Goodbye England (Heathrow, UK)

Goodbye England

Goodbye London, goodbye coaches,

goodbye five-twenty pound lunches.

Later instant-coffee, you won't be missed,

So-long spiders as big as my fist.

Goodbye castles, goodbye towers,

goodbye clocks of 24 hours.

Goodbye Cambridge and Oxford City,

Goodbye accents that always sound witty.

Goodbye tea-time, and with it, cream tea;

goodbye Hastings' decrepit pier over the sea.

Goodbye Jane and Alistair,

goodbye dirty underwear.

Goodbye old stinky, you were great,

goodbye Tattoo and Portculis Gate.

Au voir Canterbury, and YHA,

where I will never again pay to stay.

Goodbye biscuits, goodbye ale,

goodbye scones that tasted stale.

Goodbye Reculver, goodbye Kentish coast,

goodbye to all my gracious hosts.

Sayonara Yusuke, you were a cool guy,

goodbye Huran who was never shy.

Goodbye Jack, goodbye Steve,

I was sad when you had to leave.

Goodbye Mona, now the bathroom is all yours,

goodbye annoying clanking doors.

Goodbye Battle, goodbye York,

ta ta for now research work.

Goodbye Ahron, don't bother to call,

since I'll see you in no time at all.

Goodbye to Chris and Mara Jones,

thank you for letting me stay at your home,

and for showing me around the red city,

even if it's not terribly pretty.

Goodbye bad sushi, so long lamb doner,

too much of you and I'd have been a goner.

Goodbye pubs, goodbye pub fare,

goodbye locals who try not to stare.

No more haddock, no more plaice,

no more roaming this foreign space.

Hello Seattle, hello Link,

hello water that's sweet to drink.

Hello Washington, hello Northwest,

hi comfy bed where I can finally, finally rest.

Hello friends, I missed you all,

Hello city where it's always Fall.

Hello rain, I won't get sentimental,

though here you always seem more gentle.

Hello bars, hello brewpubs,

hello giant boot-shaped jugs.

Hello films, hello TV

hi to the land of the evergreen tree.

Hello freeways, hello big cars,

hello to prolonged hiatus of the stars.

Heya Subaru, you doing okay?

Did she treat you well while I was away?

Hello Sound, hello mountains,

hello sketchy university fountain.

Hiya burgers with real meat,

Hey sushi only Japan can beat.

Hello USA, I think I missed you,

even if I really didn't want to.

Hello Tansy.

Hello Diana.

05.09.12 - Wantage and Balliol College

5.09.12 - (Wantage, UK)

"In the year of the Lord's Incarnation 849 Alfred, king of the Anglo-Saxons, was born at the royal estate called Wantage, in the district known as Berkshire (which is so called from Berroc Wood, where the box-tree grows very abundantly)." (from The Life of King Alfred trans. Lapidge and Keynes)

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Wantage is 15 miles from Oxford via the X30 or 31, hemmed in by farmland and stone brick buildings. In the marketplace stands an enormous 19th c. tribute to the famous Anglo-Saxon king, axe and scroll-bearing, the vision and toil of H. S. H. Count Gleichen, whose work was unveiled 14 July 1878 by the Prince and Princess of Wales.

The poem on the plaque below the statue reads:

"Alfred the Great
The West Saxon King.
Born at Wantage A.D 849.
Alfred found learning dead,
and he restored it.
Education neglected
and he revived it.
The laws powerless
and he gave them force.
The church debased
and he raised it.
The land ravaged by a fearful enemy
from which he delivered it.

Alfred's name will live as long
as mankind shall respect the past."


It is a sentimental tribute, set among the the humming of buses and the leering of shoppers. The last two lines must be, I feel, a dig at critics of Alfred's biographer, Asser, who has since the mid 19th century been frequently accused of being a forger, an embellisher, and a scoundrel.

I look about the town for things to do. There isn't much in Wantage. It's a small town with small ambitions and whose only claim to fame was that one of the most famous West Saxon kings just happened to be born there. They still cling to this. Almost every building or business carries his namesake. The King Alfred Head. King Alfred's Sandwich Shop. (Oh, did he really eat here? Oh, yes, the king was fanciful of sandwiches, everyone knows that!)

Other than this modern attraction, Wantage is rather dull. I fiddle browse the books of a vendor, spot a book on the "Real King Arthur" sitting next to a book about "Channeling your Psychic Energy." As soon as you leave the market place it feels that you're immediately out of town, down the carriageway to somewhere else. Where did Wantage go? Oh, it's behind me. Once outside the city, farmland dominates my purview, large threshing tractors kick up chaff and dust. It seems in Oxfordshire that every street is named "Oxford Street."

I find a nifty church, the parish of Wantage, also called the Church of St Peter and Paul, and go inside.

Just up the street is the Vale and Downland Museum, which contains artifacts from the 7th, 8th, and 9th centuries. It also has a bunch of other, modern stuff, but I could care less about that. Here are some of the cool items that have been excavated or just found in and around Oxfordshire.

Alfred may have worn a shoe like this? Hmm. Selling it a bit hard, aren't they?

After browsing through the museum and taking pictures of every nook and cranny, I head outside of town, looking for the fabled box-tree.

King Alfred's School.

(Oxford, UK)

I return to Oxford to meet Ramona after her language class, at about 3:30pm. Our plan is to check out a few more of the smaller and cheaper colleges today, so that this weekend, when all the Oxford colleges are open to the public, we can focus on seeing the nicer, bigger ones.

Our goal today is Balliol College, on St. Giles street, across from that famous Tolkien pub I mentioned a few posts ago.



Balliol College:

Here's the coup de grace: Balliol's dining hall.

In Balliol's Chapel

That's all folks!

We take the bus at 6:20 to Eynsham, have dinner and play Rummy with Sean until it gets late. Until next time.

31.08.12 - Blenheim Palace

31.08.12 - (Woodstock, UK)

About forty minutes from Oxford in Oxfordshire is a little village called Woodstock. It is known primarily as the location of the 2500 acre estate, Blenheim Palace, which Queen Anne gave to John Churchill, First Duke of Marlborough, in the 18th century, in honor of his service and victories along the Danube against the French and Bavarian armies. The palace was built in the early 18th century by Sir John Vanbrugh, but under dispute by its owner Sarah Churchill, forced a redesign soon after. It was later redesigned by the aptly named Capability Brown, who has given it its current shape and landscape.

It is primarily a World Heritage Site, but it's also a residence. I'm told that the Duke of Marlborough is a very unlikable chap but that he still lives in the portions of the palace that are marked as private. It's big enough, it seems for a Duke and Duchess and about a thousand tourists.

And the tourists flock to see the place where Winston Churchill was born, 30 November 1874. No big deal. This is the place:

Well, he was born in there. Not in the courtyard, in case you were wondering.

A stupid face! Proof I didn't just
pull these photos from the web.

Yeah, it's no wonder people hate the aristocracy.

Blenheim Palace is huge. Mammoth. It makes one feel diminutive, peewee, bantam, mousey. Its gates tower over you. Its space rivals Disneyland. You look up and kink your neck to see it's columns and then you see the sky, perhaps angered by the hubris of such a building, gathering in gray deposits above you.

"Britain's Greatest Palace" reads the pamphlet. Yeah, I need to read the pamphlet like I need a kick to the head. Blenheim is basically "palace on rails" meaning that you can't stray too far one way or the other without getting dragged out and reminded that you're just a peasant here. Go this way, go that way. See what they want you to see. We're all just peasants here, ogling what we'll never know or understand. I'm not bitter about it. The place is beautiful. It is incredible. It makes the Hearst "castle" of San Simeon look like an exercise in futility. At Blenheim, any overt megalamania, a la Hearst, has been naturalized and dispersed in the architecture. It's grand, but it isn't gaudy. It's functional and traditional. Blenheim was not built to be looked at. This is a palace that you're supposed to not look at.

I wasn't supposed to take this photo.

I wasn't supposed to take this photo either. Sorry that it's tilted, they're always watching you in the UK.

After I wander through the Churchill exhibit, see the bed where he was born (seriously), and look at a collection of his academy citations and listen to his most famous speech, I head out to the gardens.  I have said only moments ago that Blenheim is a place that you do not look at, and that' true, it's a place that you just walk through, content,  no honored, to be there. That's what you're probably supposed to feel. I don't feel any of that. For the first time since arriving in Cambridge, I feel inexplicably othered. The proper young lad routine is gone forever. This feeling is reinforced by the innocuous sign to the right, which I find standing in the garden, English passive- aggressiveness at it's most diabolical: refined into a small white powder that citizens swirl into their afternoon tea and eat with digestives. I think of Bioshock, and then I think that England, this real place, is Rapture. The sudden feeling of waking. Would visitors kindly note gardens close at 6pm? I do not have a choice; it has been noted.

This feeling of otherness perhaps began when I arrived at Jane's. I've met two Australians, one German, one Japanese, one Chinese. My hosts are Scottish. They are like mirrors to my Americanism, they reflect it back to me. But my hosts are hyper aware of their own idiosyncrasies, so I cannot reflect anything back. How do you say it in America? How do people do this in America? Neither my Cambridge compatriots, even the ones who liked talking about difference casually and critically, who have helped me acclimate to England, nor any of the people I met in Edinburgh, whose company I enjoyed greatly, have made me feel so incredibly American before.

"There's that big American smile!" Jane has said right before taking a photo. (Do people not smile in other countries? What makes my smile American? It should be Austrian, German, Polish, mixed up, nondescript. I don't understand.) Do you have marmalade in the US? You should try the lemon curd spread. (We have those too.) You say "I'm going to go do it"-- it should be "go and do it". (I didn't say that or bring it up.) We've picked up all sorts of these Americanisms like that here in England. It's terrible!

Yes. This is terrible. I enjoy talking about other cultures, even about my culture--such as it is--but for some reason I do not enjoy this. I get the sense that Jane enjoys other cultures but more enjoys relishing in pointing out difference.

Here's a pathway, you don't use footpaths in your country do you? Never. We all think they're for squares. (Okay, okay, now I'm being a jerk.But I am skeptical of someone who doesn't understand or like the Big Lebowski.) Actually, I do like the family here; they're friendly and have a lot to say. They're well educated. The food has been good. The accommodations are comfortable and quiet....

Okay, back to the palace. As I was saying, it's big, and the total property is somewhere between massive and gargantuan. There are two lakes. There is a bridge. There are a few homes on the estate for groundskeepers. Someone I run into, from the States, asks me if I'm a "big Churchill fan" and I'm not sure how to respond. I think I say "oh he's pretty good," stupidly, as though I'm talking about the performance of a football player.

Because, you know, a waterfall totally brings the grounds together.

If you haven't noticed, I really like crazy looking trees. England is full of them.

I suppose this is the "money shot"?

These are the Italian gardens, they were off-limits to visitors, but I am tall enough to get a few decent photos of it.

I'm pretty sure this needs no explanation.

A statue of the 1st Earl of Marlborough. You can probably see that the text, on the base
of the monument is in the shape of a cross, you know, because it's England.

After walking around the estate and up to the statue, I head to the "Pleasure Gardens," wherein lies "Acorn Oakbot," several miniature town pieces that are being repaired, a playground, fountain, and a hedge maze!

This is "Acorn Oakbot" and he's my new best friend. I didn't name him, that's what the signage said.

A HEDGE MAZE!!!

A HEDGE MAZE!!!!

A FREAKING HEDGE MAZE!!!!!!!

Alright, I feel better. Until next time.