Oxford.artz



Jenny and Izzy being...Jenny and Izzy



I should know better than to read on the bus.   I’ve never been particularly fond of anything bus related, actually.  Discounting the copious amounts of shenanigans and memories of speech bus mornings, I really don’t think that bus trips have ever been the mode of transportation for me.  It’s bumpy, uncomfortable, and less than accommodating to those of us with the constant need to pee.  Luckily, Oxford was only a short hour and a half away.  Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy!

I will always wonder where I would be in life if I had decided to attend a university outside of the United States instead of my beautiful little college in southern Minnesota.  Naturally, some consequences settle in  right away: different friends, no River Rock, no tacky house with 70s walls and 60s carpet, no memories of laundry room sickness or basketball players sneaking away from the scene, no stunning views from the top of a waterfall just ten minutes away.  That’s just the beginning, too!  Surely every single thing that could be on this list could be manifested in a positive light on the opposite side, but it’s always interesting to think: what if?

What if? 

The trip was, in a word, a sculpture:  Every event chiseled out of the day, every moment meticulously picked over and shaped, every stop a carefully crafted choice.  Of course, there are always unseen roadblocks.  A piece of clay is harder, perhaps more brittle than the rest; a cathedral is closed for freshman orientation week and the tour has to be redirected.  Like any great artists, our chaperones rolled with the punches and kept the blueprint as close to planned as possible.  Lucinda and Jeanne did very well.

Stop one was a tour of Oxford.  Our tour guide, ominously named Tony—see Dublin blog—, was a funny little old man that couldn’t stop talking about the monarchy and their history with the University and the different colleges that make it up.  Lucinda, who’s bonkers for Pre-Raphaelitism, was appalled.  Midway through the tour, she actually apologized for how atrocious the guide was and then again when he had finished and was (not)out of earshot.   Honestly, he was not that bad.  It would have been nice to know that we weren’t going to experience some of the greater Pre Raphaelite attractions in the area ahead of time, but there’s also no use in crying over spilt milk.

Free time for lunch.  Jenny, Izzy, and I ate some delicious Japanese food right outside of the covered market while the rest of the gang went inside for some café sandwiches.  I definitely think that we got the better end of lunch, though I am sure the food in doors was equally delectable.



Pretty, no?



Also: how much do I talk about food?  So much.  Too much?  It’s just really delicious here.



"Emotional Rollercoaster"



Turns out the Drew, Steve, Izzy, Kelly, Jamie, and Jenny went punting down the river after the allocated free time.  It’s basically what you see in stereotypical portrayals of Venice on the canals.  They had fun, and there are some funny pictures of Steve with the 15’ pole.  It’s roughly five times his size.

 I joined six other people, including Lucinda, for the Pre Raphaelitism exhibit in the Ashmolean Museum.  I’m not going to go into everything that was in the museum and nor am I going to into much detail about the exhibit I saw.  Rather, I have this to share:

For the first time in my life, I cried in a museum.   It was odd at the most minimal level; transcendent at the spiritual.  After walking through the first two rooms of the exhibit—no photography, please—I was impressed.  I had seen a lot of the paintings in class already, but there is just something about seeing the majestic works up close that plays into this feeling of novelty; it was like seeing them all for the first time simply because they were really right in front of my face.  In the third room, near the back right corner, there was a piece by Dante Gabriel Rossetti titled, “Beata Beatrix.”  Having seen the painting probably three or four times on a slide show, I wasn’t really expecting to be so impacted by the actual work.  When I stood before his piece, you could have pushed me down with a strand of hair; it would have knocked me to the floor.  I felt weightless and sad and powerless and joyful and proud.



I felt alive.

"Beata Beatrix"