Writing this post has been on my to-do list ever since I returned to the States on 19 June at the conclusion of one indescribable academic year at Oxford. I actually first drafted the contents of this post on paper, which I supposed might better help me to organise my thoughts, but the truth of the matter is that I have not yet fully come to terms with my departure from England, as ridiculous as that may sound, for such a departure was inevitable. I still remember quite clearly, even now, seeing the Oxfordshire countryside unfurling before me for the first time as a coach transported my bedraggled and jetlagged self from Heathrow to Oxford, then the spires of Oxford itself shadowing pedestrians on High Street, and thinking to myself that no place in the world could be quite as beautiful as this. Passing through Pembroke College for the first time — gazing up at the honey-coloured buildings on all sides of the impeccably green lawn of Chapel Quad — induced a similar wonderment, if not a more powerful one, because this place was going to be my home for the next eight months. Surely, i had stumbled into the stuff of which (academic) fairytales are made, and, even though this year came with its fair share of challenges — the succession of essay crises, the monastic nature of undergraduate life, and that blasted rain — Oxford never did lose its magic and otherwordliness. Having returned to the comparatively mundane circumstances from whence I came, I think that I am still searching for that magic, only to remember that it is an ocean’s distance away.
The little things come to mind: long wooden tables at hall, solitary candles flickering upon their surfaces; angled cobblestones in Radcliffe Square; cyclists rushing by on Broad Street; carnations pinned to finalists’ billowing gowns; the surprising weight of three one-pound coins exchanged for my usual lunch, a chicken mayo and pesto on a white baguette with salad, at La Croissanterie; the ponderous tolling of Old Tom; gently sloping sunsets of late spring; rows of red brick houses on Banbury Road; the knocking of croquet balls. The big things come to mind too. Every time I walked to the Social Science Library, I passed the site of Thomas Cranmer’s execution and Kenneth Grahme’s grave. Or, if I took an alternative route, I would walk by University College, where Robert Boyle established the inverse relationship between the pressure and volume of a gas that every high school chemistry student must learn. I have enjoyed drinks and lively conversation at Pembroke College’s Broadgates Hall, which is home to the desk at which J.R.R. Tolkien wrote The Hobbit when he was a fellow at the college. I have also had dinner — twice! — at the pub where Tolkien and his friend C.S. Lewis used to meet to discuss their literary endeavours. Perhaps, as a visiting student, I was bound to be more attentive to such details, but life at Oxford seemed denser than it is even in Washington, DC. Layer upon layer of history rests over the university and the city, and between narrow allows and college gates, there was always another observation to be made, another anecdote to be told, another secret to be saved and recalled fondly at some later date.
Then, to have trekked through at least a tiny sliver of the world beyond this most towering of ivory towers — I feel almost guilty, recounting the places that I have seen during the course of my adventures. The Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, Switzerland, France, Italy, Vatican City, the Czech Republic, Austria, and Hungary — I have been an amateur student of European history for years, both through administrative compulsion and of my own will, but there is something to be said to personally experiencing the diversity of cultures that exists on the Continent. (My particular reactions to these destinations have been recounted at some length over at my personal blog.) I wish that I had been able to travel through more of the United Kingdom itself, even though I was still able to see Bath, London on many occasions, Canterbury, and, most memorably of all, the tormented, windswept cliffs of Cornwall, but, as I have been telling myself, I can do no wrong in giving myself an excuse to return to the British Isles. The latter have, in any case, made quite the Anglophile out of me.
Interestingly enough, while I was on the other side of the pond, I would struggle to articulate differences between the US and the UK. After all, one is technically the offspring of the other, they’re both English-speaking Western democracies (though their respective brand of English really are incredibly different), their speed limits are measured in miles per hour, and they even share a “special relationship,” continued debates about its validity notwithstanding. Since returning, though, I’ve established a running catalogue of divergences between the two countries. Everything in the States, for instance, from single-family homes to SUVs to city skyscrapers, is just so large. The willingness of my compatriots to unhesitatingly express any complaint they may have was simply not to be found in England. It is strange to be so reliant on a car for transportation, one-dollar bills for retail transactions, and what is this “watch your step” business? It’s “mind the gap,” clearly!
When I was applying for the visiting student programme, I envisioned Oxford to be a complement to my Georgetown education. Although the latter shall ultimately bear the responsibility of my undergraduate degree, I have been as much altered and shaped by the former, which did not hesitate to cast me into the proverbial fires of its tutorial system. I have been challenged, thwarted, and beaten by it, and, on more than one occasion, I beseeched the heavily powers that be to please, please, please just let me go back to a university that did not demand such a volume and tempo of coursework, but, after almost forty essays and a handful of problem sets, I have discovered within me a reserve of diligence, independence, and persistence — and just a garnish of insanity for good measure — that no other institution could have ever forced me to find. My life as a student shall return to its ordinary ways — a midterm here, an essay there, and a finals week that will hopefully seem positively relaxing by comparison — but I hope to continue to struggle with the broader questions, to defend my opinions as a (very, very, very amateur) scholar in my own right, and to think and write with the analytical vigour and intellectual courage that Oxford demands of anyone that passes into its patronage. It is truly an honour to have studied there, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I do not miss it.
