Day 5: train through the hills and 'home' to room #12

Trains in France are on time. No, really. Despite what I had imagined about Britain, the train system here does not actually run like a finely oiled machine. Many a time Christien and I have rushed to the station only to find that our train is running ten, fifteen or half an hour late—but I digress.

One of the strange new forms we had to learn in France was the very last-minute announcement of train platforms. There are so many trains, everything running like clockworks, that each platform must have a very precise schedule for each arrival and departure. And the passengers all know to stand about in the main foyer of the station and wait until just a few minutes before the departure time when suddenly the departure platform will be listed on the boards. Just another of those tiny little cultural differences to learn.

The train back to Paris was 7 hours rather than 5 and had a different route. We wound through hills and mountains, past ancient stone towns cut into hillsides. There was an amazing aqueduct, high over a valley, which we crossed—past a village, with the river falling far below us. It was a very full train, everyone was piled in, and throughout the journey passengers continued to wander through the carriages looking for a seat.

There was a kind of all-in-it-togetherness that I noticed on the train journeys in France—a kind of visceral realization about the tightness of everything, the close quarters, the way everyone is used to being quite close to everyone else there. Something I haven’t felt in quite the same way Britain. I’ve always heard about the differences in sense of space that different cultures have. And that I certainly have experienced here. Comfortable personal space is much closer here in Britain than in the U.S. But this comfortable space is even closer in France (and I suspect much of the rest of Europe). Being aware that there would be a difference, and thinking myself rather worldly and able to ‘do as the Romans do’ – I thought I wouldn’t have any problem with this when I first arrived in the UK. But even here, and even being somewhat prepared for it, I found myself nervous and uncomfortable often my first year and a half here. In France there was a slight difference, yet again, to Britain … people queue closer together, slip past on the street with a hairsbreadth between them—but there is also something more fluid and flexible about this closeness. Something unspoken that seems to acknowledge—“Yes, we are standing face to face, body to body in the metro, but we can still maintain our autonomous space.” I am doing my best to put all this to words, but failing to quite capture it I think.

We arrived in Austerlitz station and decided to take the tube back to our neighborhood, rather than walk (long day!) As we turned the corner onto Rue Monsieur Le Prince, we felt like we were coming home. After our initial hesitation about the Hotel Stella, it was truly lovely to come back into the bustling city of Paris and have a familiar spot to land. The landlady was on the stairs as we came up and her initial hard look of “Who are you and what do you want?” changed when she recognized us and she even almost smiled when she gave us the keys to the same room we’d had before. Ah, #12, up a trillion flights of super-steep stairs with its lovely, noisy, clinking street and rooftop views.

Out we went to forage for food and of course found ourselves back outside Notre Dame again, in the garden this time. We wandered a bit, back across to the Latin Quarter on the Left Bank. We went into the famous, or infamous, English language bookstore, Shakespeare & Company. American expat Sylvia Beach originally founded the bookstore in 1919 and it became a home for writers like Hemingway, Pound, and Baldwin. Later, in 1951 George Whitman opened another English language bookstore in the Latin Quarter, encouraged by his friend, poet and founder of City Lights Bookstore, Lawrence Ferlinghetti. After Beach's death, Whitman merged the two stores by adopting the Shakespeare & Co. name. The store is funky, quirky. Besides the shelves and aisles stuffed with books, stories seem to drip from the walls themselves. Henry Miller, Allen Ginsberg, Anais Nin—the store has seen its share of famous writers. The ethos there is one of encouraging young writers, and upstairs, two teens sat typing on their laptops in a little cushioned alcove, while in another room a writing group held a workshop, and in yet another someone gave an impromptu concert and poem recital on an ancient upright piano. At the top of the stairs is a little wooden box-room, looking like an art-installation, lit up inside with xmas lights, graphitized with words, which anyone can duck into to use the type-writer for their next masterpiece. Sadly I didn't have any loose paper to hand.

From S&C we wandered through the crowded, buzzing streets of the Latin Quarter, dodging the exploding plates tossed down by the proprietor of a busy Greek restaurant (calling out ‘Opah’ each time a plate cracked), whirling by the kebob stands, eyeing the crepe carts with greed, past the brilliantly lit tourist shops stuffed with plastic Eiffel Towers and racks of postcards, past Patisseries and thumping Nightclubs, the smells of bread and fish, wine and urine and cigarette smoke all merging in our lungs, and finally found ourselves back at our room, where we spied on the passersby, wandering from bar to bar below us, until we were too sleepy to keep our eyes open any longer.

Day 4: The end of the conference, last night in Toulouse

Main altar at St. Etienne, Toulouse

After a whole day on Friday and then Saturday morning listening to very professional papers (many with power points!) I was pretty nervous about reading mine. Only student, only creative writer, only one offering up something quite so … hmmm, different.


But I managed to read through the whole piece and not stutter too much or break out into tears and sobs at the end (it’s not really that dramatic, it’s just that I’m such a crier.) The essay was all about Los Angeles—its history and landscape, the bones and stories buried beneath its concrete and illusory images. Smoke and Mirrors. Seemed to go over quite well, I had some great questions and comments. And then afterward at lunch was able to talk to a few people, and got invitations to submit work to several different journals. A couple in Europe, one in the U.S. Hurrah!


The conference ended a bit early because there’d been two last-minute drop-outs, so Christien and I managed to visit St. Etienne Cathedral (which C had seen the day before).

St. Etienne, with its
strange exterior

St. Etienne looked so bizarre from outside—it’s a bit of a mish-mash of styles, because it is so old and was added to over the centuries. The first written record of the church was in 844. In fact it was two incomplete churches which were put together. Its rose window dates from 1230. The portal was added later, and completely off-centre because of the foundations, there’s a tower from the 1600’s.



The vault ...

But the strange exterior was hiding a phenomenal space inside. Obviously my experience of great churches and cathedrals is fairly limited … not many that I ever visited in the U.S.—and honestly I don’t think there are really many of architectural merit in the States … not exactly our fault of course—we didn’t have centuries of church-building. There was something quite special about St. Etienne though—the way the white arched ceilings lifted upward, the pillars pushing up with the supports forming veins or branches. It gave me the feeling of a forest. The way trees actually lift sky upward … simultaneously making the sky seem a solid thing which must be supported and an infinite weightlessness that can only be lightly brushed with the tips of leaves or fingers.

In the cathedral, I felt Ihad a visceral understanding for the first time about sculpture’s relationship to space.  I think where the art happens is not really so much in the curves or corners of the stone or metal—but in the shape of the empty space created around, in, and through it. Sculpture and architecture create space, shape it so that we are able to see it or experience it on the human scale. There can be no vault like the sky over our heads, and yet in some ways the scope of the sky is too much, too vast, too uncontained for comprehension. The genius of these great cathedrals is in creating spaces that both limit and suggest the infinite at the same time.



Looking back from the Portal

We wandered through the space, looking into the chapels, and a mini-concert began. High up on one of the walls, the organ (all polished mahogany and gleaming pipes) was set into the white stone, hanging there like a wall-sconce. It was only when we realized you could just see the organist and a trumpet player inside, that it was clear just how huge the organ was, and how far up. They began practicing for mass and the sound of the organ (a famous piece that we can’t for the life of us place … think its Bach) filled the church. There needs to be a more vigorous verb for what the sound did … in my notebook I wrote that the organ music ‘conquered the space, pounding out into every atom of air and brick and wood, making their electrons vibrate to its rhythm.’ And then came the trumpet, clear, almost dwarfed, calling out over the waves of the organ.

We stood right below the organ, backs against the old white marble, and listened, felt, the music. The magnitude of it was shocking, revealing. I felt myself delicately sliced open and exposed to the air—a peeled nectarine in the rose-orange light of the stained glass.



the organ, high up on the wall -- the organist and
trumpeter are barely visible on the right side

A very, very good day.



France, Day 3: Toulouse, Conference alla France

Christien kindly escorted me to the conference so that I wouldn’t get lost on my way there, trying to decipher signs in the metro. Toulouse is a big city and has several universities—the conference was at the Universite Toulouse-Mirail, south-east of the river.

Thanks to a map from the conference organizers we found the building, just past the library (no architectural prizes here … the campus was brick, concrete, crumbling asphalt, weedy grass). After safely depositing me inside, Christien took off to enjoy the day exploring Toulouse.

I have to admit, I am not very good at the conference thing. Parties, conferences, meetings, social events … I am one of those people who inevitably edge myself into a corner and sip a drink nervously, pretending I don’t mind that no one is talking to me—unless I consciously push myself to make an effort. There was nothing clearly marking where the conference was, and no registration that I could find. I ended up in front of a table of tea and coffee, chatting to a couple of Americans about how we weren’t sure what the program was to be. Turned out that it wasn’t our coffee (oops) and that we were chatting on the wrong side of the foyer … the convocation started without us. The small group of us slipped inside the door in the middle of Scott Slovic’s welcoming speech.

I have pages of notes from the conference which I am obviously not going to replay here. The conference was titled: Marking the Land of North America. It was an interdisciplinary eco-crit conference with papers on topics from Emerson and Twain, Thoreau and Whitman to Yucca Mountain and suburban sprawl in Florida, Mountaintop Removal and the Yosemite National Park. There were several Americans, quite a number of French, and a couple of Spanish scholars. I was rather frightened to discover that I was the only student … everyone else were long graduated, professors at universities from Washington state to Paris.

It was a busy program—running from 9 to 5:30 on Friday and Saturday (though with two coffee breaks and a nice long lunch). Before coming to the conference I had thought I might try and figure out a way to sneak out on one or both of the afternoons, so that I could get a chance to explore Toulouse a bit. However, during lunch the first day I sat with a group where the topic of skipping out at conferences came up. Bad, bad. Wrong, wrong. (And I suppose my own internal sense of fair-play had to agree). So I was definitely there for the whole!

Set apart on the university as we were, the conference was kind enough to feed us all, but I’m afraid that I posed quite a challenge for them. The caterers could barely conceive of the idea of a vegetarian, let alone a vegan … and then when I added my wheat allergy into the mix, I think they threw up their hands in despair. The first day there were a few things I could eat … some dolmas, and some tomatoes and cucumber (after I carefully made sure to pick off the chunks of feta cheese) and a fruit cup. There were also numerous bottles of red wine (no, I didn't join in). One of the Americans at our table remarked that here was a fundamental difference with American conferences, where there was definitely no drinking encouraged mid-day! (The next day, lunch, we (C stayed for my presentation and lunch) went a bit hungrier … there was a tiny cup of salad (good salad—-avocados and walnuts and mustard dressing, yum!) and then eggplant mush (allergic, again, sigh) and couscous (apparently the caterers just weren’t really clear on the whole wheat thing).

Which might as well lead into a transition about dinner that night (and our experience with food in France, in general). That night the conference offered us all a meal at a nice local restaurant. I didn’t have much faith that Christien and I would eat heartily, but I thought they might be able to figure something out for us. (By the way, we ate some crackers and apples beforehand ... smart us). The restaurant was very impressive, most of the tables were down in a brick cellar with arched ceilings and huge gilded mirrors, flickering in candle-light. There were reproductions of classical statuary set up in all the nooks and niches, large white roses in elaborate vases. (And a bit later some live 'jazz'.)

There must have been two dozen or more of us, so we were around at least 3 tables. C & I ended up at the end of one, seated next a professor from Toulouse-Mirail (who had presented that day on the writing of Annie Dillard … very interesting) and another from Madrid (presentation yet to come, she spoke about Linda Hogan’s work and a new ecologically based way of seeing the world, quite fascinating). At first I thought we might spend the whole evening talking only to each other, grimacing together across the table … but when the waiter came to take orders Nathalie was kind enough to help us explain our food-situation to him (her commentary, later on, "Oh my goodness, but what do you eat? I could live without meat, but how can you live without cakes?). I couldn’t understand a word the waiter said but found it hysterical that I could absolutely read his perplexity and obvious distain over us. He found us truly ridiculous, and had no problem making exaggerated faces at Nathalie and sighing in that perfectly expressive, very French way. Obviously our gastronomic situation made no sense to him at all. We had to explain ourselves a few times, and finally the chef came out and though the salad course seemed clear enough (well, all the other salads were meaty or cheesey, but they managed to make ours simply green) he couldn’t think what to do for us except pasta, which was of course not going to work. We finally convinced him that we could eat rice (he seemed to doubt it ... I mean if we didn't eat bread or meat or cheese, clearly we probably couldn't eat something as obvious as rice) but he nodded, unconvinced, and assured us he could make us a rice and vegetable dish. He looked at us as if to say, "But then why bother to eat at all?"

Meanwhile the aperitif wine had come, and that certainly made it all much more enjoyable. It was a local specialty, a golden mixture of a sparkling wine and liquor. It was a tiny bit sweet, fizzy, a little citrusy, sunshiney, and absolutely delicious. It is pretty much the kind of elixir that, as a child, I always imagined wine must be. We asked Nathalie about the concoction and she told us it was called Pousse Rapière … but we didn’t understand if that was the name of the cocktail or of the liquor. Turns out it is both. The liquor is made of Gascony Armagnac grapes, as is the special local sparkling wine used in the cocktail (though you could use any sparkling white or champagne). The recipe for the liquor is apparently a well-guarded secret passed down from generation to generation and today it is still made on the same Chateau. I can only hope that one can find Pousse Rapiere in the U.S. ...

Salads came (with duck, or puff-pastry wrapped camembert or salmon … except ours, of course, vegetalien) and we had a lovely conversation with our neighbor about literature and traveling in the desert of the southwest U.S. And then the main course … for us a ring of rice, surrounded by some stewed tomatoes and carrots. I had no desire for the hunk of beef on Nathalie’s plate, but looking at the rest of the table's quite substantial plates of food I did wonder if perhaps the idea of being vegan somehow suggests someone who lives on water and oxygen alone. Sometimes I forget, because cooking vegan and gluten free really is so easy, so tasty, and so satisfying, that for people unused to it, it can be a stumper. France, we discovered, has not had quite so many of those world-influences (like Indian) which make vegetarian and veganism more recognizable to the main stream. (Unlike in the U.S., where even in Kaycee, Wyoming there is a Chinese restaurant with veggie options, in France, Chinese seemed to be an all-meat affair.)

At which point I might as well say here, if you are vegan and allergic to wheat, I recommend going to France as a great way to lose weight. It’s a bit ironic to be in a country renowned and fiercely proud of its gastronomy, and not be able to eat a bite of it. But so it goes and honestly there are a million other reasons to go to France, anyway. We pretty quickly realized we would need to figure something out or starve, but it turned out just fine. Thankfully the French love lentils and pre-packaged marinated veggies. We bought containers of cooked lentils, cabbage, beets, etc. at the Mono Prix and mixed them with lettuce and carrots and tomatoes we chopped ourselves. We ate fruit and crackers for breakfast and salad for lunch and dinner, with some hummus. (We did get falafel twice … and fries a couple times, which, by the way, are called ‘American Potatoes’ because, god damn it, those fried potatoes are definitely NOT French. That was something to miss about the UK, the home of very cheap fried potatoes). I have to admit that after my initial disappointment over not fulfilling that age-old fantasy of eating bread and cheese with red wine on a bridge overlooking the Seine … I felt quite healthy! In fact I’d like to eat salad a bit more often here at home!

Back to the restaurant: There was, after all, a lovely lime sorbet for desert!

That night we walked back to the hotel and the town was much quieter than the night before. We managed not to get lost in the strange tangled narrow streets around the Capitole. I went to bed without re-reading my essay … hoping that I wasn’t going to embarrass myself the next day. And we watched an American movie on TV, in French, for a half hour or so before falling asleep. Amazing how little words matter in an action film.

We made up our own.
“Robert, you schmuck, I’m on to you.”
“Come on Al, everyone knows you’re a poser. Try this bread, it's quite good.”
“Don’t change the subject. You’ve got a bomb in the van outside. I’m going to shoot your kneecaps off.”
I don’t think Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro were even on set at the same time.



Very ironic photo Christien took on Saturday of one of the conference posters, trashed and trodden on campus.

The France Blogs, Day 2

France, Day 2: More travel-ey, and Toulouse

The noise of the street must have died out sometime between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m., to be replaced by the sound of delivery trucks and garbage trucks. If Vegas is the City that Never Sleeps, then Paris is the City that Takes a Brief Nap in the middle of the night. We woke to light streaming in our windows at about 7:30, packed up our oatcakes and apples, and headed out to enjoy an hour or so before our train. We found a chain coffee and bread place, Pomme du Pain (apple of bread?) around the corner and got coffee, then headed just a bit further on the Luxembourg Garden.

I am in love with the Jardin Luxembourg. It is not really like a park in an American or even British sense … not remotely enough grass. Many open avenues for strolling and open niches for sitting, both of that fine white gravel (which dusts up your shoes and pants and blindingly reflects the sun) used all over Paris, chestnuts trees trimmed to rectangles, geometrical beds of grass and flowers (more accent than the main show—the people are the main show). And in the heart of Luxembourg is the circular fountain, and row upon row of green metal chairs. Opposite the fountain was a huge palatial building. Which we figured out later is the Senat. A world away from Congress in D.C. Yes, there were some Gendarme around the building, and I am guessing they were armed (like the fatigue-wearing guard we saw strolling the streets sometimes, with their tanned faces and machine guns) but it all seemed so much more integrated, less hallowed, more accessible. Less mystification around a building housing a government body which, after all, is supposed to be about the people. I think you could make some interesting comparisons between the American and French Revolutions, and the resulting governments, based on this architectural and symbolic difference.

It’s a bit like here in the UK, how the Prime Minister lives in a house on a street … a nice house, on a nice street, but while our President has his own White Palace (I mean house), here that is reserved for Queen & Co. And of course in France the monarchy are long gone, and all those palaces (and there are a lot of what they call ‘Hotel’s’ – which are mansions) are museums or government buildings, or offices, or housing.



We sat in the garden, sipping coffee near the fountain, watching the early morning commuters walk through the park on their way to work.

A couple hours later we were dragging our suitcase back through the garden on our way to Gare Montparnasse to catch our train south to Toulouse. The route was about 5 hours, but not the most scenic (which we found out on our 7 hour ride back). Flat (Nebraska flat) green fields outside Paris, which turned into rolling hills further on. The agriculture switched to vineyards just outside Bordeaux.

Luckily our hotel in Toulouse wasn’t too far from the train station. We got our room (tiny, aha!) and, after not really eating all day, stumbled out to try and find food. Toulouse is the fourth largest city in France, over 1 million people, called The Pink City because of the pink-tinted stone used in much of the architecture. There is also a lot of brick used there, it is an old brick-making center. I must admit we were really tired, and when we found the Capitole Place, I was rather disappointed. The city didn’t quite match the tourist brochure pictures—a bit more worn, dirty, and cluttered. It was a hot night and the streets were busy, mostly with drunk university kids.

We wandered down to the dry grass along the Garonne River, and sat down with a view of the Pont Neuf … which was sprouting trees from some of its angles and bends, silted up with sand near the arches, and of the floating bottles and plastic bags that came by on the river. Along the retaining wall behind us were huge photographs (part of a nation-wide exhibition I think, there were huge photos posted along the fence of the Jardin Luxembourg as well).

A kid came over and asked to bum a cigarette. Christien answered him in French. The grass smelled strangely like the summer grass (still with some green, but dry underneath) in my grandparent’s backyard in North Hollywood. The mosquitoes began to swarm up off the water as the sun went down, and the swallows (shrieking in a way I’ve never heard) somersaulted in to pluck them from the air.


In Toulouse, the Capitole Place.




The brick architecture, including a very strange brick convent with a tower.

The France Blogs: Day 1

Day 1: Traveley … and then Paris

Amazing that, by plane, it takes about an hour to get from Bristol to Paris … yet our day started at about 10 a.m. and we got to our hotel room at about 8 p.m. Buses and trains, buses and trains. CDG was amazingly simple, if a lot of walking (in the U.S. an airport that size would definitely have shuttles or tramways, in France though, you walk). We figured out how to get the train from the airport to the hotel, and how to use the slight confusing machines to buy tickets, and were on our way through the suburbs into the center of the city.

Side-note: It is surprising how often language isn’t the issue with machines. Everybody has a different icon system, computer screens and menu logic aren’t always apparent. So a machine to buy train tickets in Swansea looks nothing like one in Paris, or in Toulouse (that one was the weirdest of all) and you have to suss out what kind of graphic-logic the manufacturer and programmer were using. There is something incredibly frustrating about this confrontation with something which feels as if it should be elementary and obvious … it turns me into a lost 8 year old. It’s the same with Post Offices … amazing how stumped I can be by mailbox color and shape (Where the hell do I put my letter!) or the layout of a grocery store (Why would you put the hummus here?).

We emerged, blinking, into a bright, cloudless, warm Paris evening at the Luxembourg Metro on busy Boulevard St. Michel and oriented ourselves using the iron gates of the park. Hotel Stella, our home in Paris, is on Rue Monsieur Le Prince, about the center of the triangle if you used Blvd. St. Michel and Blvd. St. Germain, and then a line formed by the edge Luxembourg Garden to join the two. Which really meant nothing to me until we had spent some time wandering and I realized just how amazing the location is … which will become apparent I imagine, in later posts.

Rue Monsieur Le Prince is a street of Japanese Restaurants, bookshops, and apartments, with a Cave (Wine bar) right next door to us that meant we got the echoes of tinkling glasses, popping corks, and French (and English and German and Chinese and …) chatter late into the night through our windows. As well as plenty of rumbling Moto-velos, and delivery vans.



We were a little unsure at first, but it turned out to be a wonderful place in a 17th century building with a ridiculously steep staircase, exposed wood beams, and large room (we had TWO windows) … (large is relative here, in Paris a double room might be a bed with enough space to squeeze by along the walls, we had a double bed, a single bed, a desk, a cupboard, a bathroom with shower!) It’s a no-frills place with awful wallpaper, mismatched sheets, and green-painted furniture with ripping seams, and noisy plumbing, but in the end makes you feel like you’re staying with your great aunt. Through our windows we could see down the street, houses opposite, someone’s inner courtyard, and watch the spotlight of the Eiffel Tower rake across the sky.



We headed out immediately for food, found the narrow, crazy-busy street down near St. Michel with Moaz Falafel, and took our salads to Notre Dame to eat. The garden next to it was closed, so we sat in the Place in front, then walked along the Seine as the sun began to set. The world was loud, bustling, charged with energy. I think it may have been one of the first warm summery evenings of the year because the Seine was thronged with people eating, talking, drinking wine and champagne. We made a slow circuit along the river, crossed the Pont de le Archeveche at the end of the Ile de le Cite over to the Ile St. Louis to the Right Bank and around, back to the Left Bank along Pont Neuf, with its strange faces carved into the ride of the bridge.

We only got lost the one time when we tried to find our way back through the twisting streets back to the hotel. I didn’t think we’d be able to fall asleep with all the city and street noise coming in through the window … but was soon fast asleep.



In a way I’ve only given a route, without detail …. But it’s hard to describe because the first night was so perplexing. I really couldn’t believe the simple fact of the streets and buildings. The stunning fact of dome after dome, spire after spire punctuating the skyline, of the elegant stone buildings, ranging from a couple hundred to a thousand years old …. When the sunset turned to a saturated, deep wine-red beyond the bridges of the Seine and the towers of Notre Dame, with the swirling voices, and smell of wine and piss and dust in the air – I wasn’t quite sure I wasn’t dreaming.

When we had rounded the islands and were making our way back to the hotel it was late, past 11, quite dark. We stopped a moment along the river, looking down on an orangey streetlamp which illuminated a perfect spider’s web attached to the curve of the lamppost. The enormous brown and yellow spider was busy repairing damages as the moths flew recklessly close to his web. In the breeze off the river, all the spider seemed to catch were the fine white feathers of pigeons and seagulls. I lifted a hand and my jacket cuff caught the light, glowing a faint crescent—which attracted a moth, who brushed against my cheek.



Ah … Paris.

I read English at Oxford

So, probably wouldn't stand up in a job interview, but still. There we were in Oxford and there sure was a lot of English to read ...

We went to Oxford a couple weekends ago via Bus, with hoards of Swansea University Students (pretty much International, like us). Its a 4 hour bus-ride. But like I've probably already said, buses here in the UK are not quite the horror they often are in the states. A long ride, but pretty comfy.

Oxford, at its Centre (and there is a lot to it at the edges, where the re-ga-lar people live--and it looks like anywhere else, strip malls and industrial parks) is all about its Colleges. There seem to be dozens (ah, yes, 36 ...) and their buildings and chapels and residence halls dominate the town. Oxford University is the second oldest surviving university in the world (#1 is Bologna in Italy), and the oldest English-language University in the world. It was founded sometime in the 11th Century.

Yes ... so that's, like, a thousand years. A thousand years of students and teachers in the same place. Try to imagine that, oh Californian of the ever-revolving landscape ... There is architecture there stretching back all the way to the time of the Saxons. U.S.A., you were not yet even a dream in the eye of the dream of a zygote ... Poet Matthew Arnold called it, 'the city of dreaming spires' for all its church spires which, I must admit, in the misty gloaming looked fairly dreamy.



We wandered through the streets ... unable, however, to enter the colleges (all closed the day we went). I was impressed by rarefied and sequestered feel of Oxford ... Rather like cloisters. Students are protected inside the walls of the college from prying eyes or outside influences, placed into a context where they exist wholly as students (fed and cared for by the colleges--in fact there are cleaners who clean the students' rooms for them from what I've heard). I imagine there must be a bit of a connection with the way Monasteries, those first educational institutions, were run long ago. I was torn between envy and feeling quite Marxist and revolutionary about the whole thing. (Especially since we couldn't enter the lovely Radcliffe Camera ... since it was open to 'Readers' only ... its is a reading room that is part of Bodleian Library).

Now the Bodleian goes back to at least the 1400's. It has MILES of shelf space and quite a number of treasures. Copy of Shakespeare's First Folio anyone? Shelley's handwritten notes on Ozymandias? Most of the library (which is several buildings joined by an underground tunnel ... no, really) is, like the colleges, off limits (though as a UK university student I could apply for entrance actually ... will have to look into that!) but there are sections which are open. Christien and I stumbled into an amazing exhibit on Shelley, an Oxonian who once was a bit too rowdy for Oxford ... they kicked him out in his day but now seem to have gathered him into their arms as one of their own. In a little room we walked from case to case, looking a locks of Shelley's hair, a guitar he gave to a muse of his, but best of all at his notebooks with their sketches of trees, eyes, profiles, boats. And close-knit, beautiful, but illegible, handwriting ... though in one journal there were three words, written in larger, bolder print. On one page the word 'Illumines' on the facing page 'Own Shadows'. A message floating up from the text ...



We had a chance to climb up up the tower of the University Church of St. Mary the Virgin which was well worth 3 quid a piece for the gargoyled views over the fantastic rooftops and skyline of Oxford. And later we even made it to the Ashmolean Museum where we wandered a bit among the ancient art, particularly the Buddhist images from Central Asia.

Ah, to be a cultured posh person, now that Spring is here ....

The New Digs

We moved! Hurrah! It's been a week here, seems less--probably because it just been so busy and with the new Term starting up time seems to be collapsing like a spent accordian ... (just something I was trying out. yeah, not the best metaphor).

Our new digs are quite unlike our previous place ... infact if you think of almost an exact opposite, this is it. Beck House was like a student reservation, removed off the road by a wall and parking lot, set apart, with several blocks for students. There were the fire drills and the 4 a.m. revelries. Our place was on the bottom floor, almost like a basement because it was partly dug into a hill, cold, damp, not particularly light. With no view (except the parking lot) and quite large (but in an empty, echoey kind of way since we didn't own anything to fill it up.

Our new place, though still managed by the Uni is a flat in a row house on a real honest to goodness Swansea street (and a crazy busy one at that). Bryn Y Mor is a main thourofare back and forth from the Uplands area to downtown. So we are now a bit closer to town and though it may be a tiny bit further from school it's only maybe a 5 minute difference in the walk (about 20 min.) It's on the 3rd floor, nearly the attic, and is a studio, so pretty small. We've got amazing light, skylights, views of the bay and of trees. It feels like an entirely different universe.

After a year of a tiny nasty shower that I couldn't stand to get in (okay, I will admit that I didn't shower quite as often as I probably should have because I just hated it so much), we have a shower/bath. And with a huge skylight you can stand in the shower with the curtain partly open and look at the clouds. I plan on having my first bath tonight, by candle-light ... looking up at the stars and moon.

And I am totally in love with the kitchen, which has a floor to (low) ceiling window and a huge skylight as well. And a "breakfast bar" with stools. It is much smaller than our old kitchen but arranged so that it feels like a much more useable space.

So, lots of pics to share, but since I can only load five I will try and give an overview ....



Coming up the stairs -- there is a nice airy landing which I might use for my office ... a little unconventional, but ... why not?



Bedroom/Living room combined -- but it's a nice space.



Bathroom with tub and skylight!




The gorgeous kitchen.





One sample view from out the kitchen skylight over the rooftops!