Oxford

This is an account of one of the more surreal days I've had in Oxford.

I was sick, and had been for several days. I was also running out of cash so I thought I would force myself out of the house and to the bank in order to get some. I barely remember the walk down; my head was fuzzy and my breathing was about the same. Every three steps or so I was reduced to hacking coughs. That, plus the fact that I was wearing one of my heavier jackets in order to retain some semblance of warmth, probably was the reason several people stopped me and offered to buy any copies I had of Big Issue, which is the magazine homeless people sell around here.

Most of the walk to my bank is generic English town. There are lots of little grocery stores, cafes, newsagents, and bicyclists. It could even be some place in America, somewhere on the east coast but without the massive snobbishness, and with a far more diverse selection at the farmers market. Still, there is not much that makes you think you're in the city that grew up around the oldest University in the English speaking world.

Oh, except the Clarendon printing house of Oxford University Press (go look at any books you have which are OUP: if they say Clarendon St., then that's the one near me), which is about two minutes walk from my house. But that hardly counts.


About fifteen minutes walk in, I've gotten to the part of the city which actually looks like a University, probably because it is. My bank, however, takes me away from the beautiful Bodleian library and Trinity college, my own. Instead, I turn down the market street, which is typically English. It is the widest street I've seen in Oxford, but it's closed off to traffic. It is full of actual stores: a couple of bookstores, music shops, and a department store, but also several banks. Today, though, it is particularly crowded. There are usually several street musicians plying their trade around this area, including a guy on the bagpipes whom is the best I've ever heard. Today, near the end of the street, by my bank, there is a full salsa band. I cursed the fact that I was sick, because at that moment I had a wild urge to ask the next passing woman for a dance, but it would have taken too much energy.

Actually, perhaps it was just as well I was sick.

I withdraw my money and I start heading back. Instead of pushing through the crowd this time, I stay close to the edges and try to sneak past them. I notice, however, that there are people there set up with stands, looking like they have things to give away. As I never pass down something free to read, I head over there. The first one turns out to be a stand for the local communist party. I laugh, and start to move on, but I notice the title of one of the pamphlets: "Communism: The Only Viable Future." Feeling like I needed some amusement and actually being somewhat interested in how they sweet coated a "Scientific expression of History" I took it and started to move on. I was stopped mid-step by one of the communists taking my arm.

"It's seventy pence," he said.

The wracking coughs that I produced signified for him to repeat his statement.

I was astonished. The communist party was reduced to selling its pamphlets: it was making money on production, it was betraying its proletariat ideals, it was gouging the price of cheap literature. I had to buy it. I would have paid pounds for that experience. As I took out my money, he asked me where I was from, and what I was doing in Oxford. I told him I came from Utah, and he said it was "One of the more exotic parts of the States." I told him I was studying in Oxford for the year, and he insisted that I sign up for their e-mail list. I really couldn't think of any reason to refuse. Now, of course, I think: If I ever run for office in the U.S., this would probably work against me. On the other hand, I'd really like to see one of their meetings.

Anyway, after that, the next stand was a Muslim proselytizing. I didn't get into nearly as long a conversation with him, probably because I mentioned I needed to just pop round the corner and buy some whiskey, but I would love to come back to talk to him. I did take his pamphlet, though, and I'm proud to say that Christian tracts are much, much worse. I don't believe it's an art form meant to be perfected.

After that, I decided that the previous events had cheered me up so much I was up for a little studying, so I went to Trinity college's gardens (absolutely gorgeous, by the way) to read the book I had brought in case of such an eventuality. I read for perhaps an hour when I was overshadowed by two men who were waving a camera at me. I wondered at what kind of shot that would produce before I realized that they wanted me to take a picture of them. I did, they thanked me ("shih-shu, shih-shu") and I got up to leave. On my way out I realized I was at a university, at a college within that University, that regularly had tourists show up and want to see the sights that were the grounds where I am studying. It gave me a little shiver down my spine.

After that, I walked back and took a nap. All in all, a good day.