Being abroad was a breath of fresh air, at least most days. There were some moments I don’t need pictures for: watching the sun rise from a boat on the Isis, walking in the Magdalen deer park as sun beams flowed over the gates, and standing on the roof of the Lafayette taking in a view of Paris that literally took my breath away.
Oxford itself was small (maybe a bit too small, as I felt in the end) but intriguing. I arrived feeling a sense of wonder at the school’s diverse history; down the street from Stanford House was a plaque indicating the place where Robert Hooke observed the first living cell. A rather hidden plaque nearby denotes Halley’s house (Halley of Halley’s comet), and another marks the house of a pre-Raphaelite muse, which I would not have appreciated before this quarter. In light of recent events, I remember spotting a caricature of Christopher Hitchens on the wall of the Balliol college bar.
As a school, Oxford was different from Stanford in that being a classics major seemed to be the norm, and stating that you were a classics major wasn’t followed up with “So, what are you going to do with that?” Students I met seemed genuinely, deeply interested in what they studied in a way that’s just different from kids here. I suppose you have to be, if you’re going to write that many tutorials.
Small things made each day. Finding shelter in a warm pub on cold days was comforting. Cider and gossip were a perfect duo, but perhaps not as perfect as tea and a scone with good company. What I loved most, though, was the abundant free time that allowed me to just chill and talk after my one class. I wouldn’t say that I had the time of my life at Oxford, but it’s a time that I know I’ll miss come winter quarter.
