Brain Crush

V. Woolf’s my home girl. No, seriously, I am completely and intellectually infatuated with Virginia Woolf thanks to the course I’ve taken on her this semester. I love her so much that I’m writing this blog entry out of sync. I’d previously planned an entry about my weekend trip to Paris. Paris can wait, but V. Woolf can’t. However, my affection didn’t start out quite as rosy. Actually, I had planned on taking a creative writing class and felt slightly perturbed that I was, as far as I could tell, arbitrarily placed in some course about Virginia Woolf. Before this semester I’d never read anything by Woolf and hadn’t really intended to ever look into any of her works. Don’t get me wrong; I didn’t have anything against her. Rather I felt overwhelmingly and apathetically unaware since at that point I had only a vague and shaky sense of her literary career and infamous suicide. Once the semester got underway I can safely say that all of my initial ill-informed biases quickly changed.



It probably didn’t hurt that my V. Woolf class is my smallest, clocking in at eight people, and that’s including my tutor and myself. At first the size intimidated the other students and me because with a class that small there’s essentially no leeway for slacking. You do your reading all the time. Or ELSE. Avoiding eye contact and bullshitting don’t really work in tiny classes. (Not that I intentionally avoid reading, but in the event of paper week pile-up or a weekend trip to Paris reading inevitably becomes second priority when you’ve got four essays to churn out or a plane to catch.) But we swiftly surpassed our preliminary trepidation and learned to embrace the intimacy a small class affords. Plus, my tutor, Claire, who is most definitely one of the nicest and most understanding teachers I’ve ever encountered, considerately structured the class to minimize paper week stress and to introduce us the style of Woolf’s writing in the most efficient and rewarding way possible through a perfect synthesis of biographical lecture, group work and class discussion. But anyway, back to Woolf. Her writing isn’t really something you can automatically jump straight into and reasonably expect to understand or appreciate. Woolf has a radical and idiosyncratic rhythm that can seem alternatively mind-bogglingly enlightening or infuriatingly abstract. She’s a writer worth sticking out the difficulties for because the eventual reward feels immensely gratifying. So, while I enjoyed Jacob’s Room, I don’t think I quite hit my stride until about halfway through A Room of One’s Own.



I started writing this entry droning on about all the facts I learned about Virginia Woolf and her writing style and I had a good three paragraphs before I stopped and realized two things: first, I remembered I’m writing a travel/culture blog and not an analytical paper; second, and most importantly, endless —read: pointless— facts violate the very core of Woolf’s essential purpose and style. One of the key things we learned about Woolf was her disdain for ceaselessly layering on details under the guise of realism. She sharply criticized such traditional conceptions of realism because she insisted that the external, material facts and physicalities of a person can’t adequately convey the depth and richness of inner reality. Consequently, Woolf intended through her writing to break down the self-imposed walls of Edwardian literature to strip away and expose the previously abandoned psychological self. She stood for and embraced innovation and modernity as a means to re-work character and form. Or, as she prophetically urged in her own words, for the “smashing and crashing” to begin*. And she succeeds in her novels, to varying degrees, all of which are lyrically and immaculately written experiments ranging from the abstract to the even more abstract-- from a musically composed ‘playpoem’ (The Waves) to an irreverent romp of a mock biography (Orlando). Woolf admitted that she couldn’t offer any clear and easy solution to the problem of accurately expressing reality and the essence of a person, but her attempts are groundbreaking exercises that undoubtedly expand and elevate writing and thinking.



One thing that surprised me most was her exceptionally timed and subtly honed wit. Sure, the underlying message in some, but not all, of her works appears dishearteningly bleak, yet instances of her lively, marvelous mind are indisputably present. It seems the unfortunate fact of her suicide has her painted, at least in my previously ignorant mind, as a dreary figure of literary significance. She’s no Debbie Downer. Actually, Woolf is frequently and cunningly funny. Yeah, she had patchy mental health, but that wasn’t necessarily all or even the lynchpin of her personality. Hence my retrospective hesitation in summing her up in three paragraphs. Additionally, Woolf has many more complex and intriguing ideas I haven’t even addressed, specifically on the topics of feminism and androgyny, I might add. Ultimately, though, reading her own words provides a more fruitful expression of Woolf than any unjust summary I could try to offer. These may not be solid, satisfying facts to wrap your hands about or sink your teeth into, but they’re why I love Virginia Woolf.



As a part of ASE, my class had a study trip where we journeyed around Sussex to see Charleston Farmhouse (her sister Vanessa’s home), Berwick church (a church painted by Vanessa and Duncan Grant), Monk’s House (Virginia’s home and grave site) and the River Ouse (on a slightly morbid note…). Not every class has an accompanying study trip, but lucky me had one for each of my classes—that’s what four lit courses gets you. Each of the previous study trips had proved to be educational and enjoyable outings, but none of them measure up to the Woolf study trip. I adored every single minute and infinitesimal aspect of the trip, although Charleston Farmhouse remains my absolute favorite. By my favorite, I’m not just talking in terms of the study trip; it’s assuredly my favorite thing I’ve seen on the entire program and quite possibly one of the most phenomenal places I’ve ever been. Charleston may appear like a regular old country house, but the detail and the history behind it astounds me. Many museums feel icily removed with stark, detached displays and impersonal exhibits, but Charleston thankfully evades a clinical atmosphere. Instead, it is alive in the fullest sense of the word. A real sense of life, a life that breathes art, inhaling and exhaling a constant stream of beauty long after the owners departed and the preservationists arrived. A round dinner table selected for egalitarian purposes to ensure no one person dominated the room; lively patterned walls, hand painted by Vanessa and full of affectionately slapdash patterning errors and accidental paint drips; a lavishly decorated door whose missing panel took forty years to replace after a war reenactment by Vanessa’s sons. Charleston feels so refreshingly animated that you half-expect to turn around and see V.Woolf sitting in an armchair talking, reading or perhaps writing. Gloriously tactile and begging to be touched, personally designed textiles, paintings and ceramics sumptuously adorn every last surface of the house, remnants of the artistic and intellectual lives that resided there permanently, and others that transiently moved in and out. A loveable bohemian cacophony full of headspinningly interconnected relationships and associations, Charleston embodies an inviting blend of creative domesticity. Visiting Charleston, and the other locations, provided an eerie context to imagine and forge the fragments of Woolf’s doubtlessly complex and nuanced life.

Side Note: Here's a link to the only surviving recording of Virginia Woolf's voice. She has, according to Claire, the "plummiest" accent. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8czs8v6PuI

*From Woolf's essay, "Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown"
** Sadly I have no pictures of the interior of Charleston since photography is prohibited. I picked up a few postcards with interior shots, but I won't have access to a scanner until I get back to the States...

Sick Break

Illness. It’s inadvisable. But unfortunately inevitable, especially while studying abroad. I remember how during one of the mandatory information sessions with the study abroad office, students related past health mishaps while the study abroad office parentally warned us that we would get sick. At the time I shrugged it off, figuring that getting sick, although always a possibility, was just a tool for the study abroad office to scare us into getting all of our health insurance information straight before departure. More or less, I’m usually a pretty healthy person. Generally speaking, I tend to go a relatively along time between illnesses, not counting the occasional mucous-y sinus headache in the spring, but when I do get sick, I get very sick. (Shudder back to mono memories from senior year in high school.) But, given my fairly healthy track record and well-established practices of not eating and drinking after others and consciously avoiding infected people, still, I didn’t worry too much when I heard second-hand about escalating rates of ill-health among ASE students. Practically everyone on the program was on his or her deathbed. And Wednesday at Oxford when I woke up and my throat felt like sandpaper on fire all I could think—hysterically—was ‘NOT OKAY’, along with a few other unmentionable phrases. Getting sick at home is one thing, but getting sick abroad is another. I did not have time for this nonsense, especially with spring break coming up in two days. What timing, immune system.

I’d safely say that I’ve never gone so far out of my way to intentionally prevent oncoming ill health. I mean, I don’t recklessly welcome sickness or anything, but when I’ve planned the most epic (for lack of a better word) spring break, getting sick is just not an acceptable option. And I was not going to spend my spring break in a hostel in bed. Subsequently, I spent my last day in Oxford in lock-down mode. So much for the Bodleian Library tour. I made a quick dash to Boots to pick up mouthwash, cough drops and nasal spray, and I swiped a handful of salt packets from a McDonald’s on the way back to Univ for some intensive salt-water gargling. I drank hot tea with honey constantly and ate a can of chicken and rice soup in addition to several oranges for a hasty spike in vitamin C. And I took longer naps than usual. But to no avail, sickness had definitely set in at the worst possible time, of course. My throat felt increasingly drainy and disgusting and my tonsils looked grotesquely enormous. Two days of preventative measures couldn’t cure allergies and a bit of bacteria. At that point, sick, I mean, spring break looked pretty bleak. The increasing prospect of ‘taking it easy’ in Amsterdam didn’t really fit in with my planned agenda.

Public transportation in and of itself operates as about effectively as a soggy bathing suit but mismanaged mass transit is even harder to swallow when, well, you can’t actually swallow. Overeager for break, we cautiously arrived to London Gatwick four hours early. After we checked in, we found out that our flight was delayed for two hours. Kill me now. Everyone around me irritated me beyond belief but I suppose that was exacerbated by the throbbing pain in my throat. British accents didn’t seem so charming at this point. I just wanted to get on the plane, land in Amsterdam and get a good night’s sleep (ha) in my hostel. Fortunately, the plane ride went smoothly and quickly and we arrived in Amsterdam around eight p.m. Things from there, however, did not run quite so seamlessly. My friend Adrienne, who had booked the hostel also found directions ahead of time. We each bought metro tickets to take to the Central Station where we would catch a bus to our hostel, which seemed easy enough. A train was pulling up as we clumsily made our way down the stairs with our luggage and Adrienne, beyond ready for some rest jumped straight on it. Stephanie, Jen and I were less inclined to hop blindly on a train without double-checking it was the right one since we didn’t feel like dealing with boarding the incorrect train. So in the span of roughly two minutes we argued back and forth over whether she should get off or we should get on. Just about the time she realized that the rest of us weren’t in fact boarding the train, the doors closed.

I’d like to say at this point things worked out effortlessly. But not so much. I was the only one with a phone, which was not even working at the time, thanks a bunch, Verizon, so we couldn’t contact each other. The only partially positive aspect about the separation was that out of the four of us, Adrienne actually knew where she was supposed go. So the three of us cluelessly traced the metro map. Thankfully, according to the garbled diagram, Adrienne had in fact gotten on the right train so we simply waited ten minutes to board the next one. We reached a state of blissful relaxation until we realized that somehow, even though we boarded the EXACT SAME train, it specifically and inexplicably omitted our stop. Moral of the story? Never trust metro maps. We collectively opted to get off a stop earlier and we wandered until we found a tram stop—and at this point I’m going to gloss over the details--because suffice to say it, we took a number of unnecessary trams and asininely wound our way all through the city until we exhaustedly gave up, or rather in, and took a cab. Whereupon we finally, finally made it to our hostel.

Again, I’d like to say things get easier from here. We fully expected to arrive and find Adrienne waiting in the lobby for us, annoyed that we didn’t board the same train. She wasn’t there. And we got worried. Unsure what to do, we decided to go ahead and check into our room. However, the desk clerk informed us that since a member of our party was missing, he needed a piece of collateral (i.e., someone’s passport) to break up the reservation so we could access our room. Did I mention that things are a million times more aggravating when you already feel sick and tired? I pretty much wanted to kill this guy. Or just fall asleep. Since Jen and Stephanie both hesitated about forfeiting their passports and I was in some sort of drunkenly sleepy-sick stupor, I slapped mine on the desk and demanded my room key. I’m not sure if that was a good or safe decision, but at that point I honestly didn’t care. We silently climbed the stairs to our room, simultaneously worried out of our minds about Adrienne yet too exhausted to really care about anything in particular. The room, as far as hostels go, was extremely nice and clean, but the prospect of having to first make my bed before I could collapse into it at this point seemed melodramatically heart-wrenching. Just about the time we finished making our beds and had settled in to figuring out how we might track down Adrienne, she calmly strolled into the room with cursory greetings, quickly followed by nervously confirming we hadn’t called her parents. Actually, the thought hadn’t even occurred to us… Now that everybody was in place, I fell into my bed (around one in the morning after taking a Benadryl). That’s not really an obscene hour unless you’re sick. So much for a full night’s restorative sleep.

We all slept fairly late into the next morning. When I woke up, I felt about the same health-wise, but I could barely speak. Undaunted and refreshed by fragmentary sleep, however, I temporarily cured my throat with a cup of tea and ventured out into Amsterdam anyway. Surprisingly, being sick at this point didn’t really matter, once I hit the streets, I could ignore my hoarse throat and draining sinuses. The excitement of actually, really, truly being in Amsterdam, which is an excruciatingly beautiful city and curious mix between sleaze and suave, took over. Amsterdam a heartbreakingly gorgeous city, down to the artistic tile sandwiched between the doorways and abundance of thriving plants that drip down the sides of houses. If you’re ever in Amsterdam and you have the chance, take a paddleboat. We took one by chance on our last day, and it was undoubtedly the best way to experience Amsterdam. Navigating your way down the canal makes you really feel inside the city; vibrant and alive, and you really notice every idiosyncratic, curious Amsterdam detail. During the course of our trip, my brain disconnected from the physical discomfort of my body and went into magical spring break adrenaline mode. I might be sick, but at least I was sick in Amsterdam. The first few days in terms of health were terrible, but I don’t remember them so, we saw so much and covered so much ground that I barely recall feeling sick, and by the time we made it to Hamburg, my health had improved to a simple runny nose. Travel is odd in that sense-- it can be miserable when you feel miserable and it alone can even make you feel miserable, but once you have a great experience, all the headaches are undoubtedly worth it. Sick break my ass, ill health or not, this was by far the best spring break I’ve ever had.

I'm an Oxford (Wo)man

Part of the appeal of ASE is its built-in excursions. Several other programs situate the students in their home location but exclude outside travel. With my program, however, I get a steady succession of program day trips and class study trips along with—get this—a week at Oxford. While at Oxford classes meet normally, but instead of residing in Bath, we live in student dorms and get an imaginary taste of life in Oxford. And I love it. Oxford, commonly thought of as a single university, is really just a collection of loosely connected colleges dispersed throughout the city. Specifically, I’m staying at University College, or ‘Univ’. The second I arrived at the main quad in Univ, I instantaneously felt an overwhelming sense that I’d been here before. No really, I had been here before. Not just a wistful case of déjà vu, back when I went London around age fifteen with some relatives, we took a day excursion to Oxford, and I visited Univ. Well, not visited, exactly. We (unwittingly) poked our heads through the main door of Univ, while touring the city, but the porter swiftly informed us that unaffiliated visitors aren’t allowed to walk through the main quad. Roughly six years later, I’m now spending a week inside Univ. Irony, serendipity, call it what you will, it’s a fabulous twist of fate.

According to the ASE staff, they assigned rooms at random, so some students ended up in shoeboxes and others in palaces. One room, not mine, unfortunately, even has a grand piano. Personally, I fared pretty well with the random room lottery. During my stay, I lived in staircase four, room five on the main quad right next to the Porter’s Lodge. Upon arrival, several ASE staff members likened the layout of the ‘staircases’ to Alice in Wonderland because of the numerous series of doorways that lead to a labyrinthine web of either sparsely or enigmatically marked doors, hallways and stairs. Consequently, people always seem to be unexpectedly disappearing and reappearing at any given moment around the innumerable odd curves and turns of Univ. You literally never know who’s going to pop around the corner. The main quad has seven staircases and adjoins to a smaller quad with four. My room is at once confusingly extravagant and ramshackle. I have a roommate, although we both have separate beds connected by a common area. If I had to guess my bedroom is roughly three-quarters the size of my entire dorm room from last semester and the common room is equal to about a dorm room and a half. My room came equipped with a towel, a small toiletry set, a cabinet with clothes hangers, a sink and a mirror, two end tables, a bookshelf and a desk with an enormous rolling chair. The common room has a functioning mini fridge, table, chairs, phone, two window seats overlooking the quad and an electric kettle with a basket of tea and instant coffee. Did I mention we get maid service everyday? This isn’t a dorm room; this is a hotel.

However, the details are a bit rough around the edges. The walls are badly chipped with several serious cracks snaking up the sides of the ceiling along with two minimally sized holes, yet the damage only further imbues endearing charm to the place. Plus, Univ boasts that it’s the oldest college at Oxford, founded in 1249, so I can’t expect the entire place to be in tip-top shape. It’s a relic. Furthermore, in terms of safety, Univ’s fully covered. Porters guard the main entrance with judicious care, and they also hang on to spare keys for each room should any student get accidentally locked out (which may or may not have already happened). The rest of the doors require codes. There’s a code for all external doors, a code for all internal doors, a code for the common room and a code for the classroom. The numbers selected for each code are, amusingly enough, mildly strategic. I’d explain further, but then I’d have to kill you. Really. No, seriously, Oxford honour. Just make sure you don’t step on the grass, that’s the biggest faux pas of all. Apparently, they take great and dignified pains to keep the lawns perfectly green and well-manicured at Univ. These aren’t American quads to loiter aimlessly about on; this is Oxford, after all.

The city of Oxford, to put it quite concisely, is wonderfulfabulousposhinterestinggorgeousawesome. In a way, it feels like the illicit love child of London and Bath with a heavy dash of mythology. Everything in Oxford occupies a grand scale. The breathtakingly intricate architecture towers massively over the inhabitants in a daunting yet awe-inspiring way. Living in Oxford feels sort of like living in one giant, cavernous library. I feel smarter already. Regardless of the ancient atmosphere, Oxford possesses all the amenities of a modern city. Good shopping (my wallet can cry to you about that), good food (ditto to my stomach) and good entertainment (uh, well, no crying here). The market in Oxford is the best I’ve encountered by far in terms of quality and variety of shops. For instance, it offers, among other things, fancy milkshakes, lobsters and high-end jewelry. I love the Guildhall market back in Bath, but I can’t say it’s quite as posh or diverse. But my absolute favorite stop was Patisserie Valerie. Relatively new to Oxford, the patisserie has established branches all over England, but I’ve heard that the Oxford location is actually haunted. Personally—and luckily for me—I didn’t encounter any supernatural forces, but the mind-blowing pastries tasted entirely unearthly. Yeah, I know, I always go on about food, but I think I tend to remember my trips by what I ate, and that raspberry tart is seared into my memory.

An eye-popping shade of electric neon ruby red, it didn’t just call to me from the pastry case window, it practically screamed and beat me over the head. Obviously I bought one. Let me tell you, it was the best decision I have ever made. Piled high with jeweled berries so ripe they’re about to explode, the tart housed a hidden layer of rich cream in a flaky pastry shell coated with an almost indiscernible layer of chocolate. It basically glided as voluptuously smooth as silk velvet in my mouth. I’d vouch that it’s definitely one of the best things I’ve eaten on this trip. Paris is going to have to bring it as far as I’m concerned. Of course I promptly bought one the next morning and paired it with coconut hot chocolate that tasted like a melted Almond Joy in a cup from a nearby coffee stand. So much for the free breakfast Univ provided. But it was worth it. That goes double for the Habana cake I split four ways with my friends on the last day. Covered in rich cream, chocolate mousse and startlingly fresh fruit, the chocolate cake unexpectedly included frothy layers of fruit-filled whipped cream. I’d confidently say that cake was probably the second best decision of my life. During the course of my trip, any time I feel like I need to justify my actions I simply remind myself that I won’t be in England forever, so I should indulge in a little excess while I’m here. Essentially, this program is a four-month academically-minded vacation, right? I have plenty of time for sad Starbucks pastries once I return, if I can even afford those, but I’m only abroad for a (sadly) limited period of time.

Honestly, though, I’m not quite sure which was my favorite moment at Oxford. Re-visiting the architecturally stunning Christ Church reminded me of how insane it is to think that some people actually attend school in such a historically and literarily significant place. UMW, I think you should take a few tips from Christ Church… Also, punting down the River Cherwell created the ultimate idyllic image of Oxford: atmospheric willows strummed by the gentle breeze and ducks floating complacently down the river while picnickers and readers peacefully sat along side the bank, all unified by the magically medieval skyline of Oxford. Plus, colliding into a boat full of Italians unabashedly singing along to an opera playing on their portable radio pretty much made the outing for me at least. Although, I suspect I enjoyed punting much more than the boat that got lost for four hours. Additionally, I highly recommend a visit to the Botanic Gardens. Part of the gardens was closed for renovation and expansion, much to a friend’s disappointment (she had wanted to see the bench Philip Pullman references in Golden Compass), but the grounds open were still incredibly lovely. In particular, the collection of greenhouses, all lusciously dripping cascades of exotic greenery, featured an impressive assortment of different themes. Personally I’d have to say the fruit room, which smelled like sugary sweet bubblegum and the carnivorous room, which featured a terrifying array of threatening plants, were my definite favorites. Furthermore, observing the exact same plate as Claudia, the protagonist of Moon Tiger (from my Mementoes class) at the Ashmolean Museum induced an ultimate geek moment. But that’s hardly surprising since Oxford is the city of intertextuality. There are at least ten famous literary references on each street corner. In fact, did I mention Percy Bysshe Shelley briefly attended Univ before he was kicked out? Bad move, Univ. While I suppose I technically count as a world traveler now, I by no means feel like an expert traveler, so I feel a little contentious when I claim this, but Oxford really seems like the greatest city in the world, or at least in the top five, anyway. I want to stay here forever. Grad school?