My body marked the next day as the beginning of my travels through Europe--my last day in Oxford, with the lingering cold that decided it was time to let me smell again. Everyone knows Oxford has a beauteous smell on days that share the rain and sun, when the temperature matches a crisp fall day in the states and the dusters line the streets. It was glorious. The spires sang.
I typed out an e-mail to my mother on an English keyboard with the @ symbol next to the right pinky and read one from my boyfriend. His words freed me to be me apart from him.
My book beckoned me toward the terrace. The space was somewhat indie in its sympathies; a young man was sleeping off his hangover, plastic tarps covered ugly pipes, a stained mirror blocked a small piece of brick, smoke rose from ash trays, and a floor drum remained from the night before. A woman from Germany who I had met yesterday sat smoking and playing with her iphone and watching the man fumble over the pillow that lay lazily under his disheveled hair. It was quite the sight. When I got to page 284 in my book, I decided to venture out to mail my brother his birthday card and finish my walk through the Ashmolean museum. My legs progressed forward lethargically, so much so that my 80-year-old grandmother would have put me to shame. But it was okay because no one was here to notice.
The Ashmolean seemed dry, just like my steps, until I entered the Greek sculpture room. People, artists, lined benches on both sides, sketch books opened. They drew with focus--some with a loose hand, others making the intricate details foreground, and they ranged in age from twenty to seventy or the looks of it. Each was enthralled with their own work. I drew closer to the benches for a glimpse at artistry. Half-formed waist draped in cloth and basic silhouettes grabbed my attention. The room left me with a comfort that had not frequented my experience for some time. It was an international understanding of sorts, an acknowledgement for the arts outside of academia. Perhaps the fact that this site brought me much renewed hope proved that I had become pretentious, believing that only my classmates still cared and all other state universities were set up simply as moratoriums for aimless students who would rather drink their way through Europe than feel something other than pleasure--like the tension of its bloody history or the language barriers that were the external examples of an internal war between one culture and the next. What of these things and the pain they made one feel? The artists in the Ashmolean knew the aesthetic, and they sketched it in subtle strokes for the common man to see a different angle than they were accustomed. So it was: an international understanding of a universal truth, that art wasn't just for the academicians.
Upon my return to the hostel, I made a quick lunch and was peeling an orange, juice falling in sticky lines down the length of my fingers, when I overheard a conversation in the common room. One man mentioned Spain a few times, although they spoke mainly of universities in the states. Ten minutes passed, and I finally worked up the courage to unlock my vocal chords.
"Did you say you were from Spain?" I asked.
"Yeah." he answered.
"My grandparents live there. It's where my mom is from, Northern Spain, Galicia.."
"My whole family is from Galicia," he said and smiled. "Where are you from?"
"The states," I said. "Near Chicago."
A guy in pajama pants popped his head around the corner.
"Who's from the states?" he questioned in an indecipherable accent that I soon found out was Dutch.
"I am."
He pumped his fist into the air, and his face lifted in anticipation.
"I love the United States!"
I laughed. Overseas, I rarely ran into lovers of America. Since I was in no rush, having picked up the leisurely European lifestyle, I sat down for a casual chat. His name was Daan, and as he talked about America, his gestures grew grander and grander. He was from Holland but hadn't been there for a while--Oxford gave him temporary refuge, a place of study that he planned to later extend into maritime law. We ended the conversation with an agreement to talk again and a facebook friend request.
Then I went to my favorite French cafe on St. Giles street in Oxford and wrote down my interactions over my last English scone of the summer and a very bitter cappucino. I tried not to think too hard about the irony.
I typed out an e-mail to my mother on an English keyboard with the @ symbol next to the right pinky and read one from my boyfriend. His words freed me to be me apart from him.
My book beckoned me toward the terrace. The space was somewhat indie in its sympathies; a young man was sleeping off his hangover, plastic tarps covered ugly pipes, a stained mirror blocked a small piece of brick, smoke rose from ash trays, and a floor drum remained from the night before. A woman from Germany who I had met yesterday sat smoking and playing with her iphone and watching the man fumble over the pillow that lay lazily under his disheveled hair. It was quite the sight. When I got to page 284 in my book, I decided to venture out to mail my brother his birthday card and finish my walk through the Ashmolean museum. My legs progressed forward lethargically, so much so that my 80-year-old grandmother would have put me to shame. But it was okay because no one was here to notice.
The Ashmolean seemed dry, just like my steps, until I entered the Greek sculpture room. People, artists, lined benches on both sides, sketch books opened. They drew with focus--some with a loose hand, others making the intricate details foreground, and they ranged in age from twenty to seventy or the looks of it. Each was enthralled with their own work. I drew closer to the benches for a glimpse at artistry. Half-formed waist draped in cloth and basic silhouettes grabbed my attention. The room left me with a comfort that had not frequented my experience for some time. It was an international understanding of sorts, an acknowledgement for the arts outside of academia. Perhaps the fact that this site brought me much renewed hope proved that I had become pretentious, believing that only my classmates still cared and all other state universities were set up simply as moratoriums for aimless students who would rather drink their way through Europe than feel something other than pleasure--like the tension of its bloody history or the language barriers that were the external examples of an internal war between one culture and the next. What of these things and the pain they made one feel? The artists in the Ashmolean knew the aesthetic, and they sketched it in subtle strokes for the common man to see a different angle than they were accustomed. So it was: an international understanding of a universal truth, that art wasn't just for the academicians.
Upon my return to the hostel, I made a quick lunch and was peeling an orange, juice falling in sticky lines down the length of my fingers, when I overheard a conversation in the common room. One man mentioned Spain a few times, although they spoke mainly of universities in the states. Ten minutes passed, and I finally worked up the courage to unlock my vocal chords.
"Did you say you were from Spain?" I asked.
"Yeah." he answered.
"My grandparents live there. It's where my mom is from, Northern Spain, Galicia.."
"My whole family is from Galicia," he said and smiled. "Where are you from?"
"The states," I said. "Near Chicago."
A guy in pajama pants popped his head around the corner.
"Who's from the states?" he questioned in an indecipherable accent that I soon found out was Dutch.
"I am."
He pumped his fist into the air, and his face lifted in anticipation.
"I love the United States!"
I laughed. Overseas, I rarely ran into lovers of America. Since I was in no rush, having picked up the leisurely European lifestyle, I sat down for a casual chat. His name was Daan, and as he talked about America, his gestures grew grander and grander. He was from Holland but hadn't been there for a while--Oxford gave him temporary refuge, a place of study that he planned to later extend into maritime law. We ended the conversation with an agreement to talk again and a facebook friend request.
Then I went to my favorite French cafe on St. Giles street in Oxford and wrote down my interactions over my last English scone of the summer and a very bitter cappucino. I tried not to think too hard about the irony.
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