Houses and Homes

Right now, I’m sitting on a couch in Oxford in a house that is not mine, sipping black coffee and thinking. I have 4 days before I leave the UK for the last time. I’ve already written a post about how I feel about leaving Oxford, so I won’t rehash that. I want to talk about something a little more specific, namely my house. I call it my house, because although it never really belonged to me, it FELT like mine. It felt like home. And I suppose that’s natural. Aside from on campus housing and my brief spell housesitting, this was the first time I’d really lived on my own, not even having even the option to go home on the weekends or even to call. A dorm room doesn’t feel like home. Neither does a constantly dark apartment whose living room is occupied by your Moroccan suite mate who doesn’t like sharing a room and whose temperature is constantly fluctuating between 50 and 85 degrees.

Something was different about this house, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it was the environment. Aidan has been a constant element in all three, but Katie and Clare, though new additions, were more amiable companions than my suite mates of the past. They were certainly more present than their predecessors were. I think have grown quite accustomed to hearing Clare singing Beyonce and Nicki Minaj songs at the top of her voice and morning talks with Katie after she got back from her run. I’ve gotten attached to our little study nook in the sitting room, to the way the sunlight hits my bed in the morning, to cooking dinner with Brittani, Kalie, and Stephen next door. I’ll never wake up in that bed again, cook on that stove, or read on that couch. Never again will I bump over that pot that held the loose board to the fence, never again will I smell the fresh rosemary growing by the door as I fumble for my keys. And for some reason I don't quite understand, these realizations sadden me.

The house had it’s problems. The lock stuck, the shower leaked, the boiler was finicky, and the internet was inconsistent at best. But I loved it despite these imperfections, or maybe because of them. This is the first place I ever had Thanksgiving away from home, the first place I ever roasted a chicken or turkey, or baked a pie on my own. I miss already the noises and smells and sounds that accompanied my daily routines, and it felt very strange when I had to retrieve my luggage from my room. All the dishes and food and linens and appliances and other things were all packed up in boxes that lined the wall by the doorway, and the place felt very different. It seemed as though the place had never been lived in at all. It was. . . dead. Deserted. I felt like I was standing in a tomb, not the place I had made my home these past 6 months. I didn’t like the feeling. I still don’t. Soon I’ll be back in the house I grew up in, and it strikes me how much people like me like to create a false sense of permanence about things like this, whether it’s about people, homes, school, jobs, cities, or whatever other thing you can think of to fill in the blank. When we find something we care about, we can’t stand the idea of losing it; can’t stand the idea of it no longer being there in our lives. Growing up in Newnan, it felt like life there would last forever. High school on the first day felt like it would be much longer than the short 4 years it turned out to be. Already I feel like my time at Mercer has flown by, and my hiatus in England is already gone. Nothing in my life, not even me stays the same for long. It’s a scary thought. Maybe that’s why people like for me look so desperately for permanence. We aren’t afraid of eternity or the permanent, we’re afraid of the idea that everything will continue with us and pack us up in boxes like a bunch of old dishes, put us in the ground, and forget about us. People can go crazy thinking about it for too long.

What a Difference 4 Months Make

So I’m sitting on a plane from Geneva to London at the butt-crack of dawn, exhausted, broke, probably smelly, and very content. How do I describe the myriad of experiences I’ve enjoyed and lessons I’ve learned from my trip to Europe? I don’t just mean my trip to the continent, either, I mean over this whole semester abroad. Since I’ve left the States, I’ve done thousands of things that I’d never done before: I’ve climbed mountains in 5 different countries, I’ve explored castles, cathedrals, alleys, closes, lochs, mountain trails, country roads, and underground crypts and passages, I’ve tried local beer from 7 different nations, I’ve seen plays at the globe and Stratford, I’ve wandered through strange cities, and gotten utterly and wonderfully lost. I’ve roasted and carved turkeys and chickens, planned my first Thanksgiving feast, tried foods, wines, beers, and bread I’ve never heard of, and I’ve laughed with, cried with, eaten with, and lived with so many new people. I’ve paid homage to some of my academic and literary idols, visiting their homes, their colleges, their old haunts and pubs, and even their graves.

I cannot begin to convey how all these things have affected me. How can I describe St. Patrick’s Cathedral or the Alhambra? How can I explain the serenity, the peace, or the spiritual weight I felt there? How can I express how learning at the feet of scholars like Francis Warner, Barry Webb, or Julia Cresswell has so fundamentally changed my studies, my reading, my thoughts and my writing? How can I put to words the majesty, the grandeur, the magnificence of the heaven-shaped landscapes that I’ve seen since coming here? I’ve seen the cliffs of Moher’s staggering peaks, the snow-crowned Swiss Alps, the view from Arthur’s Seat, the tranquil depths of Loch Ness, the clear bay of Le Leman lit up with the lights of the city, and countless other wonders that my weak words cannot ever capture. How can I put to words the incredible sense of awe, humility, and smallness that those sights have inspired in me? How can I tell you what it feels like to watch the sun set in Grenada and to drive up to the city, lit like a sea of little candles leading up to the Alhambra? Or what it’s like to see the streets of London or Geneva gleam like a giant Christmas ornament against the night sky? How can I capture the sensation of sprinting up a mountain with old and new friends, heart and adrenaline pounding, then surveying the sprawling city beneath you, with the wind crying in the night, tearing at you face in a violent gale that might knock you clean off the mountain? How can I put on paper what it feels like to wake up seeing the sun rise over Edinburgh Castle, perched on the rocks like an eagle?

It seems almost hopeless to even try to capture on paper the things I’ve done, seen, tasted, smelled, climbed, explored, felt, discovered, or learned in the course of four short months. A list can’t capture the nutty hale taste of Spanish coffee, the deliciously pungent tingle of French wine, the sharp bite of an Irish wind, the gentle kiss of Scottish rain. I can’t do justice to the tastes: the salty, crisp of Irish potatoes, the warm oil and butter of Italian bread, the sweet sharpness of a Spanish pomegranate, the light creamy delight of English scones with clotted cream, or the smokey, sweet burn of Scottish whisky. I can’t explain the simple comfort I get from a cup of tea while listening to a soft Irish rain, or from the dull glowing laugher shared by friends around a bottle of Spanish red wine. I cannot explain the feeling of power, of excitement, of accomplishment I felt sitting at the top of mount Holyhead, the Alps, or Arthur’s seat so high above the world, then running, racing, sliding, tumbling down at breakneck speed. Words on a page cannot convey the myriad of purples, gold, reds, and pinks that the Spanish sunset paints on the clouds, the sparkle of lights that line ripples of the Thames, or the staggering lushness that fills the deep green of the British and Irish countryside.

I’ve tried to express it. I’ve tried and I’ve failed. For 2 pages and 3 previous drafts I’ve attempted to put my experience to words, but to no avail. Maybe that’s why I had trouble keeping up with my blogging and writing while I’ve been here. Maybe I knew how short my attempts would fall. But I can tell you one thing that this ordeal has done to me. As much as I’ve seen, tasted, experienced, and done, I know that this was only the briefest of glimpses into the sprawling wonder of the world. As much as I’ve done over these short months, I know there is infinitely more out in the wide world that I haven’t done yet, and even more that I may never do. I want to drink deeply from this cup until I burst, to savor every taste of this wild, precious, and brief life that I can. Brittani told me before we arrived that I would get the travel bug. That’s only half true. I’ve got the life bug. I want to learn, read, write, taste, create, experience, love, laugh, and discover until the day I die, whether it happens in a small town in Georgia or in the streets of Europe. I am a learner, a writer, a reader, a wanderer, and a questioner. To then end of my days I will always be so. Learning that by itself would have been worth the trip.

Leaving My Heart in the City of Dreaming Spires

I am sitting at my kitchen table in my house at oxford for the last time, wishing a great number of things. I wish that I had worked more on this blog, that I had managed my time better at Oxford, that I had gotten more involved with student life here, that I had gotten more involved at church, that I had been to more of the museums and plays and concerts, that I had saved more money for my trip, that I had read more, that I had spent more time on my papers, that I gotten Liverpool tickets, that I had done countless other things here, but they all really boil down to one regret: I wish that I was coming back for next semester. I understand that is something that I couldn't do from the get go, but it doesn't lessen the blow of having to return to America. My friend Sarah said yesterday that she was just now remembering what we were retuning to and she was not necessarily looking forward to: "I forgot how ugly everything is in America! And everyone's so fat!"

I don't know that I agree with her on the whole. I don't think America is all necessarily ugly, and it certainly has its positives. I have missed several things: netflix, water fountains, family, friends, biscuits, pancakes, and several other things. At the same time, I feel a lot like all those fictional characters who stumble into another world like Narnia or Albion, finding their own world falling short of this vibrant new one that they must now leave. It will be good to go home and see everyone for christmas, but I am leaving a piece of my heart here in City of Dreaming Spires. I will miss several things here too. Goodbye pubs and pub food, local English beer, and watching the matches with Simon. Goodbye Oxford libraries, the tutorial system, the Warners, and both of my wonderful tutors. Goodbye Eagle and Child, Folly Bridge Inn, and the White Horse. Good bye pound land, primark, British public transportation, free museums, and George and Danvers. Good bye cathedrals, meadows, and all the beautiful architecture that will no longer adorn my walks to class. I hope to return to you someday. Meanwhile, it's off to London, Spain, and Switzerland before my final journey home.