One day in Stratford makes the hard man humble.

The birthplace, surprisingly void of tourist traffic.


The Swan Theatre, where we should have seen Macbett. Consolation prize? Prince John almost walked into this picture.


If we were in bikinis, this would be a Benny Hill sketch.


The Dirty Duck. Such an innocuous place...


More dirty ducks, Chrissy's personal nightmare.


Stained glass in Holy Trinity Church, where Shakespeare is buried.


Boats on the Avon, named after Shakespearean heroines (moored, of course, due to high water).

What's that big yellow thing in the sky?

Happily, 2 Henry IV was not rained out yesterday, though our trip to Stratford got a little held up by an accident on the motorway. Nevertheless, we made it to our professor's house, she fed us a delicious dinner, we talked with a wonderful (and down to earth) actress, and then went on to the show, which was actually a really sad experience--we had seen three histories with the same ensemble, and now I feel like they are my little stage friends and I will miss them. Before BL, the first item on my when-I-get-home list was Harry Potter. Now it's Henry V with Kenneth Brannagh. I just can't wait to see what happens to Prince Hal. Nerds on vacation? Speaking of Prince Hal, we'll be meeting the actor who plays him today. Some of the ladies in my class are turning into, in my professor's words, "screaming teeny-boppers." Nerds on vacation.

Not much else to report from Stratford. I had brought my camera to take some pictures with the girls at The Dirty Duck last night, but I was in foul (fowl?) spirits because it was so crowded and there was a lot of actor-ogling happening that made me feel goofy. I didn't want to wait in a queue of Bread Loafers to drink an overpriced Hoegaarden, and I didn't want to accost someone who had just spent two and a half hours pouring his soul out on stage. The hottie who played Prince John did, however, give me a very gallant "after you," which almost started a girl-fight with another Bread Loafer who had designs on being the next queen of England. I think the word "usurper" may have been bandied about... Anyway, I'll be eager to hear post-Duck tales from those who stayed in Stratford overnight. Maybe somebody got lucky with Poins or Doll Tearsheet.

Stay tuned. If this sun-like glimmer sticks around, I'll post some pictures of the birthplace, etc.

Really, England? Really?

It's pouring. Sideways. And I have to get on a coach to Stratford in half an hour. At least I'm not underwater, yet, but I do feel like I am drowning in rain, heavy cream, and seventeen different productions of Othello.

O sunshine! O Vitamin C!

Hello? London calling?

It’s not the first Clash joke, but not unlike Kris’s legendary bear paws/pause (it’s a sight gag), it never gets old.

We did get to London yesterday for a lackluster Othello, despite the continued sogginess of the weather. It’s a nasty, damp, blustery day, one that makes you wish for wool socks (check) and a mug of hot chocolate (still working on that). I’m not sure what this rain is doing to nearby water levels, but things remain copasetic here at BLOX in that neither I nor my belongings have floated away (nor have any small children, senior citizens, math campers, or tourists from Mother Russia, at least not to my knowledge).

I’m limited on good stories from the past few days—paper writing, reading 2 Henry IV, finishing a paper on 1 Henry IV, particularly overstuffed (Falstaffian?) High Table dinner (salad avec deep-fried croutons, cream of celery soup, roast duck, rice pilaf with wee little chunks of liver, buttery snap peas and carrots, dark chocolate ganache tart; italics added), post-dinner paper-editing enlivened by wine, four hours of class on Tuesday morning, the coach to London where sunshine greeted us, rotating sushi bar (plus one point for entertainment value, minus one point for hunger pangs), back to four hours of class today. Tonight? More Shakespeare after dinner in the form of a private screening of Orson Welles’ Othello.

Let's just say the pictures below are worth more than the 226 words above.


St. Paul's as reflected in a shop window.


St. Paul's en vivo. Hey, thanks London!


Kris and Chrissy on the Millenium Bridge. It's a little dark, but you can squint. I would've retaken it if not for Kris' paralyzing fear of heights/rickety bridges, and the masses of rush-hour commuters making their way around us.

Water, water everywhere.

For those of you concerned re: BBC reports about massive flooding in England, rest assured. Though the Thames rises and the Magdalen College Deer Park is underwater, the punts pointing downwards to their high water moorings, I am high and dry here at Lincoln, for now. Some parts of the Cotswolds that I walked through last weekend seem particularly hard hit, and I am keeping my fingers crossed for our trip to London for Othello tomorrow and Stratford for 2 Henry IV on Thursday. Missing these would be very sad indeed, but not as sad as having all of your belongings swept away by river water. "Remain calm and carry on" is a fair motto to adopt, as per our intrepid director. I agree.

Not for lack of trying.

I guess it's hard to punt when the rivers are in flood. Actually, it's hard to punt when the punts and the docks are underwater. We walked down to The Head of the River, after some tasty croques and cafe au lait, to find that even the waterfowl in the Cherwell were being swept away by the current. So we paused to finish Act V of Othello and then had some drinks and snacks at the pub. We were doing homework, really, finally having the discussion we should have been having all summer in class, catching up on some much-needed girl time, and enjoying the sunshine. We had a great day, though we affirmed the recurring theme of this weekend: if at first you don't succeed, try, try again, and then give up and have a beer. I've never failed at so many things in such rapid succession as I have in the past two days.

The biggest regret, really, was coming back to Lincoln at 6:45 to find a note under Kris' door that Johanna's birthday celebration had congregated and left at 6:30. We are so resourceful that we found the restaurant they were going to with no further information than "Slovak food," but having misread the address and neglecting to bring directions with us, we wound up wandering up and down Cowley Road for nearly an hour, at which point we gave up, sat down at a Moroccan tapas bar, and had a lovely dinner. We came home to discover that we were probably just a block or so parallel to where everyone else was, which means missing out on the post-dinner festivities. That's fine, but not ringing in Jo's birthday stinks bigtime.

The best laid schemes.

My life at Oxford has turned into an absurdist play. Friday’s downpours did not prevent us from schlepping over to the train schedule to proceed with our as-planned trip to Stratford to see Macbett. “Stick to the plan” was a phrase being thrown around. At the train station, we discovered there were no trains to Stratford. Not a surprise, since we already knew that Chrissy’s train to Manchester had been a no-go. But what’s a little rain? In England? There had to be other means of transport. We refunded our train fares (which we didn’t think we’d be able to do) and called the box office to discover the potential fate of our £30 fourth row center tickets. Tim, in the spirit of adventure, had brought with him driving directions and the phone number of Enterprise. He was willing to drive stick on the left side of the road in the rain. Apparently, we were not the only stranded travelers, so his death wish remained ungranted.

Then we tried at the bus station. It seemed the buses to Stratford were running, but there was a catch. We would get in, according to the schedule, a hairsbreadth early for the performance, and there was no return bus at night, which meant finding a hotel room after the performance let out. Still undeterred, we called the box office again: we kept alternating between new versions of “Will you refund our tickets?” and busy signals. The man with the soggy bus schedule led us, unsurprisingly, to a pub, where, on the nastiest couch in the entire United Kingdom, we decided to proceed with our brilliant plan (because we love Ionescu that much). So we hopped on the bus (#20) to Chipping North (where we would either take a taxi or get the transfer bus, #50). It took nearly an hour to get out of Oxford traffic, but we finally hit the first rotary and then we were verily humming along through the Cotswolds. We played some bus games, laughed at ourselves, and admired an incredibly well-behaved dog a few rows ahead. In the delightful hamlet of Chipping North, we disembarked at the bus mall and pondered our options. According to the bus driver, the #50 was running, but no taxi driver would drive us past a certain river crossing. And that’s when it all clicked. The whole morning I had been thinking, “Really, England? Really?” I mean, what’s a little rain? And then I got it: after the rainiest June in recorded history, the rivers were in flood, and there were few crossings over them. All those charming country by-roads converged upon the same bridge. Not to mention that Stratford-upon-Avon is called that for a reason, so who knew what the Avon would be doing if/when we ever got there. So there we stood, soggy and cold, under the bus stop overhang, weighing the alternatives: a hotel room in Chipping North, literally 35 minutes away from Oxford? Wait for the #50, but until what time? Get on the next #20 and hightail it home?

As it turned out, the King’s Arms certainly had a lively pub, but only one single room with one single bed left. The #50 never showed. And at a certain point, we were so hungry and cold we were ready to gnaw off our own limbs. Back to Oxford it was. No Macbett. We tried to compensate with a huge meal, drinks, and a round of “Famous People in a Hat.” Which ended fine, but it took literally seven hours for the waitress to bring me my drink (the place was empty; I ordered a vodka tonic—that’s two ingredients, four if you count the ice and lime). I was tempted to go behind the bar and make it myself, and when she finally did arrive with the wrong thing, I had to cause a scene in The Slug and Lettuce. (I felt awful immediately afterwards. I know that’s no way to build karma.)



(Tim Sullivan gets credit for the above picture and the one at the top.)

Saturday, I awoke to clear skies. I got trucking on my paper early (by which I mean I chatted online with friends who live 15 yards away), consumed three days worth of calories in a hot chocolate and croissant from the French bakery in the Covered Market, and buckled down with the Page-to-Stage team to read Othello after lunch. I love Othello, but it is a long play, and I had to stop for a nap break. Also, we discovered that the Swan Theatre is flooded, and Saturday’s performances were cancelled (but not Friday’s…drat.) By dinner, the mayonnaise buffet, I was delirious, but I ate my bowl of mayonnaise salad like a good girl, and hunkered down with the paper again. It was pouring and I had no desire to have another Night Out. Plus, there was the promise of Brighton to look forward to today.


So I rose at 6:30, walked down to the train station with Kris and Chrissy. Forget Brighton. They refused to sell us tickets anywhere. It’s a blue sky day, at least for now, and there’s no seaside kitsch to be had. So sad! But we’ll try to make a day of it. My goals are meager at this point. A Croque Madame. Punting, or at least a long walk. A beer by the river. If I keep my expectations low, I’ll be pleasantly surprised later. (That’s a lesson from Prince Hal. Not a paragon of good behavior, but he’s all I’ve got.)

The rain it raineth every day.

Yesterday, while trying to make reservations for a weekend in Brighton, I suddenly realized that it was Thursday. Already. Impossible how quickly the time goes. It’s pouring, and if my mattress did not feel like a rice cake with iron prongs sticking out of it, I would want to stay in bed all day. Alas, yet another trip to Stratford (this one voluntary), a paper, and two plays to read, plus a (possible) weekend voyage to the (probably very rainy) seashore make efficiency a moral imperative. So, in brief, to recap:

On Monday, we went to see Twelfth Night in Chichester, which is a town that falls asleep at 6pm, at least on weeknights. We grabbed dinner at a chain-restaurant-worse-than-Applebee’s housed inside a beautiful old church. The food was atrocious, the worst meal I’ve had in England yet, even including all those creamy potatoes, but it was an adventure. You’d think the “buy one get the second for 99p” would’ve tipped us off. This Twelfth Night starred the same cast as our first Macbeth, with Patrick Stewart transforming from tyrant to Malvolio (so, in some ways, not much of a transformation). During the show, I wasn’t wowed by it, I think because I find Twelfth Night to be unbearably sad. This production definitely played up the tragicomedy, setting the play in 1919, and emphasizing the post-WWI desperation of all the characters. The set was magical, and I would have liked to have seen it again.

Tuesday, we spent about 18 hours trying to plan our week. It was incredibly unproductive, but there were delicious milkshakes at the end of it all, we got (most) of our plans figured out, and then we turned the whole thing around by spending the evening reading 1 Henry IV aloud, which was an uproarious good time, especially when we go to Act IV, opened a bottle of Syrah, and drank every time someone made a fat joke about Falstaff. (A game that Chrissy promptly reported to our professor, much to our great embarrassment.)

Wednesday, we made an impromptu voyage to London. When we walked to the train station to buy tickets on Tuesday, we bought off-peak tickets at a discounted group rate. Immediately after completing the transaction, Tim said, “What if the first train after 9:30 is at, like, 10:15 and the last train before 3:30 is at, like, 2?” Panic ensued. Then we resolved that whatever happens, it wouldn’t suck. So we hopped on the 9:38 into Paddington, stood for a little over an hour in the space between the doors and the loo, tried to negotiate my Let’s Go! and a tube map, and figure out the agenda for the day. At Paddington, we bought the most expensive subway pass I have ever bought in my life and got on the Circle line, which I thought would take us to Russell Square and the heart of Bloomsbury (our goal), though, in fact, the Circle line does not go to Russell Square (I had accidentally misread the map). No problem, because we could get out at Euston Road or King’s Cross, except this train went only one stop and terminated. So we had to hop out, wait for another train, and complain about the lack of signage. Long story short: The Tube? I’m not impressed.

We finally made it aboveground again, walked in a circle before getting oriented, and eventually found ourselves on Gower Street, where Chrissy interpreted the placards on the buildings for us, though any names I would have recognized (Woolf, Vanessa Bell, Lytton Strachey, Forster, etc.) I did not see, with the exception, of course, of Bonham-Carter, about which I can only make assumptions in filmography. Would that we had had a walking tour of famous houses in Bloomsbury! But I’m convinced that London is actually not for tourists at all. In any event, I can’t complain about a beautiful day and a charming stroll. We finally wended our way to the British Museum, ran in to see some plundered artifacts and elbow through crowds. It was actually the perfect approach, because we didn’t have the time, attention span, or emotional energy to see more. The Rosetta Stone, the Elgin Marbles, some awesome mosaics, and the mummy of (the?) Cleopatra were enough for me.


(Sullivan was kind enough to email me this picture.)

After a little more aimless strolling, we set a lunch goal, got momentarily befuddled but never lost in our London of winding streets and bad maps, found a great pizza joint with good pizza and good people-watching both, hopped on the Tube again (after not being able to find the right stop—how are you supposed to interpret an arrow sign that essentially bisects the right angle made at the intersection of two streets? Also, Oxford Circus really is a circus, in that Herald Square kind of way.), got out at Kensington Gardens, had a mint chocolate chip ice cream and strolled through the park, where we were unable to find the Peter Pan statue but did stumble across the Albert Memorial, which is the most gaudy, gilded, ginormous piece of insanity I have ever seen in my life, walked back to Paddington and then almost ran because we couldn’t find the station entrance and our train was in 10 minutes, and made it back home just in time for High Table and a lecture on my least favorite of the Great Poets: Wordsworth, at which my professor caught my eye as I walked in approximately 75 seconds late and signaled energetically for me to sit up front. I guess being teleported back to late college nights hunched over a Norton anthology was well (words)worth it. Oh, nostalgia.

Thursday, we were thwarted in our attempts to make hotel reservations for the weekend in the Coney Island meets Provincetown of the UK: Brighton. Not sure yet whether we’ll make it, and there are actually torrential sheets of rain right now, so I’m not sure if it’s even worth it. Last night, there was Thai food (that made my eyeballs sweat) and 1 Henry IV in Stratford. The show was great, but now it’s paper-writing time, and I’m at bit of a loss, though, to be honest, I hadn’t really started thinking yet. Tonight, it’s Ionescu’s Macbett with the same cast as Macbeth, which should be a great way to go to the theatre without having the pressure of academic performance.

I hope the weekend brings fun and frivolity, as my time in England is coming to a very rapid close. Feeling already like I haven’t done or seen enough, but I’m trying to force sadness and regret out of my mind…

Fill in the blanks.

In the absence of free time, I leave your imaginations to tell the story of the above photos. Extended monologue forthcoming...

“I’m surprised more people don’t know what stinging nettles are. What part of America are they from?”

The word “perfect” is so often overused, especially by a captain of hyperbole such as myself, but I can imagine no better way to spend a Saturday (after a week of sitting and studying) than to go for a long walk through wheat fields and dappled sunlight, happy dogs dashing along the path. Expatriating doesn’t sound like such a bad idea if it means donning some wellies and a tweed coat to amble into the countryside, a hound at my heels.

We set out early from Oxford but began walking through the Cotswolds, a cluster of picturesque villages and rolling countryside, around 11. Our intrepid director led the walk, along with his adorable teenage children (quoted above) and black labs, who scampered along the path (off lead!), waited patiently for their masters, responded when called, chased deer, swam in ponds, and collapsed in a delighted heap at lunch. The walk took us on grassy meadow paths, past a medieval church, through some sticky and slippery mud, to a wonderful local pub with delicious sandwiches and a garden for post-lunch napping in the sun, down a patch riddled with stinging nettles (level 3 bushwhack, at least), into a wheat field, and finally (nearly ten miles later, they say) through the town of Charlbury and back home on the train.

It made me tired but sun-kissed and happy, nettles and all.

Paraskavedekatriaphobia.

Well, I’m not howling at the moon, but I ought to be. If Friday the 13th isn’t bad enough in itself, then dark hours of paper-writing certainly are. It’s been a long week, and a long day, and in the absence of rhetorical structure, I’ll resort to the fine art of list-making.

Monday: Paper due. Four hours of class. Two hour bus ride to London. The Merchant of Venice at the Globe. Home at 100 hours.

Tuesday: Four hours of class. Laundry day (finally!). Now my pants don’t walk by themselves. Debauchery into the wee hours that earned us a reprimand in the next morning’s “Paniculum” newsletter.

Wednesday: Departure at 1500 for Stratford. One hour bus ride. One hour session with the actress who played Lady Macbeth. Absolutely mesmerizing performance of Richard II, starring Jonathan Slinger as a captivatingly debauched and humanely fallen Richard. My only notes on Gaunt’s “This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England” speech was: WOW. The man gave all 38 lines from a wheelchair. Also, the actor playing Green was very pretty.

(Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Loafers all were enjoying a special High Table dinner with the director, screenwriter, and producer of a new film version of Brideshead Revisited currently being filmed at Lincoln College. Which means that there are two very adorable young actors shooting a scene involving drunken vomiting into someone’s dorm room (fiction?) here this week. Of course, I haven’t seen them at all, but the place is covered with all sorts of camera equipment, &c. &c. Also, though she is not in the scenes being shot here, the film stars Emma Thompson. So I’m keeping my eyes peeled for it-boy celebrities.)

Thursday: Stratford from 930 to 1900. Visit to the Shakespeare Center Library (yes, that is the First Folio, kids), two hours of class on Richard II, a session with the brilliant Mr. Slinger, who makes rolling up his sleeves look like an act of religious devotion, followed by tea at my professor’s house, which was the first time I have seen a fruit other than an apple or banana all summer. Blackberries, strawberries, melon, cherries, and grapes: it was like I was recovering from scurvy. (Malnutrition joke courtesy of Kris, who else.) Then, back home for another cream-and-potato dinner concoction, followed by trivia night. I am proud to report that our team, A Wilderness of Monkeys (five extra credit points on your next quiz for finding the allusion), tied for second place with a few clutch answers, losing only to a team that was obviously playing with too many people. Good times, for sure.

And now, paper-writing. Sigh. But tomorrow a trip to the Cotswolds. Keep your eyes peeled for picturesque English countryside.

Spitting on the groundlings.

We started off a marathon week of reading, writing, and theatre-going with a trip to the Globe on Monday. Kris warned me that I ought to start learning how to feign excitement now for our Bus-ta-Move tour after BL ends. Apparently my response to “Look, it’s London” was not satisfactory, but really, I was excited, more excited than I expected to be. On the one hand, London is a big, bustling city, like New York. On the other hand, we saw Big Ben and Parliament all lit up as we were driving out after the performance, and it struck me that I had never been here before and this was all fresh and new, despite the centuries of history. Actually, our only reference point for Big Ben and Parliament was that Chevy Chase movie, so maybe we were looking at something altogether different.

So, not a big day in London, just an afternoon—an hour or so to trot across the Millennium Bridge, take a look inside St. Paul’s but not climb to the cupola because it was Evensong, trot back across the bridge, look at some ominous clouds in the distance, eat, and go to the Globe, where the performance of Merchant of Venice was lackluster compared to what we had been seeing, but the fake vomit and real rain (both, unfortunately for them, on the groundlings) made the experience. Of course, I need a back transplant now from sitting on those horrid benches… but the carnival atmosphere of the Globe was nothing short of enchanting and well worth the stiff neck.

Sunshine on my shoulders.

It's been a weekend of glorious sunshine, which means, of course, allergies. Also, every math camp for high school students began this week, so there are roving bands of gangly American teenagers and their wealthier, prettier teen-tour counterparts in the streets, making the place look like Soho on a Sunday afternoon or Schreiber HS on a Friday. With any luck, the rain, which has already returned, will drive them from the streets and I can go back to enjoying this already-crowded little town.

Of course, sunshine also warms the soul, despite the negative effects of paper-writing, Richard II, or roaming high school students. Sunshine means reading outside, watching well-trained dogs without leads bound ahead of their wellie-clad masters, and even catching a little cat nap on the grass at the park. Brilliant!

Lay on, Macduff.

Well, I’ve survived a week of The Scottish Play, but just barely, having inadvertently invoked the curse just moments before exiting the Swan Theatre in Stratford after last night’s performance. Luckily, we didn’t die in a fiery collision on the bus ride home, and I haven’t read any news reports about heavy scenery falling on hapless actors. (Knock wood.) The first performance, Tuesday night in Chichester, cast Patrick Stewart as a Stalin-esque Macbeth who builds a reign of terror that inevitably collapses around him. (That’s in the play.) From the first moment—even before the heart-stoppingly thunderous gunfire that starts the performance—the play was seriously creepy, with the stage set like a psychiatric hospital or interrogation room. I’m surprised that I went through the whole performance without screaming (a la Pillowman). Thursday, we were at Stratford for a more traditional but higher octane production (kilts, swordfights) but being in the front row (my knees were touching the stage) in a very spare theatre, I found myself nearly in my classmate’s lap several times during the show—when I thought I was about to get swiped with a boot, sword, or gob of flying fake blood. Now, it’s off to a weekend of paper-writing and (boo!) reading Richard II in preparation for next week’s packed schedule. Sadly, we won’t be acting out Richard in Chrissy’s room, since none of us has yet read it.

We did manage to get some fun into our afternoon with a visit of Blenheim Palace, a nearby summer home of the Churchill family that was given in 1705 by the Queen to the Duke of Marlborough for fending off the French. It’s an impressive place, though full of, if I may quote our on-site director, “ghastly Empire French” décor (I thought we were trying to get rid of the French…?) and the best part is the *free* grounds and exterior. Unfortunately, we paid the £13.50, but frankly, it was worth it for the hedge maze, the butterfly house, and the adorably surly young man at the ticket kiosk who, when Kris’ money nearly flew away in the wind and she apologized, said, expressionless yet dismissive, “It's not your fault.” Everything is instantly funnier when it’s deadpan and British. We almost got locked in at 1800 hours, had to schlep around to find the other gate, caught a later bus than expected, and missed an apparently anticlimactic and late 4th of July picnic. But since there weren’t any fireworks here anyway, I wasn’t too upset about passing on a dining hall wurst of some kind.

Chichester.

Changes in the weather.

After a weekend of paper writing and raindrop dodging, the sun has finally, if tentatively, come out.

First of all, England imposed a smoking ban as of July 1, which means smoke-free pubs!

Second, Kris and I had an adventure at the clothing outlet yesterday where everything costs £6—a major bargain—but there are no dressing rooms. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, I bought a pair of jeans that fit perfectly right off the rack, without knowing the conversion from US to UK clothing sizes.

Third, we had High Table dinner last night with the director of the production of Taming of the Shrew we saw last week, who looks not unlike a British Benicio Del Toro (meow.), and, though I briefly contemplated the Macbeth-like murder of Kris in order to usurp her place next to him at the table, I was content with gazing dreamily at him in the Q&A session that followed. My own High Table experience last week involved being sandwiched between the Lincoln College librarian, Fiona, and a world-famous chemist, with whom I had to communicate through a giant silver candelabrum. Fiona was lovely, and it was by watching her that I learned that the funny mini-spatula at the right of my plate was a fish knife, but since it was the first day of the session, I was more than a little intimidated and more than a lot awkward.

Fourth, we are on our way to see Macbeth with Patrick Stewart in the title role. The weather is bright sunshine with patches of phenomenally black clouds from which rain pours steadily, but every once in a while, the sunlight hits the grass on the rolling hills (yes, they really are rolling), turning it a preternatural, glowing shade of yellow-green (ectoplasmic, really, especially on the background of a nearly black sky).