When I returned to the Porter's Lodge to inquire about my packet, he replied, "Oh! But you've just missed her! She was just here. I wonder why she didn't leave it at your room. Ah well, maybe if you pop 'round again in a while you'll catch her." I contemplated this for a while. In a land of cell phones and texts I don't often need to rely on luck and a whim of hope to speak to somebody. The porter did not seem too worried about it, though, so I decided that I wasn't, either. But still, hoping to be at the same place as someone else by just happening to chose those moments to walk by? I never appreciated cell phones this much.
This isn't to say that Brits don't use cell phones and all just wander around with the vague idea of meeting up with each other. I just didn't have one.
 So instead I set out again, this time for postcards. I bought 10 in all, at the time not realizing that international postcard stamps cost three times more that the cards themselves. Oh bother. At least they have cool British designs on them like royal guards and big red buses. That is some consolation for their outrageous price. I still don't know if any of them made it home, actually. No one said anything about them. Now I am worrying.

To waste some time, I unpacked. I am pretty proud of my packing, actually. Not that being able to squeeze one month's worth of stuff in 48 pounds is something to brag about, but I'll take what I can get. I saw bags twice that size being hauled up the staircases by volunteer students, which made me feel a little better about the guy who had to carry mine. At least the only way it has to go now is down.
So the unpacking didn't take long. I didn't get the private bathroom I was supposed to be rewarded for signing up early, but at least I was in England. Except I was all alone. It was getting old very quickly. I decided to read my book for at least 20 minutes to give the welcome people time to get my packet to the Porter's Lodge. When that time was up, I was dangerously close to falling asleep and thus ruining y campaign for quick and easy time change adjustment, so I headed out to scavenge up some lunch.
High street still struck me with how urban it is. I don't know why  was expecting a sleepier Oxford. Not wanting to get lost, I stuck to one side of the street and found a sandwich shop. The odd thing is that now, a month later, I still haven't noticed again. It's like it just appeared for that one day. Not that I'd want to find it again: the chicken sandwich was barely palatable and I soon found out that it was also overcharged. But 'tis the nature of first days.
The accent of the man behind the counter caught me off guard. I was prepared for a British accent, but his was Dutch or Russian or something. I tried not to be embarrassed to ask him to repeat himself. I also learned a new thing: salads. He asked me is I wanted any salads, which meant lettuce, spinach, et cetera for the sandwich. I thought he was trying to up sell me.
I took my pathetic little chiken sandwich on wonderbread toast back to my room. And, all right! I admit it! I took a nap. But in the end I adjusted just fine, thankyouverymuch.

I entered the college and was immediately struck with the medieval-ness of it. It literally is a walled school. The lawns are being used for construction, unfortunately, but the place still looks like a castle. The rooms are divided by staircase, not floor. I asked the groundskeeper for directions. Let me take a moment to describe this groundskeeper, because I have grown quite fond of him over the weeks. He was watering what was left of the lawns at this moment. He is a middle-aged to older gentleman who wears his red- and grey- streaked hair past his shoulders on the sides and nearly gone on top. His beard, of the same color, touches the top of his chest. He adorns himself with an eyebrow ring, a bull loop nose ring, and a tee shirt tucked into his jeans. Most friendly fellow you'll ever meet. He replied: "Twelve? Go allll the ways around. Keep goin' around and it's on the corner. At least, I thinks that's it." I thanked him and he gave a friendly nod of his head, the same nod he now always gives me when I pass him each morning.
There were two young adults working on that staircase. Cleaning, or something. I asked them if I had the right area (the numbers on the envelope were a little confusing, perhaps in part because of my long journey thus far). The young man sort of laughed as he said, "Oh. That's all the way at the top. All the way up there." And it was. About nine flights. He asked me if I'd like a hand. I thought for a few seconds, looked up at the winding staircase, tested the weight of my bag, and of course said yes to the offer. I regretted it. He mentioned that my bag was "quite heavy" about four steps up. I offered to take it up myself, but he just kept pulling it up and up and up. I realized that this might have been one of those times where someone offers help but doesn't really want to help. They just feel like they need to offer it. In turn, the polite thing to do is thank them for the offer but decline them, it wasn't really an offer, anyway, just a formality. But by this time we were already seven flights up. I said an embarrassed thank you and muttered something about my nonexistent upper body strength. I chalk it up as a learning experience: I learned to read into what people say here a bit more, and he learned that if he offers a weary American  help, she just might take it. And then he's stuck.

I got off at Queen's Lane on the High Street and learned that High Street meant "Main Street." The shops were all connected like a downtown. Nearly every other vehicle on the road was a double-decker bus. The bus driver pulled my luggage out from the bottom door and I was left on my own. I had a little map of the area with a hi-lighted route to the school, but this proved extremely unhelpful. I was in the city with black cabs and people wandering about, not on a black and white printout.
I passed the entrance to the Radcliffe Square several times before finding it. I was starting to feel a little self-conscious about dragging my suitcase past the same shops and people, back and forth. Finally, I made a correct turn and there it was: the Radcliffe Camera. That's the big round building behind this blog's title. It's a reading room for the Bodleian Library. You can't go inside without a reader's pass, and you need a good reason to even get that.
Anyway, I made it to the approximate area of my college. However, I quickly learned two things:
1. None of the huge wooden double doors had a sign above them to indicate what they were the entrance to, and
2. Cobblestone is really hard to drag anything across, even by wheely suitcase.
Finally, I decided to just open one of the ancient-looking doors. I was correct first guess! Believe me? The entrance consists of a sign telling people that the college is not open to visitors and the Porter's Lodge. The porters are like guards. They sit behind glass and have 24 hour surveillance and such. But they are also there for "all enquiries," as their sign says. The mail cubbies are in there, too. So, I introduced myself. I had arrived a day early, thinking I'd get my bearings, so the volunteer students weren't around to give me the whole welcome spiel. The porter told me that he didn't have the welcom packet with internet passwords, et ceetera, but he could give me my room key. Ah! A room! I was grateful.

The note from my professor (at this point clutched in my hand, highlighted, and marked up) reminded us to queue up at the bus stop. The British are very strong on the matter of queuing (lining) up. So, as the bus arrived, I pulled my bag over and stood by the sign. A woman walked in front of me. :"No matter," I thought, "just remember, 'Queen's Lane on the High Street.'" Then a group of people began to line up behind the woman. Before I knew it, I was left out of the queue I'd started! "I'm out of the queue!" I said aloud. And they looked up at me, bored.

I was happy when I bought my ticket, because when the driver confirmed that it was one way, he said incredulously, "Not coming back?" "Nope," I replied, "Not coming back." His reluctance was probably due to both my age and my accent. It wasn't that I'm never coming back, but those return tickets are only valid for one month, and I'm staying a few days over that. Still, it felt nice to say, in my American accent, "Nope, not coming back."

The first thing I saw once we emerged from the tunnel was a rustic looking cottage standing alone. "Really England?" I thought, "A cottage, first thing?" I watched all of the funny looking signs and different license plates go by. I read the funny town names like "Paddington" and "Slough." I noticed how it really wasn't that weird to be driving on the left side of the road because everyone else was. But mostly I tried to stay awake. It was, after all, after 7 am.

I found I had to try quite hard to understand the names of the stations as the driver called them out. The accent barrier was more difficult than I'd anticipated. Who knew mumbling had accents, too? My stop became a mantra, even though I hadn't taken a wrong turn yet: "Queen's Lane on the High Street. Queen's Lane..."

People rode bikes a lot here. Houses went up instead of out. People walked with their burlap bags to the store. It was already growing on me.

Oh, United Kingdom, how beautiful you are from the air! Really though, it looked like most other cities do from the air. I think it seemed greener, though. As we approached London, the irregular patches of green surrounded by tall hedges changed into tall buildings surrounded by cars.

I consulted the little airplane diagram on the digital map and came to the conclusion that we were close. This was a good thing, because no matter which way I turned in my seat I couldn't relieve the pains from sitting so long. I was given a muffin and some juice. It's crazy how nice and thoughtful a muffin can seem after such a long journey. I think I said "thank you" a few too many times to be considered sane, though.

I said goodbye to my row companion (who was able to get right to sleep. grr) and made my way through another airport. London Heathrow was just as easy to navigate as the other airports, but it was much bigger. The announcements over the loudspeaker were, of course, spoken in an English accent, a change which may have caused me to issue a small squeal, I admit.

May I stop here to note that as I am writing this from my room at Oxford, a scout is behind me vacuuming and making my bed for me. Yes!


Baggage claim was disappointing. My brand-new bright red rolling bag was sufficiently crushed and blackened by the airline. To be expected, I suppose. I got in position to grab my bag off the conveyor belt while everyone looked blank and lethargic, and grabbed at it. It  The corner hit the rim and subsequently bounced off my knee and landed on my toe. My toe! In correction, I pulled it off and onto my other toe. These toes were not very happy. This is the second time I was noticeably limping through an airport.

I was relieved that I was almost finished with thinking of which terminal/shuttle and when. I am exceedingly proud to announce that I navigated my way up an escalator, through a series of hallways, and douwn and elevator to an inter-terminal shuttle (yes, Heathrow is so big that I had to take a subway to get to the bus station there) and then up another elevator and through a shopping area to the correct bus stop. I was beaming at my own lack of touristy-ness.

The flight was a butt-ache-inducing six and a half hours. My plan was to sleep as much as possible because when I landed the local time would be 6 am. It was harder to pretend that it is bedtime at 5 pm than I thought, however. I scrolled through the movies on the console (a surprisingly wide selection- way to go, AirCanada!) and watched a movie called  Love and Other Drugs. It was bad. I really don't recommend it unless you have a strong obsession with Jake Gyllenhaal or, like me, are trying to fall asleep. I mostly kept it on because it       1. Distracted me from the knees of the woman behind me that were enthusiastically trying to disfigure my spine, and
2. Drowned out the sound of a flight attendant vacuuming out the nearby toilet ominously marked  "Out of Order."

I don't mean to say that the flight was terrible, these are just my own observations. In fact, other than the dissonance of complaining children, bathroom renovation, and the expedition now somehow reaching my shoulder blades, it was all right. There was even in-flight shopping. Meaning, they actually carried the perfumes and jams on the flight. 

After Gyllenhall and Hathaway were finished discovering that all they needed was each other, I decided I really should sleep. I made my way to the working restroom (actually quite a distance) and refused a blanket in plastic wrap.

After the maple exploring and line waiting there was nothing left to do. It took me about 45 minutes to see everything there was to see in the Toronto Airport. Then it was just my muffin and I. And an elderly woman sleeping in a wheelchair whom I ran a series of subtle tests to make sure she was actually living. I mean, it wasn't just the two of us at the gate- every seat was filled. We were just the most interesting ones.

Big airplanes are much nicer. That may seem obvious, but I am correcting those few who still see small planes as a novelty, even after reading about my horrifying tale which lacked both a barf bag and any sense of dignity. No, this plane contained the equivalent of like three big rooms. I was in the ever lovely economy room. I happily took my seat next to a friendly Indian woman who declined to say "hello" back, and cracked open my fluff novel. It really must have been a while since I've been on a big airplane, because I noticed they had now installed television screens. Not the roll out "in-flight movie" screens at the front, but every seat back had an individual touch screen. Still nostalgic for the tiny planes? Even the safety announcements were animated on them, complete with cheerful flute muzak. I entertained myself by watching the uncomfortable people try to calm themselves as we lifted off.

     I was getting more comfortable with airports as I made my way through the incoming passengers gates. I followed arrows up stairs (regular ones, but I still take it slow) and down stairs. I turned corners and traveled down corridors like a pro. One of the passengers on the small plane asked me where I was going when I turned into the "International Passengers" lane. I told him proudly that I was on my way to Oxford to study. I like to pretend that I am at Oxford because of my genius or something, but really it is a program open to most people. He was going to Madrid. Just because. I like the idea that people can just decide to go somewhere like England or Spain and go. Just fly away.You can really do almost anything if you are willing to sacrifice a day of your life to hard airport chairs and recirculated air. But there are usually mini Tim Horton's, which are quite nice.
     With two hours to go before the next leg of my journey, I walked slowly through the duty-free shops. I wasn't expecting the Toronto Airport to be so...Canadian. But I liked it. I watched two men take pictures of each other next to a huge stuffed moose plush statue. When they caught me grinning I turned to take my free sample maple cookie. There were rows and rows of maple fudge and decorative maple syrup bottles. I really wish Canada would start pushing other goods, though. If I were to judge Canada solely on it's airport shops, I'd say it is a land of maple-crazy entrepreneurs who are too jacked up on syrupy sugar to pronounce the word "bagel" correctly.
     I waited in line to buy some ginger antinauseant and a fruit leather and then waited in and even longer line at mini Tim Horton's for a muffin when I came out of my delusion that I liked fruit leather.

     From my two trips to Florida, I knew that a plane can pull right up to the terminal for passengers to board without even seeing outside. This plane, however, was not like that. After getting my ticket scanned and passport checked, I walked down the weird temporary hallway expecting to see a plane doorway at the other end. Instead there was a metal plank connecting to some folded out steps. Now, I'm generally too clumsy for stairs of any kind, but these were metal fold out stairs. They were narrow, too. I probably looked like a lunatic sucking in a big breath and turning my feet sideways to inch my way down.
The plane turned out to be a small one: only 14 people were on it .As we boarded, people made the usual lame jokes including "Where's the rest of your plane,sir?" and "How do I get to first-class?" My seat was right up front behind the pilots. But this plane was so small that I really was right behind the pilots. I could touch the control panel. Not that I would. Which also made me glad that I had that seat and not some crazy who would. Then I remembered my descent on the steps and decided not to judge.
    It was the worst ride of my entire life. Including cars, trains, buses, roller coasters, and ponies. It was like being on the Millennium Force...for over an hour. And why is it that people prone to motion sickness will never admit it? I am included in this. I still ride the spinning rides at carnivals and would never admit the extreme disorientation I get by the mere sight of a playground swing. It is as if there is a mass motion sickness denial group out there.
     By the time we were beginning the descent, I somehow was having both hot flashes and a cold sweat. The person next to me was only a foot away with the rest of the passengers right behind me. The only thing I could do was keep thinking, "Oh God, no. Please no. Not on this tiny little airplane with no complimentary barf bags and an electronic control pad in front of me. No no no no! Think of things that don't make you sick, like puppies.  But, how horrible would it be if I did! They'd never let me into Canada again!"
  I am proud to say that I made it. Limping and looking dazed, but I made it. To the wonderful world of the Toronto Airport.

Airports are  logically marvelous places. What I mean is, they are designed for people who don't know what they are doing and are frankly quite nervous of being yanked aside and frisked in public. The walls are blue and calming, the counters and beams are clean metal. The layout is essentially one huge maze one goes through. If you can read and follow directions (passed second grade) you can do an airport.

I was prepared to deal with people who have become hard and embittered by their government  jobs that they are overqualified for. This is especially true of post offices, the Secretary of State office, and the DMV. Airports are no exception, but the employees weren't that bad. At least, I was thinking that as I went through the metal detector and was yelled at by a woman who overfloweth off her wheely chair for leaving my laptop in the bag as it went through the scanner. There wasn't a sign about that, I swear.

After that, I was in the terminal. With 3 hours. And nothing to do. So, as my carry on/ tote weighed on my shoulder full of books, I walked down the hall of shops. I quickly learned to look as boring and lethargic as possible whilst in an airport. Every expression except completely weary and uninterested makes the guards look you over suspiciously. I found that out when I had the audacity to smile at one of them in passing.

I passed by a Coney Island, two Borders, and a few newspaper/candy shops, all standard airport fare to my knowledge. Then I noticed a mysterious door labeled "Reflection Center." What the heck is a Reflection Center? The windows were glazed and the guard was looking at me again, so I may never know the answer.

I ramble too much. So, to keep the story moving, I went to the Mcdonald's and paid $4 for a hamburger, knocked around Borders and Brookstone for as long as I could stand it (15 minutes), and found my gate. The wait was now 2 hours. Two hours of sitting on a deceptively hard seat waiting for my plane. My father obviously likes to be early.

Airports

With such constant learning and exploring, I wasn't able to post this the very day I was traveling to England, July 7. So, the dates won't match up.

Here's the boring introduction stuff to get out of the way: I signed up for this trip in October. I was one of the very first to do so. I've always wanted to visit the UK, and studying at the University of Oxford seemed like a great place to do that to me. A month hardly seemed long enough. Why not two months? Make it the whole summer?

I was worried about getting here. I had two buses, three airports, and an airport subway in my near future, all by myself. (I'm a big kid now! : )) The day was literally two days put together because of the five hour time difference.

In between the parking lot and the airport, my father and I took a bus. When the doors opened we were greeted by a woman who looked much like one I'd seen on a rerun of Cops the week before. The name plate on the wall announced that she was Penny R. Good enough. Within a few minutes of the drive, she entertained-entertain being used loosely- us with her excitement about going drinking that night. It went a bit like this:

Penny: Where're you off to, hon?
Me: England.
Penny: Oh, I hear it's nice there. Why?
Me: Why am I going? Oh, I am actually taking a course at the University of Oxford. I'll be gone a month.
Penny: Well, I have a party tonight. The airline gave me two whole days off. I'm going to get sooo wasted.
Me: ....that's nice. Yeah.

Then I heaved my bag down the steps and wheeled on to the check-in.