the human body, the fixation on
individual limbs, the contrast between dark and light. We also commended his
attempts to rewrite the standards of masculinity and femininity, his efforts to
expose the performativity of gender. Overall, it was a splendid exhibit, the
first of many of Mapplethorpe’s collections that I hope to see.
Mapplethorpe just months before his death
One of my favorite photographs from the exhibit
After reuniting with Sally and
Alex, the four of us finally made our way to the Arc de Triomphe, took many
pictures, witnessed the most terrifying driving etiquette imaginable, and
settled down in a café nearby for lunch.
Obelisk excavated from the Luxor Temple
Mermaid and mermen fountain in the middle of the city
French flag
Artwork on the Arc de Triomphe
Arc de Triomphe
Enjoying a croque in Paris
In true foreigner fashion, our
journeys took us next to by far the most touristy landmark imaginable. Can you
guess?
The Eiffel Tower of course! We
crossed streets and bridges and finally found ourselves beneath the massive
iron structure, about 80 stories high and far larger than I had ever imagined.
We walked beneath it, touched one of the four legs in amazement, and then made
our way out to the lawn to enjoy it in a better light. Exhausted from our
travels and full of good food, we stretched out on the grass in front of the
Eiffel Tower and enjoyed an hour in the Parisian sun, surrounded by muffled
French voices. It was one of my favorite memories from the day. I remember thinking
that if my adventures abroad were coming to an end, this is how I preferred to
end them, immersed in another culture and surrounded by good friends.
Our first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower
Walking beneath the tower
Enjoying a good view and even better company :)
After our little repose, we
dusted ourselves off and prepared for our most difficult Paris adventure yet. We
aimed to find the Basilique du Sacrè Coeur de Montmartre and get a view of the
entire city from its steps. What ensued was a rigorous two hour hike from the
Eiffel Tower through winding back streets, up hills, through train tunnels, in
and out sketchy parts of the city…
Paris opera house
Moulin Rouge!
Up, up, up
We stopped for a drink, but a not-so-nice French waiter took advantage of our foreignness. He brought us $10 bottles of water! Luckily, we were in good spirits and able to laugh it off.
…until at last we found ourselves
here looking out at this:
Basilique du Sacrè Coeur de Montmartre
Paris
...the city of love
I could almost have cried at the
moment, being completely drained, having only a few hours left in our Parisian
adventure, looking out on this historic city. We sat down for a moment to take
it all in along with a crowd of others who had made the trek there on their own
time. Then we made our way to a nearby restaurant where we enjoyed escargot with
our meal and finally made it back to the train and the airport. From there, our
bus took us on an eight hour return trip to London, England.
We arrived in England at the
crack of dawn, and Sally and Jamie returned to Oxford via bus. They wouldn’t be
leaving the country until the next day. I, on the other hand, had booked my
return flight to America on Saturday and would be boarding a plane in only a
few hours. Alex, being the saint he is, helped me navigate through the
confusing London train system to Heathrow airport where he sat with me until
Dr. Anderson arrived with my bags (Shout out to Dr. Anderson for being Teacher
of the Year and agreeing to help me out!) After my second makeshift shower in
the airport (the first being in the Parisian airport the morning before), I
said goodbye to Alex, bid farewell to Dr. Anderson, and made my way through
customs, security, and onto my plane. I would love to have some romanticized
memory of takeoff and picture myself peering out the window and waving goodbye
to England, but I was seated in the middle seat of the middle aisle in the
middle a group a forty twelve year olds, and from six weeks of not sleeping,
two days of hard travel, and the relief of having found my way onto the plane
unscathed, I fell asleep before we even made it into the air.
Just before landing. The sun setting on my adventure.
When I landed in Tampa, Florida
at 9pm on the 28th of June, six weeks after I had stood in that very
airport so eager for adventure, I felt completely changed. The humid, southern
air hit me like a ton of bricks after experiencing a cool, crisp summer in
England, and I dragged myself off the plane after three days of sleeping in an
upright position, three days of hard traveling, three days without a proper
shower. I was a pitiful sight to say the least. When the trolley doors opened
in the main terminal and I saw my mom and Chase standing there waiting for me
the way they had been when I left six weeks before, I burst into even more
pitiful tears. I cried for exhaustion. I cried for being home at last. I cried
for seeing my mom and brother, perfectly unchanged, something permanent in my
transient life. I cried for leaving Oxford, leaving England, leaving the place
that had stolen my heart so completely over the last month and a half. I cried
for the end of my adventure and for the beginning of a new one. I cried all the
way into my mom’s arms, and stood there in a flood of emotions until I could
compose myself enough for the long drive home. It was finally over.
…
In our last group dinner together
(which occurred on the previous Tuesday night, but I’ve taken some artistic
liberty and saved this for the end) Dr. Anderson summed up our adventures
together in the way most fitting for our class. He rewrote and read aloud a
passage from Shakespeare’s Henry V
which I will share with you now because it so excellently captures the spirit
of our time abroad as scholars, as bulldogs, as Shakespeare lovers. To give you
some context, the original speech occurs just before the onset of battle in
which the speaker and audience face imminent death. They know this is the end,
but they celebrate the things that have been. So too is it for us:
“This day is called the Feast of
Trinity:
She that outlives this day, and
returns safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the
term is named,
And rouse her at the name of
Oxford, Christ Church or New College.
We that shall live this term, and
see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast
our neighbours,
Like we did that first night at
Folly Bridge,
And say 'To-morrow is the Summer
8s:
Then will he pull out his
tutorial essays and show his marks.
And say 'These marks I had during
Trinity Term.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be
forgot,
But we'll remember with
advantages
What Pimms she drank in Oxford on
the bank of the Thames:
What laughs she shared at the
Bear;
What history she saw in London;
what art at the Tate; what beauty and loss.
What plays at the Globe.
Then shall our names,
Familiar in mouths as household
words—
Alex the king of the taverns,
Kylie, the published author,
Meredith, Catherine, Gabby and
Chandler,
The women blessed or cursed by
St. Giles depending on the night.
The Ovidian Lien, Eddie Mac,
still searching for a good tutor,
Sally the historian disguised as
a biologist,
Jamie, a fellow Turl Street Warrior
and future senator,
Cody, the Scottish liberator, and
Matthew, the historian disguised as an historian.
Be in their flowing cups freshly
remember'd.
This story of Trinity Term shall
the good scholar teach the son;
And Trinity, Oxford shall ne'er
go by,
From this day to the ending of
the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of
scholars;
For she to-day that goes to Turf
Tavern, the Bear, Christ Church
Or New College, who is a
groundling at the Globe, a raver at Plush, or
Who dines in a tux at High Table,
Exeter;
Who walks the Millenium Bridge
near midnight;
He who wonders what really went
on in the Roman Baths
Or who won’t banish Falstaff at
Stratford because he really is all the world,
He who enjoys an Americano after
dark near Cornmarket,
Has British tea with friends on a
quiet Monday afternoon,
Or eats Oxford Blue on a slow
stroll home;
She who sees bad Shakespeare in
the beautiful garden at Merton with great company;
Or who winces at Titus and Tis
Pity She’s a Whore
And still finds beauty in
Hermione’s resurrection;
She who sleeps on ancient rocks
as the sun rises, as it’s risen forever,
But never like that on a clear,
cool night in June;
With the Magna Carta only a
church away.
He who sees Les Mis or the Mona
Lisa. These few
Shall be Scholars; be they ne'er
so vile,
This term shall gentle their
condition:
And students in Starkville now
a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed
they were not here,
And hold their learning cheap
whiles any speaks
That studied with us upon this term,
this Trinity Term,
this special term in Oxford.”
…
I’m not sure that I can
adequately explain the effect of my six weeks abroad. You’ve been with me as I settled
in and struggled on in the academic realm of Oxford. You’ve seen me fall in
love with English culture and food, witnessed me amidst the revelry of London’s
plays, watched me navigate through the halls of Windsor, scurry through the
streets of Stratford, wade in the history of Bath, become whole in the moors of
Lyme Hall, experience culture shock on the ancient rocks of Stonehenge, and lay
out in the Parisian sun before the Eiffel Tower. You’ve seen me amazed and
joking and crying and forgoing sleep. You’ve seen me growing and changing
academically, culturally, permanently. This blog is a testament to it all.
Looking at this picture of me on
day one, totally unaware of the beautiful world and adventures that would
unfold before me, I can’t help but marvel at the person I was then and the one
I am now. I know that I can never go back to being content with living in one
place, one country, when there is an entire world of people and sights and
adventures out there waiting for me. I don’t want to imagine any future without
Oxford in it, without England, without travel propelled by my own insatiable
curiosity. I am so grateful to the professors, offices, and students of
Mississippi State University who encouraged me and helped to make this
life-changing experience a reality.
Thank you for being with me
through it all. Look out for an update sometime in the future about what to
pack and expect if you’re planning an extended trip to the UK sometime soon. I
thought it might be beneficial to any students who start to feel the itch of
wanderlust as I did. Until then, happy reading, safe travels, and my best
wishes in all that you do.
Yours,
Kylie
