Cheesy as it sounds, my relationship with Oxford - and perhaps England, or the British Isles (to include Ireland here) more generally - really is best characterized as a romance. Yes, I lived there in the flesh for a good nine months, “suffering” through the most work-intensive period of my life up till that point, so I should have no illusions of its idyllic-ness, should be acquainted with its flaws, should at minimum have come to know and accept that it is a real place with real-place-imperfections and challenges. But there is no denying the rosy tint that my mind’s eye sees it in, still, no denying the truth that even when I’m actually there, soaked to the skin in its erratic rain, feet soiled from trudging through its mud, tripping over its uneven ancient cobblestones, I am happy.

Before I arrived this time around, I did wonder if I would have a different response to it, did wonder if it was just a one-time experience, did wonder if I would find that the spell had dissipated, passed its one-year expiry date. On the flight(s) over, I felt so distant from it, felt like the year before was a complete other life that I’d stepped out of. I felt like I was fighting my way back to the UK, that I had all this crud from the past year that I needed to shed off, that I was shedding off, in flight. Like I was reuniting with someone that I’d fancied and had fancied me back in the past, and finding out if we would hit it off again, if we could work something out. All I can say now is meeting met, romance rekindled, there is nothing I can do about it, I don’t quite understand it myself, it completely defeats my no-nonsense-minimal-drama sensibilities, bring on the rain and British clouds, I am helplessly in love.

Even more telling: I am completely unable to give a satisfactory response to the simple question, “How was your trip/Oxford/the UK?” I just start gushing stupidly, entirely incomprehensible as I ramble on and on in stock phrases like “it was amazing/awesome,”  that don’t actually help the listener to picture what Oxford is like at all, nor what my friends there are like. 

So here’s my attempt to be somewhat coherent. 

I’ll start with Port Meadow, one of my favorite places in the world. I don’t think I’ll soon forget picnicking there with Tom and Daisy on one of my last days in Oxford last year, watching the horses and cows and sheep and geese across the river from us. Walking there with Daisy and Tom again this time, after a good meal and catch-up at the Royal Oak, was such a blessing. 

There was the garden play we caught, Oscar Wilde’s “The Importance of Being Ernest,” so typically Oxfordian in its setting and character. I remember sitting there and just marveling at the fact that we most definitely are back, watching a play in a courtyard just off the busy St. Giles road that’s magically quiet just by virtue of being within college walls, with the college Master sitting by his window, snapping photos. We also saw the improv group the Oxford Imps at the Wheatsheaf pub, and the press preview of the production that a bunch of our friends are involved with, Tamburlane - student performances, student-run, all incredibly professional. Always so much to see and do in Oxford. 

There was the adventure to Churchill’s grave and Blenheim Palace that Sam spontaneously took us on, with music and a picnic feast in his boot! We sang Taverner’s “If Ye Love Me” to Churchill, jumped on the little train, conquered the second largest hedge maze in the world, visited the Palace’s state rooms, walked through the rose gardens - brilliant on all counts. 

Of course, there was dear old Pembroke College. We attend and sang with the Chapel Choir for CU Chapel Service, we cheered for W1 in the Summer Eights rowing competition and watched them bump Wadham RIGHT IN FRONT OF US as we stood in the gut of the river, we chatted with the porters, we had formal hall in the newly renovated Forte Room, we ate ourselves silly with sandwiches and summer berries at the Garden Party - Pembroke pride, alive and well. 

But most importantly, we hung out with these guys (and many others not pictured, of course!):

We talked, we watched youtube videos (or watched the boys play Tony Hawk’s…), we giggled and laughed till odd hours, our hosts had a barbecue and nearly all the Pembroke second years came out, we had lunch with Maria in Christ Church meadows (and then lay out in the sun on the grass for 3 hours), we sat for hours on a bench chatting with Ed in Lincoln, I had long meals and walks and talks with Singaporean buddies… It was magnificent. The kind of magnificent that leaves you in grateful disbelief, at the wonderful people you’ve gotten to know, at the strength and depth of your friendships. People whom you enjoy and trust, who feel the same towards you, and with whom it seems so easy to pick up again with, no matter the time you’ve spent apart or the different places you’ve been in. 

So friends, and Oxford - again, I will see you later. How much later, I don’t know - might be a year or two, may be much, much more (especially given current finances) - but I don’t think I can stay away forever!

Goodbye, only for now.