After a short train ride from Paris through the Chunnel, and then the confusion of trying to yell to the ticket lady that I wanted a ticket to Oxford all while some opera lady was belting out that damn Susan Boyle song 5 feet away, I ended up at Platform 9 and 3/4 and on the train to Oxford, home of the oldest university in the English-speaking world. I got immediately lost and, to make things worse, rolling suitcases aren't made for cobblestone streets. While those who know me know I'm in peak physical condition, of course, I admit I broke a light sweat dragging that thing the mile down the streets to Pembroke College, the Oxford receptacle of a dozen or so Tufts students each year. After finally figuring out how to get inside, I took some sass from the porter on duty until my host, and former summer housemate, Greg, came by on his way to class to clear things up. After lunch and meeting up with Greg's other guest for the weekend, Jacob, we toured the campus.
Oxford Univeristy is made up of 38 fairly autonomous colleges led by a common administration. Each college makes its own admissions decisions, rules, and so forth. We first headed across the street to Christ Church, which contains a large number of watchful porters in bowler hats making sure visitors stay on the beaten path and don't bother the students. The college is home to its own cathedral, though most people are familiar with it because its dining hall is prominent in the Harry Potter movies.
We then headed to Magdalen College, notable for its own deer park on the grounds; the number of deer correspond to the number of fellows at the college, and when the number of fellows changes, the excess deer are culled because hey, that's how Magdalen rolls. The college's large chapel was gloriously excessive, with the wall behind the alter a single carved mass of saints, kings, what-have-you. They also had a scale reproduction of the Last Supper on the wall above the door - it's a little larger than you'd think.
Our necessary sightseeing over (although, sadly we forgot to go to the pub that has a large brass plaque commemorating the spot Clinton "didn't inhale"), we grabbed a large amount of Pimm's and lemonade (Pimm's is a British liquor that you mix with British 'lemonade' - the equivalent of Sprite - and a couple handfuls of mint, cucumbers and strawberries) to go punting along the river. Punting, which you can only find in three spots in the world (Oxford, Cambridge, and somewhere in Australia), is much like gondoleering. It's a flat-bottomed bot that one person punts along the riverbed with a long pole. We spent 5 hours out on the river drinking Pimm's, smoking cigars and comparing our gap yahs, although it was slightly problematic as we had only reserved the boat for 4 hours and, pulling into the docks near 10 (an hour after they were supposed to close) after getting amazingly lost, turned around, and having our main punter fall into the river several times, we met with the British dockstaff, who were decidedly uncheery (20 minutes ago I was supposed to meet a mate at the pub I haven't seen in a yeah!) and after a hefty fine quickly booked it back to the college, where we ended the evening in a most civilised manner: with port and crackers.
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