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.)