To Cheese or Not to Cheese, Is It Really a Question?

Ben Franklin, in his delightfully witty Poor Richard's Almanac writes that "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." And, becoming more immersed in English culture, I'm realizing the verity of this claim. However, I would suggest one small yet crucial amendment to his assertion: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy, yet beer is nowhere near as wonderful as cheese." Other than peanut butter and jelly (jam, for the Brits) sandwiches, eating most any type of cheese brings me comfort and happiness in ways that never cease to amaze. To be sure, I don't appreciate all of them: bleu, swiss, gorgonzola, and sometimes parmesan are simply too much for this American palette. Yet, gift me with a slice of cheddar, or colby jack, or brie, or mozzarella on a cracker (Triscuit's roasted garlic, especially, if you were wondering) with a dollop of dijon mustard and, like giving a dog a good back scratch, you've made a friend for life.

Almost needless to say, stumbling upon this shop in Oxford's Covered Market quite literally caused my mouth to drop open, stopping in my tracks in the midst of scurrying shoppers clamoring for the wares of the place, any doubts I had about Divine intervention immediately evaporated:

The first time I stopped by the Oxford Cheese Company, I didn't try, or buy, any of their offererings, for I was struck mute and dumb by its magnificence. However, returning last friday with renewed focus I set out to buy a wedge of brie for a dinner with a few friends. After the coureous cheesier (like chocolatier? What is the name of the profession for one who harvests cheese? A dairyer? A derrier?) selected a wedge well-suited for four diners, forgiving my inability to convert pounds into grams, I asked to try a few samples from the other blocks. The applewood-smoked gouda was absolutely astounding. The chili-laced cheddar was eternally exquisite...and firey! I wanted to stay until I had sampled each chunk (except the aforementioned displeasing flavors) yet also did not want to outstay my welcome, or take the opportunity for delight from others, no doubt lingering in the shadows ogling the blocks, waiting to muster the courage to step into the exposing flourescent light and take part in the mystery that is eating cheese.

That night, we enjoyed our brie, our gouda, with french baguettes, sliced granny smith apples, red and white wine, pieces of nitrite-loaded ham, and Americana folk music, stories, laughs, and smiles. It was a night to remember, mixed with both European and American culture, and we were all better for it, not in the least because of that dairy delight.

Oxford, Constantly Causing Me To List

Today marks my fourtieth day in England which means it's time for the much-anticipated "Things I Miss/ Don't Miss/ Am Neutral About" List! Many things are different over here in the UK, especially the people (instead of saying "That blew my mind" when seeing fireworks the other night, a British friend of mine said "That twisted my melon!" Definitely earned the laughs he got for that one), yet I'd like to take a look at the non-human differences over here. May it first be said that I do miss people from home: family, friends from Glen Ellyn and from IWU, yet don't want to attempt a thorough message for all of them - by the time I finished I'd probably be back in town for Christmas break. So, here's what I've recognized thus far:

Things I Miss:
- Free Printing (each page costs 10 pence, about 16 cents, to print here, which severely reduces the opportunity to create a collage of all my favorite footballers', authors', and friends' faces on my dorm room ceiling)
- My Dad's Mini Cooper (the fact that I see, on average, six a day doesn't assuage this pining - it makes me feel more like Tantalus from Greek mythology, forever reaching for that which he can't grasp. I suppose I could steal one...)
- a Real Kitchen with a Real Dishwasher and People Who Regularly Clean Their Dishes (the kitchen in our dorm fits about three people max, and seems perpetually dirty, despite the select few who find some kind of satisfaction in cleaning dishes. I mean, I'm not bitter...
- My Room at Home (in many ways, it's a small sanctuary for me. This deserves a post sometime soon, too)
- Warren (the name of my road bike at home. He's resting in the garage right now.)
- Fall in the Midwest (being my favorite time of year, it pains me slightly to think that I'm missing the turning of the leaves, the Halloween decorations, the brisk breezes, the unique, Ray Bradburyian atmosphere of the Midwest during this time of year. It's wonderful to be alive during the fall.)
- Free-ish Laundry (I include the "ish" because I know it costs my family money when I do laundry at home. I don't see that cost, though...mua ha ha).

Things I Don't Miss
- Traditional Tea Kettles (despite my penchant for the Antique, I've never come across a per-capita electric tea kettle possession like I have here. What an invention! What a reason to wake up in the morning! Westernized efficiency combined with the leisurely delight of a good cup of peppermint tea. Mm-mm)
- The "Non-Guy Fawkes Day Celebrating" Aspect of American Culture (I went to fireworks the other night for this holiday, which were comparable to those we see on the Fourth of July. To end the event, however, they burn a thirty-foot-tall wooden effigy of Guy Fawkes, to celebrate his capture in the midst of the Gunpowder Plot over four hundred years ago. They burn. An effigy. What?!)
- American Roads (there are many cobblestone streets here, another small delight, and one thing I've noticed about them: the lane markers and street signals all seem hand-painted, each a bit wobbly and more detailed than the mechanized stenciling of the streets in the US. The streets feel a bit more personalized here, and sometimes I choose to walk on the sidewalk for that reason)
- American-style Stress (people seem much less hurried and harried over here, they seem to breathe and laugh easier than back home and, surprisingly, I find that students at Oxford, while they take their academics quite seriously, easily turn from their studies to spend time with friends in pubs or wherever else. They are committed, yet not obsessed. I'm sure there are some out there I haven't yet met, though...)
- My Grizzly Man Beard (this month, I planned to do No-Shave November, an endeavor that ended epically last night after a week and a day of growth. It became too itchy and distracting and was hindering my self-esteem. I felt like a caveman, though perhaps someday I'll try to grow a true Mountain-Man patch. The good news, however, is that if my beard were to have grown for a month at the same pace it did this past week, I'd be able to wear it as a coat after a month, thus saving money on winter clothing.)

Things I am Neutral About
- Good Granola Cereal (as described in a recent post, I found some great granola that comes with dried raspberries and pieces of yoghurt. Yum!)
- Literature (though I love my book collection, I'm not sure Oxford can be beat for reading selection and atmosphere...)
- Guitar (though I could use a capo, a benevolent British friend of mine, seeing my in my guitarless agony, offered to lend me his for the term. A Godsend! Now I'm one step further to fulfilling my dream of becoming an Irish street musician.)
- Cool People (though friends aren't interchangeable, and as I mentioned, I do miss those in the States, I've met some truly wonderful, heartening, and fun people here - another reason I'm glad to be here for the year.)

That's it for now, though I'm sure I'll amend this list as the year goes on and I'm continually more aware of differences between here and there.

Exploring Before Dark at Regent's Park

Last weekend, I visited London with a few friends also studying at Oxford through the same study abroad program (Butler’s IFSA). As it turns out, the train ride from Oxford to London isn’t much of a journey, only about an hour or so and the sun was out, which tends to make everything, well, sunnier. Trains are a wonderful travel, no matter the scenery: they’re quiet, smooth, safe – a good place to talk with others or be quiet and think about whatever it is your mind drifts to when you give it the chance to wander. Trains in the UK, and Europe, are especially great, though that assertion might be partly due to the fact that my basis of comparison is the Metra that travels to and fro Chicago. Oh, Metra, some days I want to curse you, some days I want to give you a hug.

The two friends I was with, Anna and Danielle, arrived in London around 1:00 in the afternoon, with exploring on our mind. Our stomachs weren’t grumbling too loudly, since they both bought bagels from a scrumptious, small sandwich shop (The Alternative Tuck Shop – which will earn itself a post very soon) and I packed trusty comfort food: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a granola bar. My failsafe. My solid rock in the uncertainty of this new land. We made our way to the Tube, our destination the Camden Market in the north of England. Upon arriving there, after a stroll through the borough, I was ready to leave. The area must have possessed the highest concentration of street vendors, of food and t-shirt and questionable paraphernalia, of anywhere on earth, Calcutta included. Sensory overload. Olfactory overload.

After wandering about for a good while, we miraculously found a burrito stand attended by a cheerful, heartwarming Irishman, who made us impeccably fresh and well-balanced (is it presumptuous to assume that you, too, are easily irritated at Chipotle’s probably-intentional disproportionate amount of rice-to-meat?) chicken and steak burritos. Score one for team us! A friend of Danielle’s, Grant, who is studying abroad at King’s College in London, met up with us shortly before our delicious discovery, and vowed to guide us to Regent’s Park as the sun’s descent further approached the horizon.

I had been to Regent’s Park while in London upon first arriving in England, yet only while jogging through, not absorbing the wonderful blending of natural growth and human cultivation of its gardens. The Queen’s Garden was our goal, because of its roses that were slowly dying to the impending winter. When we arrived at the gates, I was worn. Traveling, constantly making logistical decisions, accounting for others’ desires, remembering to keep your wallet in your front pocket, checking your surroundings around every turn, remembering directions, pulling off and donning more layers, working within time constraints, makes me tired pretty quickly. Though it had only been six or seven hours, by the time we arrived at the gates of the Queen’s Garden, I was ready to sit and be still and quiet, to fade into the background for a little while, and watch and listen. And, thankfully, that’s what I got to do.

Look at a few of the flowers I found:


It was good to sit on the park bench there, watching a French couple walking alongside one another, the father pushing a stroller cradling a fleece-swaddled napping baby, seeing a dad chase his toddling son through the garden, them both giggling at one another, hearing Danielle’s and Grant’s conversation drift from the bench a little ways away. There’s something restoring that comes from simply listening, seeing, trying to do no more, and no less. The roses were beautiful, and partly because they weren’t in their prime. Many of them were faded, wilted, calling it quits for the season. Yet there were a few that rewarded the patient explorer, full and vibrant, seeming to take one last stretch in the fading sunlight. I smiled in return.

Not Gonna Lie, This Library is Hip

A smallish study break seems a good idea at this point in the day, after having finished one of the three Shakespeare plays lined up for my tutorial on Friday. I was asked to read Henry IV parts one and deux, as well as Henry V, to then write an essay to discuss. Shakespeare, like Classical music or Spongebob Squarepants, seems an acquired taste, for his plays don't always strike one as profound, enjoyable, or even comprehensible at times, which can be surprising given his enduring popularity. Yet, I'm beginning to move beyond all of the predispositions built up over the years of having heard others talk about him and his works, and feel that I'm starting to experience his works for myself, with the help of others, of course. Oxford seems as good a place as any for that to happen.


A lot of this Shakespeare reading occurs in the St. Catherine's library, usually in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the upper level walls. The architecture at this college is unusually modern given the general look of Oxford, yet it is a neat contrast with the much older buildings. There is a lot of natural light in the library, certainly designed with that in mind (in a Frank Lloyd Wright-esque way, no doubt), and the place is tomb quiet. Probably the most quiet place on campus, other than the chapel. Oh wait - St. Catherine's doesn't have a chapel (from the website: "The College is one of the few undergraduate colleges in Oxford without its own chapel, which adds to the inclusive and diverse feel of the place," a sentence loaded with implications of views on Christianity...). Sometimes when I'm bored, or restless, I wander about looking at all of the incredible literature sections. It's hard not to be wooed by Oxford's libraries, and I've seen some amazing ones already. Pictures to come.

Anyway, I enjoy coming here in the morning after a solid breakfast, especially if the sun is out. Since one wall of windows faces east and the other west, I tend to switch places after lunch if I return to read or write, like a snow buttercup flower. It's a cozy place, with nooks and crannies, and quite conducive to pondering things, or looking out the window, or spying on the librarians, each of which I may or may not participate in on a daily basis. A fun thing that happened the other day at the Catz library:

An 1866 version of Shakespeare's first folio from 1623, found, hiding in a bookshelf corner!

Quirky People Coming Home to Roost

An aspect of Oxford that I’ve grown to love as I’ve noticed it is the quiet quaintness of this place. The stores, the streets, the proximity of places – there are so many nooks to explore and corners to turn, all of which creates a curious and quietly alive atmosphere. Students, no doubt, contribute to this, what does one call it?, quirkiness. I talked with a friend at dinner last night who told me about a friend of his who, when asked his favorite place in the town said the Ashmolean Museum, where he “can spend hours.” A museum! Not a club, not asleep in his bed, not the dining hall. I’ve noticed that students here seem OK with their peculiarities, more so than students in the States. They aren’t self-conscious when they talk about enjoying reading or writing, or going to plays, and they don’t say it in a pretentious, self-satisfied way. Granted, I have talked with a total of ten British students, and am sure that those with pompous tendencies abound, and students here are still students, with their complaints and stresses and uncertainties about themselves and the future. They are still people. Yet, the community encourages quirkiness, curious individuality, and I like that students go about that in quiet ways.

While walking through University Parks a few days ago, I came upon this curious mound of leaves and sticks beneath a few maples:

A human-sized nest, it seemed to me. Immediately curious, I read the sign planted in the ground nearby, explaining that the creation was the art project of a University student learning about birds’ nest-making processes. So what did she do? Made a nest! Why not? I imagine her walking lightly through a nearby forest, tweed bag in hand, listening to the crowing of birds and crinkling of leaves and sticks underfoot, wearing leather boots and black tights and a grey jumper, a very British outfit, eyes open for medium-sized twigs. She probably spent an afternoon searching, and another afternoon building, smiling at incredulous passersby, sometimes explaining herself to the bolder ones who ask her intentions. I imagine she’s worked on projects before and has moved beyond the defensive posture of one feeling ridiculed by others to a quiet confidence in the joy of her endeavor. And I imagine there are many students like that here, who live into the intellectual and creative freedom offered through the tutorial system, possibly realizing that life itself is about that kind of freedom, to pursue joys and questions and others.

I haven’t yet found a good enough word to express the flavor of life here, and will keep searching for a way. For now, quiet-quirkiness will have to suffice.

The Sweet Ride

So, the thought of a study-abroad-life-blog has overwhelmed me a bit over the past two weeks since I last updated. Perhaps it's the amount of reading and writing I do daily at this academic hub, or all of the things I think about during the day that might be worth writing about but also might be a waste of time, or perhaps it's the idea of a blog, of publishing unedited blurbs from my life for anyone to read that makes me feel a bit discouraged. Needless to say, I have an odd aversion to consistently updating others with my life via an online journal. Yet I still want to document things, to take pictures and make lists and explore little wonderings and wanderings.

I was walking around town the other day when a thought hit me, an idea that fits this conundrum and provides me an avenue for expression and documentation and space to write. So, I'll try it for a bit, though not strictly. Taking from Amy Krouse Rosenthal's style, and sticking to my initial desire set in the first post of the trip, I propose to explore small things and ordinary things and lovely things, one or so at a time.

The Sweet Ride
Let's talk about bikes. Let's talk about the joy of living is significantly augmented with the gift of bike. Let's talk about how good it feels to hop on the pedals on a brisk, sunny, breezy fall day, scarf wrapped and helmet buckled (as dad would have it), heading to the park to read and write, on the left side of the road because it's England, on the one-foot-wide green path designated for bikers and encroached upon by bus drivers. Let's talk about how I wandered around Oxford for three hours one afternoon in search of a used bike, to no avail, and eventually settled upon this magical machine after returning to the bike store twice because they prepared the wrong bike for me:
Let's talk about how awesome it is to attach a bungee cord to the package-carrier on the back to hold necessities such as a water bottle and jacket, or small woodland creature. Let's talk about how good it feels to pass someone who doesn't need to be somewhere as badly as you do, so you stand up on the pedals and pump and smile to yourself as you pass them, and imagine yourself sticking a wheel in their spokes to further insult their lack of vigor which makes you laugh to yourself because that's so uncharacteristic of you.

Though this bike isn't nearly as sleek as the hot rod I have at home, it provides swift access to the downtown area of Oxford, rides quietly, smoothly, and confidently. His name is Spencer, and he is a reliable friend in a territory becoming, with his help, more familiar each day.

826? More Like Great26!

Two summers ago, while in Sandwich, Illinois, I came upon a book in a used bookstore after eating a sandwich with a few friends from high school – an annual outing. My heart leapt when the book’s binding registered on the ever-growing wish list in my mind and, as sometimes happens, I sensed a certain providence in the discovery, a sense that I was meant to find that work then and there. A friend of mine recommended Dave Eggers’s achingly sincere, enjoyable, and tragic autobiography A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius some time before the convergence, planting the seed that would prepare my receipt of the book. While an affecting, inspiring, book that reached me on many levels, what is even more interesting is where the book has helped point me.

Researching an author post-read is a healthy activity for any curious reader (right?), and I found myself wanting to know more about Eggers and his life, what he might be up to after releasing such an earnest and noteworthy work, if he was basking in the glow of its success, swimming in pools of gold coins like Scrooge McDuck, or continuing living as an ordinary individual who happens to possess a singular literary talent. Helping start a publishing house, McSweeney’s, that gives ardent, sometimes undistinguished writers a chance at a novel, or inclusion in the quarterly publication, Eggers also began a writing center in San Francisco. His idea was to create a tutoring center in conjunction with the publishing house: with the many talented and encouraging authors loitering around together in a building, why not, in their spare time, extend a pen-ink-stained hand to students in the area? Thus, 826 Valencia was conceived, a child bursting with creative energy the heart to help, quickly wandering to almost every major city in the US, Chicago included.

With the recession in full swing, I knew, this past February, chances were slim that I’d land a lucrative, conveniently scheduled three-month job while home from college on summer break. Living at home has its benefits: free food, my own room, and a bathroom. Oh, and a family that cares for me. Though our well-being does not depend upon my income, thank goodness (that would mean far less used books to buy), I felt a nagging voice in the back of my head: “You need to do something during summer. I know you’re a human being, not a human doing, but that is not an excuse for avoiding involvement.” I knew a bit about 826 Chicago: the storefront, ambiguously called “The Boring Store,” was spy-themed. Plus. It was located in Wicker Park. Plus. It was an 826. Plus. So, with determination and not a little uncertainty, I fashioned a résumé, set up an interview for February 21 and waited.

The interview went semi-awkwardly, on my part, yet they saw something in me, perhaps it was the eagerness with which I answered their inquiries, or the glint in my eye, and I was asked onboard as a summer intern. Right on! Instead of write a “a day in the life of an 826 Chicago summer intern,” I’ll proceed more in the spirit of the community there, by using various objects associated with or belonging to the center to elucidate the experience, with one admonition: to better sense the vibrant and delightful atmosphere there, a visit is necessary. The trip is worth an afternoon.

The Cast-Iron Mechanical Cash Register
Located on Milwaukee Avenue in Wicker Park, the exterior of 826 sports an ostentatious sign signaling “The Boring Store,” with ironically superfluous captions, technical jargon, and product descriptions that mostly say “we don’t take ourselves too seriously.” Inside, one finds oneself amidst rearview sunglasses, posters of international secret intelligence insignias, faux security cameras, and a fake-mustache-trying-on station. The cash register at the clerk desk, at first look, seems rather out of place: a big, cast-iron mechanical register no doubt from the turn of the century. However, after more perusal of the store, you realize what holds everything together, the undercover, antiquated, literary (there is a shelf of McSweeney’s-published works) atmosphere – the playful tongue-in-cheekness of the place and the people. And it works. All of the proceeds, the staff are quick to share, help fund the writing center at 826.

A Sunday Afternoon Hotdog Meal
Walk through a doorway next to the register, and you find yourself in the workshop area of 826, a big, open room that feels like a classroom with splashes of color, humor, and enthusiasm. Staff members and volunteers run creative workshops and drop-in tutoring for first grade through high school students year round, free of charge. During the summer usually two or three workshops are held per day, with such titles as, “Travel the World Through Chocolate,” “Once Upon a Time Again: Using Improv to Create a Fairytale Parody,” and “Mystery Mail: Surprising Serials!” (the latter of which I happened to have taught!).
A requisite of the workshops (volunteers submit proposals) is that students receive a tangible representation of their work afterward, usually a booklet compiling the writings of all the attendees. Every year or so, 826 National, the umbrella organization, accepts submissions from the 826s for an official publication. 826 Chicago recently made a book, A Sunday Afternoon Hotdog Meal, a collection of elementary-aged students’ essays concerning all things Chicago: where one should visit, must-see destinations, and where to find the best Chicago-style hotdogs.

White MacBook Laptops
Pardon the break from the single-object description imposed upon the latter half of this essay, for their was not one MacBook employed within 826, no, generally five to six were up and fashionably running at any given moment. The staff members joked that 826 was a prime spot for a Mac commercial with such a uniform technological and aesthetic preference. However, they are not a superficial bunch. Working long hours, constantly helping one another and walking to the Jewel around the corner for sandwich parts, joking with students to elicit their engagement, and somehow finding the energy for patience and wit – they are a lovely and persevering bunch. Much of the encouraging, spontaneous atmosphere of the place, no doubt the only way to foster creativity, is owed to their heartening personalities, and the students are better for it.

There you have it! The place is great, wonderful even. It’s a place where imaginations are urged to wake up, funny bones tickled by oversized feathers, and hearts are encouraged to feel. And the joy is a contagious thing.

(Note: The picture included is of me (on the right) a few of the interns, and a handful of students after a play-writing workshop. Fun! This piece is also pending publication for the Glen Ellyn Bookstore's online journal.)