Homecoming ... Actually, Homegoing

I cannot believe how much time has passed since my last blog entry. So much has happened in that time: 4 countries, 8 cities, 10 planes, 15 buses, and numerous metro/tube/underground rides, to be exact. More elaboration on that in a later post (I know, that's what I said last time, but I mean it this time!).

I've still been writing - pages and pages in my journal filled with memories, conclusions (finally!), ponderings, revelations. I've finally figured out a lot of things about the kind of person I want to be and the kind of life I want to be. And I'm more at peace with myself than I have been in about two years. It's a great feeling.

That said (and done), I leave all this to go back to the good ol' USofA in less than 48 hours. Incredible. It flew by.

I'm done here. What an ... amazingbewilderingexcitingdepressing thing.

Home has been calling to me. The world has not stopped turning with my absence. I've been searching for summer jobs, figuring out housing for next year, applying for financial aid, registering for classes... It's so surreal to have been dealing with all of these more or less mundane things while I've been writing papers for my tutor at Oxford University, catching flights to France, etc.

Surreal is most definitely my word of choice for describing all this. It still doesn't seem real.

I have a life to return to and build, revelations and personal decisions to now put into practice. And I'm incredibly excited to do so.

But.

It's incredibly saddening to think that tomorrow is my last full day living here, to think that I will no longer wake up to my flatmates bustling about in the kitchen, to think that I will no longer have to wait 7 hours for one load of laundry, to think that I will no longer admire the Thames on my walk to the city centre, to think that I will no longer go to Sainsbury's for crumpets, chocolate bars, clementines, and 3 for 4 orange juice specials, to think that I will no longer walk up and down Cornmarket Street listening to the musicians strewn about and watching the man play his violin as he balances on a bike atop a tightrope, to think that I will no longer be able to stand in line at Moo-moo's debating over what flavor milkshake to purchase, to think that I will no longer come home and make dinner with my flatmates, to think that I will no longer be able to go to the Red Lion (a pub) with my friends, three of us sharing a pitcher of some ridiculously fruity drink, to think that I will no longer be sleeping without a top sheet, to think that all these small details that have composed my life for the last three and a half months will now be a thing of the past.

Beyond the schooling process (of which, in retrospect, I've grown rather fond), I'll miss the life I've built here. It was a life. This place has become home, a place I call my own. And I'm leaving it soon.

Back to reality, I suppose.

Bittersweet.

Fin.

At approximately 3:50 this afternoon, I completed my term at Oxford University.

I can't even describe the feeling. For the last five minutes or so my tutor and I discussed my work, what I've learned, the term in general. I told him about the things that really stood out in my memory (which I will discuss here later), how some of the things have affected my thinking about the world and my future, how I've been writing about them (journal entries, conversations with friends, blogs, etc.) ... at which point he exclaimed, "You've had time? Even with writing this much? I never wrote this much as an undergrad." At which point I wanted to smack him and ask why he made me do it. Anyway.

I have to say, it was totally worth it. I have learned so much, thought so much, read so much, written so much, grown so much. I have been pushed beyond my limits, had a few panic attacks (a new experience for me), been more frustrated with my academic life than ever before.

But I've come out the other end, absolutely exhausted, better for the experience.

Hopefully I'll have some time to blog tomorrow, but it's going to be a rather busy day - preparing for the travels. Deep breaths. I'll be keeping a journal of sorts while traveling, so I'll transfer some of that over to here once I'm in front of a computer again (which might not be for the next two weeks or so. But we'll see).

I can think of no other way to end this blog than this: :D

Activities.

A brief update about my activities over the past few weeks:

Our study abroad group went to Cambridge about two weeks ago. Have I mentioned Cambridge? Apparently not! Wow! Well, we went to Cambridge, toured the colleges, marveled at King's College Chapel, ate lunch at The Eagle pub (site of the realization of DNA, and also site of my first taste of mulled wine - delicious!), wandered over to the Round Church, took pictures of various colleges, and went up in a tower of one of the colleges' chapels (the name escapes me; I'll insert it when I remember), among other activities. I felt much more at ease in Cambridge than I do in Oxford. But don't tell anyone here that. I plan on looking into it for my graduate studies, in addition to Oxford.

We also went to Stratford-upon-Avon last Wednesday afternoon. My friends and I saw Shakespeare's birthplace, walked along the River Avon, saw where Shakespeare was buried, took the long trek to Anne Hathaway's cottage (not the actress, as many people needed to be reminded!), had dinner in a pub, and then were privileged enough to have tickets to see "King Lear" that night. It was incredible - seeing the place where that incredible literary mind was formed, and then seeing the products of it.

I am going to miss these little excursions - they were such fun!

I have bigger excursions ahead, though.

Planning my travels has been much more complicated than I originally thought. One must take into consideration not only method of travel and lodgings, but transportation to and from the airport and about town, places to dine, activities, laundry ... it's exhausting. Whenever I feel overwhelmed, though, I just stop and think about what I'm doing. Can't find a cheap flight from Ireland to France? Maria! You're going to France! Struggling to get in touch with hostel owners to confirm reservations? Maria! You're going to Scotland! And so on. It's amazing.

Besides those activities, I also went up to the top of the Magdalen tower on Friday. That. Was. Incredible. We (myself and a few other OSAP people who are studying at Magdalen) struggled to open the old, enormous door, and climbed over 140 winding stairs to reach the top. The entire city was sprawled out below me. I could see the Radcliffe Camera and the Bodleian, the rolling fields in the distance and the metropolis of the city centre. It was majestic. I, by the way, love heights, so this was a particularly exhilarating experience. I am still speechless about it.

Lastly, on Saturday, instead of being a productive student and writing my essay, I decided to get a taste of Oxford sports. My friend Corwin and I went to our friend's varsity rugby match against Cambridge. We, having failed to research the sport beforehand, had absolutely no idea what was going on. It's a fascinating sport, regardless of whether or not one knows what's going on. We then walked over to the Torpids (rowing, for those of you who don't know what the Torpids are). Rowing, I've decided, is my favorite sport. The way the boats glide through the water, propelled by arms working in perfect synchronization, a coherent unit of men or women completely in harmony with one another ... beautiful. I loved it.

And now I must finish this entry, as I have to get to my last Oxford University Student Chorus rehearsal before our concert tonight.

Cheers.

Homesick

So. All day today I've been homesick.

This is a new feeling for me. I don't get homesick. But, right now, I am incredibly homesick.

I want to get back to my life. The life where schoolwork, community service, clubs, and social life performed an intricate and painstakingly choreographed dance around one another. The life where I knew almost everyone I saw, where I had a place, where I was significant in one way or another.

I miss it.

I am definitely appreciating the time I have here, and getting far too excited about my future travels (this time next week, I will be in Scotland!). But still.

I want to climb the stairs to my dorm room, my footsteps echoing in the stairwell. I want to open my door, fling my things onto my desk, and drop heavily onto my green fuzzy chair and vent to Jillian about my day. I want to walk into a Bonner meeting, and be greeted with smiles and hugs. I want to meander through the campus, grinning broadly at everyone I know.

I want to make the drive to Daddy's house, key in the code to open the garage door, and be tackled by my exuberant chocolate lab. I want to bicycle through the community, trailing after my father. I want to to curl up on the leather couch to watch Antiques Roadshow with my father and stepmother, bowl of ice cream in hand and book at my side.

I want to be in Connecticut, lounging and watching television on my mother's king size bed, only to be pestered by our fat orange cat. I want to recline in the chair in the living room with my best friend on the couch, watching The Bachelorette. I want to make my way up the stairs to the room I have inhabited my entire life and fall into bed after a long day of work and seeing old friends.

I want to go home. Only problem is, I can't decide to which home I most want to go. I miss all three homes.

Homesickness, times three.

Household Names

Bear with me. This is long. And quite different from my other posts. But, it's an example of the kind of thinking Oxford has inspired within me, and therefore I considered it relevant to this blog.

I began my penultimate Oxford essay with numerous thoughts bouncing around in my head, something happened, and I felt the overwhelming urge to write about it. Okay. Now. Let's back up.

Penultimate Oxford essay: regarding Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, which is a verbose and horridly, though quite subtly, prejudiced recollection of a British man's journey into the depths of Africa in the 19th century. I am to evaluate this short novel with the help of Chinua Achebe's article "An Image of Africa," found in volume 18 of "The Massachusetts Review," 1977.

Numerous thoughts: brought about by not only this article and the book itself, but also by several conversations held with a close friend of mine over the past few days, all in conjunction with my own considerations. I have been thinking about my future as a writer. I want to travel to various countries, namely impoverished or oft overlooked countries, and write about them in such a manner as to bring them to the forefront of Western consciousness, challenging common conceptions, and calling their present state into serious question. I've struggled with this ambition of mine for several weeks, mostly as a result of my post-colonial global literature tutorial. I questioned my right, not to mention my ability, to speak for a country, a people, a culture that I would see through the very lens I wish to challenge. My friend reassured me that, besides the fact that I will not necessarily be speaking for them but instead transmitting my own experiences and perceptions, that it is possible to at least partially rid myself of the biases and lenses that have been socially engrained within me. I will expound on this in a later post.

Anyway, let me get to what I'm getting at. This whole inner debate has also raised questions of how incredibly frustrating it is that post-colonial nations have such a difficult task ahead in finding and using the voice that has so long been smothered and meanwhile altered by colonialism. On top of this, people like Joseph Conrad have gone into these countries and subsequently written the aforementioned prejudiced books like Heart of Darkness, which are then accepted as reality not only by the inhabitants of the author's country and the readers in the developed world but also, eventually, by the people of that country themselves, as there will likely exist a paucity of their history told through their own eyes due to attempts at assimilation into Western culture by the colonists. What an absurd concept.

The event that occurred as I began my essay: I have been writing about numerous authors for the past two months, half British, half of varied nationality. I typed in the name "Joseph Conrad," as I have typed the names Ernest Hemingway, Charlotte Bronte, Mary Shelley ... and nothing happened. I typed in the name "Chinua Achebe," as I have typed in the names Salman Rushdie, Lu Hsun, Gabriel Garcia Marquez ... and the little red dots indicating a spelling error appeared on the screen.

It speaks volumes to me that authors like Ernest Hemingway and Charlotte Bronte are "significant" enough to have their last names automatically added to Microsoft Word's dictionary, but authors like Chinua Achebe and Salman Rushdie, who have done incredible work in speaking for those who cannot yet speak for themselves, challenging Western views and Western control, and standing against the floods that rushed forth in post-colonial times, are not "worthy" enough or "famous" enough to have been added to Microsoft's dictionary. Bullshit.

Needless to say, I moved my mouse over the red-underlined words. I right-clicked. I selected "Add to Dictionary."

They are significant enough for me. They, too, should be household names. So why aren't they?

One Week.

One week from today, my academic time at Oxford University will be over.

One week from today, I shall have no more assigned books to read, no more essays to write frantically, no more pages of notes cluttering my desktop, no more need to stay up all night - at least, not for academic purposes.

One week from today, my bag shall be packed in preparation for what may be the most insane and yet the most thrilling three weeks in my life thus far.

One week from today, I will be sitting here, moo-moo's milkshake in hand (yes, I am obsessed), reflecting on and writing copiously about my experiences, both academic and otherwise.

One week from today, I will have managed to perform in a concert at Oxford, finish my community service, return all the books currently scattered about my room, visit three or four more colleges here, and do all of the other things I have been meaning to do since I got here.

One week from today, I imagine that I will be in a temporary, yet blissful, state of utter peace.

One week.

More Rubbish.

Two posts in one day. I'm on a roll. This one will be extremely brief, I promise.

1. Today I went to moo-moo's, which is a milkshake stand within the Covered Market that sells over 200 varieties of milkshake and smoothie. I enjoyed a Ferrero Rocher milkshake this morning, and plan on indulging in a chocolate hobknob milkshake when my flatmate and I return later this afternoon. Two milkshakes in one day. Ah, bliss.

For your perusal: http://www.moo-moos.co.uk/index.htm

2. Sunday morning, my flatmates and I attended chapel at Magdalen. And it. Was. Beautiful. The choir, composed of about fifteen little boys and fifteen men from the college, created perhaps the most breathtaking music I have ever heard. Their rendition of Kyrie, with its haunting melody and dissonant harmony, literally brought me to tears. I don't know why I haven't gone more often. Will certainly be attending Evensong this Thursday.

3. As a result of the perpetually cloudy skies over my head and the winter clothing covering every inch of my flesh, my skin has turned the color of cream. Striking difference from the tan I've had for two years as a result of going to college in warm, sunny Florida. My tan lines have all disappeared, something I never thought would happen. Completely random and very superficial, but it was something I've noticed.

4. I did, however, luxuriate in the sunshine yesterday. It was about 50 degrees outside, with refreshingly sunny skies. I was at the library, had about twenty minutes until I had to leave for my service site, went up on the roof (where people often sit and chat, eat and smoke) to a little alcove, removed my woolen coat, and basked in the sunshine. It was divine.