When I was younger and out running wild with the other children growing up in my neighborhood, I often found myself in a state of disbelief when my mother called me in for supper. How, I would wonder, had hours gone by when it felt like mere minutes? Whatever had occupied me for those hours was simply too exciting to allow for any stream of consciousness, nevertheless a moment to check my watch. Cognitive psychologists would tell me that all my attentional resources were squarely focused on the task at hand. Most would simply say that I hadn’t had a chance to “stop and smell the roses.”
My time at Oxford was, oddly enough, experientially similar. I don’t mean to imply that my term at Oxford accompanied a digression to childhood; on the contrary, it was one of the most intellectually stimulating experiences I’ve had. It was not, however, an experience that allowed for ample opportunity to reflect. Thus, I am lucky to have this blog to create the opportunity for a long-delayed stream of consciousness…
Nearly every morning of the week I would wake up at six, cook myself a small breakfast, and jog five minutes along the Isis (River Thames) to the Hertford College boathouse. Eventually, the other seven members of my boat – I rowed in the “Novice A” boat, with “novice” signifying that we had no prior rowing experience – would file in, along with one of our two coaches. After a bit of stretching and banter, we either spent an hour on the rowing machines (“ergs”) or an hour and a half on the water, with our coach riding on a bike along the side of the river shouting directions. This proved to be perhaps the only activity more difficult than rowing, for while he rowed with the Men’s First VIII (varsity equivalent), our coach found both himself and his bike face down in the River Thames one morning after coming too close to the edge while barking orders.
All this practice and preparation was in anticipation of the Christ Church Regatta, a novice-only double elimination tournament of one-on-one races lasting three days. Unfortunately, the weather didn’t cooperate and excessively high water levels forced the committee to cancel the event. The celebrations, however, went on, and no one seemed terribly disappointed that the week ended up consisting of no work and all play. The finale was the end-of-term dinner for rowers at my college, my first ever black tie event and one that quickly turned from prim and proper to raucous. All the sconces (to “sconce” is to stand up and proclaim “I sconce anyone who…” followed by a characteristic; all those to whom the sconce applies must drink. It’s much like “never have I ever”) and pennying (because the Queen is on the penny, if someone drops a penny in your drink you must consume it as quickly as possible because “the Queen is drowning”) meant most of the wine was consumed before the actual dinner was over.
Boat Clubs turned out to be, in my estimation, the fraternity equivalent in England. Membership was exclusive (though no fees were due), all the men in the club spent a great majority of time with one another, the eight guys in a boat would often go out with the eight girls in a boat from another college for dinner and drinks, “Boatie Cocktails” were frequent throughout the term, and clearly the majority of the men in the Boat Clubs enjoyed their drink. Assessment partially based on stereotypes? Perhaps. But it fits well enough. I can shamelessly say that I absolutely enjoyed my time with all the guys in the Hertford College Boat Club.
The rest of my days would most often be spent at the library reading and writing, in the Covered Market drinking coffee or eating meat pies, mash and gravy, at pubs, or at the St. Catherine’s JCR, or Junior Common Room. Each college has a Junior Common Room, a pub for the undergraduates in the college, and a Middle Common Room for graduates and Senior Common Room for faculty. I spent a lot of my time at St. Catherine’s because two good friends lived there and because their JCR had the cheapest beer in Oxford. When the pound is at $2.15, that’s quite the important consideration.
Three times every two weeks I would have a tutorial – a one hour meeting with one of my two professors during which I read an essay I prepared and he/she intervened with comments, points of discussion and debate, and related topics of conversation. Not to knock UNC classes, but one-on-one attention simply has no parallel; the focus is strictly on your own understanding, and the setting allows you to form meaningful relationships with your professor.
A bit of time in London was mixed in, along with visits from the family and a couple friends. Yet suddenly…it was over. This time, however, it isn’t Mom calling me; it’s Chapel Hill. And I’m more than happy to oblige.
