09.29.06 Merton

Today was very full. I started out by taking some clothes to the tailor for alterations. I will write a piece on Primark, smart casual, and semi-gay euro clothes soon, but the short version is that I had to pay £35 ($64.75) to get the sleeve length adjusted on a suit jacket that cost me £26 ($48). Weird weird weird. After this, I went to a presentation at the Oxford Union. This is a 19th century debating society that still exists today, but has become most famous for being a venue for top speaking guests from around the world. Wikipedia claims that the following have spoken at the Oxford Union: Dalai Lama, Gerry Adams, Hans Blix, Jimmy Carter, Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking, Stephen Fry, Robert Kennedy, Ewan McGregor, Malcolm X, Winston Churchill, Jenna Jameson, Diego Maradona, Warren Beatty, Clint Eastwood, Ronald Reagan, Jon Bon Jovi, OJ Simpson, David Blaine, Richard Nixon, Henry Kissinger, Ron Jeremy, Michael Jackson, Jerry Springer, Mother Teresa, and Barry White.

outside the debating chamber

inside the debating chamber

The speaker today was Pervez Musharraf, President (dictator) of Pakistan. Mr Musharraf looked a bit tired, and has a very thick accent, but still managed to speak well, spin well, and knock out a few funny jokes and comebacks. He sounded like a CEO addressing the stockholders’ meeting, talking about X% improvement in this area, Y% in that area, challenges, opportunities, etc. He even took questions from the audience. Seriously: a 20 year old smart assed Oxford University kid sitting two seats down from me asked a world leader a question about the whereabouts of Osama Bin Laden. This is the kind of place that Oxford is: totally unique in the world, where normal dipshits like me and this kid are exposed to intellectual and political leaders of the world. It’s pretty freaking amazing. I has a question for him about Madrassas, but I was frankly too nervous to say a damn thing. Next time I will. By the way, many of the other questions were more subtle and deeper, given by people who clearly knew alot about Pakistan, but the Osama question was the one that came from right next to me, so that sticks in my head.

After the Musharraf speech, I went to a bunch of events put on for Graduate Freshers at my college, Merton. This was very very very interesting. A Graduate is a grad student just like we have back in the States, simple enough. A Fresher is someone who is entering the college (and possibly the university?) for the first time. Whereas my fellow MBA students (spread across the 39 colleges) are loud, gregarious, pretty smart, hard partying 26–44 years olds, the other grad students at my college are generally 21–25 year olds, quiet, hyper intelligent, nervous, and true academics. These folks are studying for D Phils (UK PhDs) in things like Middle Eastern Studies, Classics, Astrophysics, Theoretical Mathematics, Music Composition, Philosophy, etc. I met a 25 year old name Chauncy who speaks 10 languages and wears a tie every day. He owns 250 ties, but brought 115 to school with him. Seriously. He also happens to be the spitting image of Sid Spencer, however oddly or not oddly that might strike you. Some of these kids were so soft spoken and shy that I seriously couldn’t hear what they were saying! The really mind blowing aspect of meeting these people was the level of conversation I was getting from 21, 22, and 23 year olds: they were clearly experienced, educated, well read and well considered in their opinions, something I don’t find in a lot of 36 year olds, much less expect from people 15 years younger than me. We had coffee and cookies at the graduate residence in Jowett Walk, which is about 7 minutes walk from Merton. After this, there was a dinner in the big dining hall. Holy crap. This is so frigging Harry Potter, I couldn’t believe it. I was in Ean-heaven.

a semi-crappy image of the hall

After dinner, we all went to the Middle Common Room, which is a sort of partyroom/livingroom for grad students. There was a big free drinks party with all 100–ish Merton grad students. The whole quiet routine dropped right off once the gang got some beers in them, and when Reba and I left at 11pm, it was loud, drunk and sweaty in the MCR. By the way, the sweaty thing is no exaggeration. For whatever reason, it is a lot more humid here than in Seattle, and there is almost nowhere that has AC, so it’s been a pretty goopy summer. From here, we went to the Living Room, the stupid bar that I was barred entry to because of smart casual issues, and partied with the MBAs. This time, I got in!

mba blogs

I'm cleaning up my blog homepage, so I'm archiving all the other mba blogs I link to.

andrew b, oxford mba
andrew m, oxford mba
angie, esade mba
ashton, oxford mba
gaurav, oxford mba
juergen, oxford mba
madhu, oxford mba
mihkel, oxford mba
nagendra, oxford mba
renee, oxford mba
sam, oxford mba
sampath, oxford mba

09.25.06 ready, set...

Reba got into town last Monday, mom went home last Wednesday.  We’ve spent the last week and a half buying stuff for the apartment, locating books for school, getting things set up, meeting other outgoing and incoming MBAs, and etc.  And by etc., I mean drinking.    If there is one thing that the city of Oxford and it’s inhabitants are well primed for, it is the partying.  There are a ton of pubs, bars, clubs and discos here, all kinds of different beer to sample, and a seemingly endless supply of people who want to be out whooping it up any night of the week.  I should point out that I still have not really met anybody who takes their drinking and partying quite as seriously as the old WSU/Ballard crowd back home, but then it alway has been somewhat unfair to lump amateurs in with professionals. 

I have met quite a few of the new MBAs, all of whom are predictably accomplished, interesting, and diverse.  Some of the more colourful cast members…

• Sasha – Russian Jew whose parents left Minsk for Israel when he was 15.  Sasha ended up in some sort of elite paratrooper corps, I think that he’s seen some very scary shit.  Sasha’s an industrial engineer in his professional life.
• Gabe – Indie rocker from Austin Texas, ran his own resume writing business. Also a fellow Mbox and guitar enthusiast, he’s probably 10 years younger than me, but is way into old Sonic Youth!  We will probably make some weirdrock this year if we get the time.
• Daniel and Jurgen – collectively known as “The Germans” these two are the lady killers in the group… good hair, skinny, good looking, stylish clothes, etc.  They’re also totally hilarious and posses a semi-serious partying ethic.  Jurgen is into fencing, which is apparently pretty big in Germany, where they still do this weird type of duel called student fencing.  He’s done it, and from what I hear, it’s a very bloody experience.
• Shelby – Shelby is the first person I met here, and we’ve become quite chummy.  She’s from the bay area and comes from a techie project management background.  She has the ability to walk up and unflinchingly say anything to anyone, as evidenced by the following tapa/topless incident: she and I were trying to find something to do, and on a whim, Shelby walked up to the menacing door guys at the local tapas restaurant and deadpan asked them where she could find “either a tapas bar or a topless bar”, watching them squirm was priceless.
• Barry – Management consultant from Detroit.  Foodie, beer connoisseur, and disco dancing king.  In possession of a patented dance “move” that will be revealed to me at some future date.
• Takashi – 44 year old Japanese dude from Yokohama, left his wife and daughter back home while he jams out the 1 year MBA at Oxford.  Another IT management guy like me, he comes from a DB2 background and is really into taking photos.
• Major – I’ve only met this guy once, but he’s apparently a Major in the US Marines, doesn’t drink, grew up in the UK and was stationed in San Diego.  This dude is very big and very tough looking.  Our main conversation was about how he was trying to find a good gym in town.

I have yet to meet a single Briton in the MBA program, whatever that indicates. 

Today I have to go to the IT clinic at the business school, which apparently is where they install a bunch of useless crap on your computer.  This will be mostly pointless, because I don’t have my login and password yet, due to some bureaucratic nonesense between SBS, Merton, and the Examination School.  After that, it’s back to reading chapters for classes next week and working on the accounting review assignment.  By the way, I am SO TOTALLY FRIGGING HAPPY that I took that accounting class last winter.  The rampup would have murdered me, because while it’s not hard, Accounting is weird and takes a while to get used to.  I now wish that I had not taken that way-too-easy stats course, but instead taken the Economics intro, because I know dick about Econ and am going to get slaughtered there. 

09.15.06 inishmore

Hosteling fiascos aside, we really are having an excellent time here. Here, by the way, is the town of Kilronan on the island of Inis Mor, in the Aran Islands. The Aran are a pretty neat place: essentially they are huge granite slabs lying out in Galway bay, to the west of the main island of Ireland. Fortunately, the west sides of these islands are ~300 foot high cliffs sloping down gently over fields and farms to the beaches on the east sides. This provides for reasonable protection from the offshore breezes and fairly massive wave action of the Atlantic. By the way, when I say massive, I’m not shitting you. We were standing at the top of one of the more impressive cliffs looking out over the ocean, and not only could we hear the roar of the surf pounding the cliffs below, but we could also feel the granite cliffs shuddering under the impact. Rarrrrhhhrrr! The island is covered with little green plots of land separated by stone fences. Fence building here seems to consist primarily of stacking shards of the local granite on top of each other, sans mortar. It’s pretty primitive looking, or old-school at he very least: the locals have been building stone enclosures in this way for over 2000 years. There are a number of hill forts and 1500+ year old graveyards, tons of old ruined stone houses, gorgeous ocean views, etc. Travelouge crapola aside, mom my has had a thing for coming here since I can remember, and making this journey was a very big deal to her.

We caught a ferry out here from Rossaveal, which isn’t much more than a tiny port with some hyper-seaworthy looking ferries parked at the pier. The reason for these became clear as we took off in some pretty choppy seas: the boat was maybe 150 feet long, and was shooting up off the the waves and crashing back down into the troughs between the waves. Neat! I though I might get seasick, but didn’t for whatever reason. After landing, enduring the hosteling fiasco, and spending the night at the Pier House, we got up and caught a tour (mini) bus around the island to see the sights. There was lots of info about saints, ruined churches, still inhabited thatch roofed cottages, fishing techniques, etc. But, the real attraction was Dun Anghosa, pronounced “duhn Angus”, which is an iron age stone ring fort built on the edge of one of the islands more imposing cliffs. Stone ring forts are pretty common in Ireland and Europe in general, and usually consist of two walls of stacked stones, a burly inner one within which people lived, and a less burly outer one where they kept livestock. The inner walls of forts I have seen are usually 15 to 20 feet high, and 5 to 10 feet thick. While Dun Anghosa technically is a ring fort, it should really be called a half ring fort, because it’s actually just a semi circle built up against the cliff edge. The view off of D.A. is pretty freaky, and of course mom wanted to get right up to the edge. Her balance is pretty goofy these days, so I was nervous about her going too close and kept bugging her to keep back from the edge. Funny how roles reverse as time goes by! This place is pretty damn cool, fairly moving in the same way that Stonehenge was, but more so from a natural wonder kind of perspective… those cliffs were totally amazing.

 

 

on the way up, see D.A. in the background

 

closer still

 

mom sitting on the D.A. altar

 

view from D.A.

09.14.06 hostels

I admit that I have never stayed in a hostel. I had to think for a bit to determine exactly why, but it probably has to do with a) the relative distance of hosteling type places from Seattle, and b) the fact that my prime lowbudget travelling (and therefore potentially hosteling) years were spent not bumming around Europe, but instead touring with the band. For those who don’t know, touring is essentially the same thing as bumming around: you have funny hair, don’t shower often, get loaded all the time, hang out with other temporary societal dropouts, espouse semi socialist dropout-ish ethical B.S. in an attempt to get laid, etc. etc. Except with touring, you have to drag musical instruments with you and stay in dirty punk rock dude houses instead of dirty hostels.

At any rate, I booked my 36 year old self and my 63 year old mother into a hostel called the Mainistir House (sounded fancy) on Inishmore Island, having no idea what staying in a hostel entailed, however excusable my ignorance may have been. Indication #1 that I had made a booking error was when the hike to the hostel turned out to be 1 mile. For me and a backpack, this is no biggie; but for me, mom, and our wheel-able suitcases, this was a bit ridiculous. Especially considering the quality and width of Inishmore roads, which seem to force tour bus drivers to zoom past pedestrians with very little clearance. After about half a mile uphill, I was dragging both the suitcases, and mom was grumpily walking about 40 feet behind me. Ominously, a sign pointing the way to our hostel rather ambiguously indicated that there was either a vegetarian restaurant in the same direction, or simply a vegetarian restaurant in the hostel. Since most of Inishmore consists of ruined stone houses and neolithic looking stone livestock enclosures, it was hard to imagine how there could be much living up that road, let alone a hostel and a separate vegetarian restaurant, let’s call that indication #2.

mainister

After about 30 minutes of dodging tour buses, etc., we arrived at Mainistir, and checked in. Mainistir is some sort of old house that has apparently been taped back together by hippies and turned into a low budget travelling (bumming) hippie twentysomething facility. There was a semi crusty punk chick checking email on the communal computers in the entry-way, handmade signage advertising the qualities of “Joel’s stew” available in the lunchroom, and the reception desk dude. The dude was black, effete and lispy to the point of being probably gay, wore only high tech hiker type longjohn tops and bottoms, and spoke with a thick Irish accent. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of that, but for a provincial like me: he was pretty far out. For simplicity’s sake, I’d like to roll all of that up into indication #3. The dude was totally nice to us, got our money up front (#4), and let us pick our room (#5) from a couple that were open. I dragged our bags up the tiny rickety staircase to the 2nd floor, we picked the small and moderately sketchy room 9, and began checking out the joint. In all fairness to Mainistir, the views of the beach, old stone houses, and Galway bay were fabulous. The communal bathroom (#6) however, with the toilet seat ripped out (#7) and sitting on the floor (#8) did not impress mom too much, while the potato bug crawling across the floor of room 9 (coincidentally also indication #9) was a bit of a turnoff for me. Returning downstairs, I asked the dude for a key, to which I was informed that there were no keys (#10), at which point I realized that I would be hauling my laptop all around the island (#11). Sigh. Things had clearly been going way too right up to this point in the trip, I was due for some torture. While we walked back to town, mom tried to make me feel better about the hostel by looking on the bright side, saying that we didn’t come to Aran to hang out in the ho(s)tel, we came to see the sights, etc., etc. This, just like the breaking of the seventh seal, is an absolute and unquestionably clear indication that things have gone straight to hell, so I decided to find some new accommodations. I suppose that makes #12.

Eating dinner at a hotel right across from the ferry dock, called The Pier House, (or Teach na Céibhe in Irish… by the way, people are really into speaking Irish here, and you hear it all the time, although everyone seems to speak English as well) I slipped away from the table to check out and then reserve a room. In the end, we had a very nice seafood dinner, stayed in a lovely room at the Pier House, got fully reimbursed by the dude, and I got to walk our roller suitcases a mile back from Mainistir by myself, since I didn’t want to put mom through that walk again. I also learned that I will probably never stay (on purpose) in a hostel.

a nice place to stay on Inishmore

09.12.06 swinford

Mom and I got to Swinford, County Mayo, Ireland two days ago.  It’s amazing how long it takes to get anywhere in the UK.  We left my apartment at 11:45 because the cab didn’t show up, and walked across Oxford to Gloucester Green, the bus station.  We barely made it, and caught the 12:15 bus to Gatwick airport.  Then, we rode 2 hours to the airport and were actually 45 minutes early for check in.  After waiting a bit, we checked in and “queued up” to go through security for about an hour.  I got patted down.  By a dude.  Bummer.  Then, it was a walk across the airport to the Ryanair terminal, and then right onto the plane for a 1.5 hour flight to Knock, and then a 20 minute drive to Swinford. 

 

main street in Swinford

Swinford is small, it’s basically a tiny town that cropped up where three roads come together.  It’s given me a picture of modern day small town life in Ireland, and while the absence of rock shows and hipster clubs might bum me out after a while, I still really enjoy the tone of the place.  Why Swinford?  My mom’s great grandmother Mary O’Donnell left Lagcurragh, a townland of Swinford, for Boston when she was 20 years old, in 1887.  Basically, a townland is sort of a farm country suburb of a small town like Swinford.  In the case of Lagcurragh, it’s a lot of fields with a few little clusters of old houses and a bunch of new fancy country homes built for rich foreigners, all connected by really old winding narrow roads.  Passing other cars out here essentially requires that one party move over to the side of the road.

 

mom on a Lagcurragh road

 

a small car makes country driving feasible

 

We found an 1832 Ordnance Survey of Ireland map of Swinford and Lagcurragh, and were actually able to sort of follow it around.  The funny thing is that this was the only internet map we could find with the tiny Lagcurragh roads actually shown.  I got some ok photos of old buildings, but mom got better ones.  I’ll post those when I get a chance, for now these will have to suffice…

 

 

 

 

We also went to the Swinford graveyard to look for relatives, which was pretty spooky since it had decayed significantly over the years…

 

this one could make it onto tales from the crypt

 

mom in the boneyard

 

We found a headstone that may have been from one of mom’s great grandmothers’ brothers, although it’s pretty hard to say for sure, given that his birth-date isn’t shown, and given that his name was Michael O’ Donnell, a fairly common Irish name. 

 

   

 

way out in Lagcurragh: pretty

 

more of the same, with better lighting

09.09.06 smart casual

The Ramp Up

Today we were supposed to go down to London for tea, that did not work out, but several other things did, so I suppose it was a good day, all told. We got up at 9ish, went up to town to get a hairdryer and curling iron for mom (and ultimately Reba), and I sent mom walking home by herself so I could visit HSBC. Sigh. You can read all about my previous exploits regarding HSBC Offshore in another posting, but to sum up my prior HSBC dealings: in trying to obtain a UK bank account from the US, I ended up getting a weird semi-UK bank account through the offshore branch of HSBC, a major UK bank. This has worked pretty well so far because I didn’t have to travel to the UK to fund it, I got checks, funny euro debit cards, a credit card, etc., all when I was still in the US, and so I was ready to rock when I got here. Almost.

It turns out that certain debit card based transactions require a card tied to an onshore UK bank. These include “top up” features for pay-as-you-go phones, probably some other things I don’t know about yet, and most notoriously this week: BT Broadband payments. British Telecom is the phone service provider, and for phone service, they can take payment via a check, cash, visa, mastercard, debit card or probably in pints if you ask nicely. They are also the only broadband provider for my building, but will not take payment for broadband via any mechanism other than a UK bank debit card. That’s it, there are no other options. Believe me, I’ve tried to find them, and there are none. So, today, after probably 4 hours of phone calls over the last week to BT bitching, pleading, sounding annoyed, etc., I actually went in and opened an onshore account just so I could pay BT Broadband with it. I had assumed that this would be impossible, as I had been instructed by someone over the last year, I forget exactly who, that in order to open an onshore account, I would have to have proof of residence in the form of 3 months worth of utility bills. Actually, this is totally and categorically NOT true. I walked in with a receipt from Finders Keepers, my rental agency, my acceptance letter to Oxford, and my passport, and 2 hours later (seriously) I had a bank account. I rather comically had to write myself a check from my HSBC offshore account to my HSBC onshore account, but it worked, and now I have a UK bank account, or more importantly: a UK bank account number and sort code, which is basically what a debit card has written on it. I called the BT billing guy with this new info and voila! I had direct debit set up and would be receiving broadband on sept 12th. Yay!

After this HSBC nonsense, I spent some time getting maps together for the trip to Ireland this Sunday, and by the time I was done, it was way too late to get down to London, and I had to cancel the reservations for afternoon tea. To make up for this, mom and I went to Gee’s, an actually good English restaurant in town. I have to say that the dish I had was totally awesome, combining the heartiness and simplicity of English cooking with the ingredient and preparation quality that I expect in a continental (or even northwest?) setting. They rock, I’m going back. We dressed up, caught a cab there, and then walked back. Nice.

Next, I hooked up with Michael, my mentor at business school. We all get assigned someone from last year’s program to help guide us through, answer questions, etc., and Michael is my dude. He was out with his folks, buddies, and wife because tomorrow is graduation day for the 2005–2006 class. He’s a really swell guy, and even during our semi-drunken conversation surrounded by distractions, I picked up some really good info. We’re going to hook up for questions/pints when I get back from Ireland next week. Plus, his wife offered to email with Reba about any questions she had, so that will be really useful as well. She had lots of good advice about how Reba can meet folks, be involved with other “partners” (wives, etc.), and even be involved with college/school events and stuff. I feel a lot better about that after talking to her, I want Reebs to have a good experience and have lots of fun, not feel like school is coming between us or isolating her or whatever.

The S.C. Smackdown

Ok, here’s the smart casual part. I split from the pub that I was at with Michael and company when it closed at midnight, and called Shelby and her man Pawi to see if they wanted to hook up for a drink. Shelby’s in the program, and Pawi is going to architecture school here in town as well. They were down, so we all met at “the castle” which is pretty much Oxford Castle, which I think is pretty much hilarious.

Oxford Castle, a one act play by Ean Hernandez

[curtain]

“Hey dude, wanna get a beer?”

“Yah, sure. Where do you wanna meet?”

“Meet me in front of the castle.”

“Oh, OK.”

“Don’t forget to take a left turn at the enchanted wood and watch out for the dragon…”

“Oh yeah… right on. … Dragon.”

[curtain]

So we met at the OxC, and headed out for a drink. This is where I learned some more Brit-culture knowledge the hard way. Dig it:

Pub: this is a sort of drinky British surrogate living room where they serve beer, wine and liquor; it’s open all day, closes at midnight, and you can dress like whatever (i.e. like I do). Usually decorated in late medieval decor and named the “something and something else”. Like maybe “the george and dragon”, “the eagle and child”, or “the cock and camel” (seriously), etc. People hang out here watching TV, chatting with pals, or whatever. Seriously, it’s like a community living room.

Bar: this is sort of a “fancy” euro-style joint where they serve beer, wine and liquor; it’s open all day, closes at 2 or 3am, and you have to wear smart casual (see below). Usually decorated in “club” decor or maybe even “strip mall club” decor, and named something arty/gayish/ambiguous like “montage” or “icon” or “super” or whatever. People hanging out here feeling slightly more classy/modern than they do in pubs.

Smart Casual: apparently this is when you wear jeans or other long pants and some sort of black “I’m going out tonight” type of shirt with your running shoes.

After going out to a pub (with Michael and co.) wearing shorts and running shoes, I tried to get into a bar wearing the same. The tough dude at the door in the all black suit, shirt and tie ensemble wagged his finger at me with this sort of asshole kungfu finger wagging gesture… kind of like when Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris are about to fight in Enter the Dragon, and Bruce wags his index finger at Chuck while making that high pitched yowling sound? Yep, that same gesture, but more exasperated. Then, the blackity-black dude stopped exasper-waving his finger at me and pointed at my legs, saying something about “smart casual”, and looking at me like I simply had to be FUCK-ing kidding thinking that I could get into his high class modern strip mall ambiguously named bar without long pants. The fuckhead even had a secret service style ear piece radio stuck in his ear. I guess some things are the same wherever you go.

Pawi filled me in on the definitions above, and now I know.

Pawi and Shelby are really nice and walked me home anyway, even though I called them out for a drinking excursion that died on the table due to my bare, pale, hairy legs.

Special to AJ… you have been duly warned: If you wanna drink after midnight in Blighty, get some pants, yo.

not smart casual

09.08.06 tourists

We spent the last couple of days alternating between shopping and seeing the sights.  The shopping has been for boring stuff like soap, a suit, and groceries.  It’s funny how much LESS stuff you buy at the store when you know that you have to carry it home!  Here’s another armchair economic theory-guess: I bet that the US consumer driven economy depends on the ease with which US consumers can transport and then store goods.  In and environment where everyone drives a big car and has a big apartment/house to live in, you’re more likely to buy a bunch of stuff because it won’t be a pain in the ass to get it home, and you’ll have somewhere to put it when you get there!  I’ve notice that I have skipped a TON of purchases since I’ve been here because I didn’t want to deal with dragging whatever it was home, let alone trying to find somewhere to put it.  Whatev.

Mom and I went down to london yesterday to catch the bus out to Stonehenge.  We took a quick look at Westminster Abbey and Parliament square while we waited for the “astral tours” bus out to Salisbury and the stones.

 

 

mom at Westminster and at big ben

 

We got some chinese to go food, got on the tour bus, and started our journey.  They picked us up at 1pm, and brought us back at 9:30, so it was a very very long day.  But, the trip was well worth the trouble.  We saw the west kennet long barrow; the silbury hill, which is basically a giant neolithic pile of dirt that no one really know the purpose of; the avebury stone circle, which is a sort of a way bigger but shittier version of Stonehenge where hippies and druids and weirdos and whatever congregate; and then finally, Stonehenge itself.  Stonehenge is totally, utterly, super cool.  It’s gigantic, beautiful, filled with neat history and frankly, moving.  We got a special tour that goes after normal business hours, and lets you actually go up to and touch the stones.  Most tourists have to look at it from a distance.  The pictures pretty much say it all…

 

  one of the bigger stones

 

 this part is still pretty complete, but a lot of it has fallen down

 

 

 I like this one of mom

 

09.04.06 mom in town

Mom showed up today. I went down to Heathrow to pick her up and we rode back together on the bus. She had a reasonable flight, and seemed to be in good health and spirits. I had an “all clear” mail to the rest of the family queued up and ready to send to via my new blackberry and after a quick inspection, I sent it off. That was kind of cool, dorky as it may sound, because I know that everyone was maybe just a tiny bit worried that she’d have trouble on the plane or whatever, and it was nice to be able to kick one off from the airport and get the info to everybody asap. Ok, that IS really dorky, but I’m into that intergalactic space radio communication frequency stuff. It went something like this:

subject: Mom

message:

Got her, she’s doing fine. We’re en route to Oxford.

e

We walked through the crowds down St Aldate’s Way and got her stuff stowed at the apt. The we went down to the Head of the River pub for some basic English fare at the edge of the Thames. This place is pretty, and has a really cool feel to it with swans and the Thames/Isis, old buildings, punts, etc. She had the steak and ale pie, and I had the fish and chips with a pint of something or other. Oh yeah, and my meal came with “mushy peas” which is basically what it sounds like, but really lumpy and sort of dry. While I mostly like English food, this mushypea stuff is for the birds. Even a hungry E is not down with this.

nice, eh?

After dinner, we went on a walk along the Thames by Christ Church Meadow, which is this big (you guessed it) meadow behind Christ Church college. There are some cows there, there’s probably some big deal royal story or something behind them, but I don’t know what it is. Then we went up the path along the Cherwell river, and back through town. We saw lots of neat stuff, like the old MG motorworks building, the bridge of sighs, the Radcliffe Camera, Merton college, the Said Business School, and even stopped at the Kings Arms for a 1/2 pint (don’t ask for a schooner, they don’t know what the hell you’re talking about) of cider.

 

the old Morris Garage (MG) plant

 

fancy a pint, gov?

09.03.06 the tour

Previously, I posted a couple of photos of the outside of the apartment, here is the rest of the inside…

view from the deck (actually quite nice)

dining room side of the main room (messy)

living room side of the main room (with mom)

tiny euro-kitchen

bathroom

my bedroom (menswear pile-up depot)

…and the room that you’ve all been waiting to see, the room that all the future visiting Americans will grow to love and adore, the room that will be your little sanctuary far from the madding crowd, dig it: the Travelling Americans Memorial Extra Bedroom. At this point, it’s more like Travelling American Extra Bedroom, because there’s only one single-sized bed, but we’re working on fixing that. For this week, mom is the only one staying there, so it’s no problem, but we’ll need to get a bigger bed setup for when couples come to stay.

The T.A.M.E.B.

09.01.06 AHHHH!!!!!

I spent my first night in Oxford, walked around a lot, drank some beer, ate some Polish food, and squeaked around on my floor.  That last bit may require some clarification: my floor is squeaky, really squeaky.  It reminds me of this story my mom used to tell about a Japanese emperor (or maybe a shogun?) who intentionally had his palace built with squeaky floors so he could always hear people sneaking up on him.  NOBODY is going to sneak up on me in this new place.  When I get a second, I will take some pictures and post them, the view is pretty cool. 

Today I’m going to get a cell phone, drop some documents at Merton, and get a “lounge suit” which is apparently what English people call a two piece suit.  Maybe.  Anyway, I have to wear one in a few weeks at an event, and my “summer of party” has left me in the position of not fitting my suits too well.   (Josh, I hope you appreciate the free ammunition)

Mom comes out Monday, so I will be going back down to Heathrow to get her.  I think she’s really going to like it here, the Architecture and general vibe of Oxford are a real mind blower the first you see it.  I can’t wait to see her expression!  She’s really concerned about what to wear, I think she’s worried if she’ll stand out or appear under dressed.  The funny thing is that everyone here is dressed really casually, and they basically dress like people in Seattle do.  She’ll pick up on that soon enough.