Oxford: the now semi-annual pilgrimage

"I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all. . . like an opera." William Butler Yeats said this about Oxford, and I am inclined to agree. Well, maybe not about the singing part. It was raining pretty hard, and no one except Fred Astaire actually sings in the rain.  Oxford has been my English home-away-from-home since I studied abroad there the summer after my freshman year at St. Bonaventure,  so of course I had to make a trip farther afield to visit the old stomping grounds.

I didn't take this photo, but isn't it cool? 

Getting to Oxford from London is quite easy: just hop the misleadingly-named Oxford Tube bus from Victoria station, settle in for an hour and a half, and it drops you right off at the high street. Simple! No trip to Oxford would be complete without a stop at the Eagle and Child, a delightfully cozy little pub where J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and the rest of "The Inklings" are said to have discussed their writing over a pint back in the day. It was also a favorite hangout of ours when I studied at Somerville, so a visit to Oxford would not have been complete without it. Not to mention, they have a pretty excellent selection of house cask ales and seasonal brews to accompany their rib-warming pies and entrees. Shepherd's pie with a nice pint of bitter on a cold, rainy afternoon? Yes, please!

okay, I didn't take this either. Still, eye candy! 

After lunch, we took a meandering stroll through the winding streets of  the city, taking in the breathtaking architecture of the 38 colleges that make up Oxford University. The soaring towers, flying buttresses (I love that word), ornate scaffolding and grimacing gargoyles all make for some quality oggling, even if it is a bit misty. That's the thing about Oxford: its uneven cobblestone streets, cramped alleyways and hidey-hole pubs are comfortable and welcoming, even amidst all the pomp and circumstance of Trinity College, King's College, the Bodleian Library and other shi-shi institutions. Sure, you can find your share of stuffy-looking professors and snobby students bundled in pretentious college-colors scarves, but the occupants are decidedly more relaxed than Londoners: you won't find the uptight fashionistas in stilettos stumbling along the stones, nor the frenetic atmosphere for which Central London is known. No, the pace of Oxford is slower, more stately, and infinitely more welcoming than the nearby metropolis.

The blackboard lists the cask ales and selections of the season 

My compatriot and travel companion decided Oxford would make a great place for a haircut, so I sat and read British Cosmo in a salon for a bit while she got her locks chopped. We also stopped in a sporting goods store so she could buy a basketball. Not exactly your typical tourist activities, but we're not what you would call typical tourists. Once we got tired of wandering around (and thirsty for another pint), we ducked into Turf Tavern, tucked away down a winding alley under the Bridge of Sighs. They have an excellent selection of house ales, bitters and lagers, so we took the opportunity to sip a nice dark brew and rest our feet for a spell. It was a two-beer kind of day.

Poet Matthew Arnold called Oxford "home of lost causes and forsaken beliefs and unpopular names and impossible loyalties" and I'd have to agree with at least the last. I don't know anyone who's spent any significant amount of time in Oxford and not come away in love with the place. I know I am, and I'm definitely glad I grabbed the chance to go back.

Camden Market: Of the Weird and the Wonderful

forgot my camera, so you'll have to settle for some stock photoage

Hello, my name is Lizz and I am addicted to London's market scene. There, I said it. Two weekends in a row now,  I've spent the majority of at least one day wandering through market stalls, oggling everything from scarves to cakes and back again. In my defense: I didn't intend to market yesterday. I was meeting a friend for dinner in Camden and figured I'd case the joint early, get the lay of the land. Is it my fault if I stumbled into London's largest, most colorful alternative market scene? I'm the victim here.

Anyway. Yesterday, I wandered into Camden Market, a sprawling, largely underground market catering to the punk/goth/alternative scene. In other words: overrun with teenagers in technicolor mohawks,  studded leather, black lace, subversive-themed t-shirts and piercings on their piercings. An interesting crowd, interspersed with foreign tourists staring more intently at Those Punk London Kids than the goods for sale. I think I heard more Italian in Camden Locks than I did in Rome. Regardless, this market was a blast.

What is Camden like? Picture the touristy section (we'll go with Times Square) in New York City. Now picture the street markets in Florence. Now cross your eyes like you're doing one of those Magic Eyes and blend the two together. That's Camden High Street. The place is buzzing with tattoo and piercing shops, lots of those kitschy places selling London-themed tchotches and plenty of fast food. The markets run the length of the street, up and down the lock (which is also very pretty in its own right) and several side streets. Plenty of vintage, plenty of antiques, and more than enough cheap-looking clothes to keep the kiddies happy.

I don't know if I'd buy anything here, mostly because it seems to run in one of three veins: mass-produced in China, cool and unique at the time but totally useless once it gets home, and antique and expensive. But hey, I'm a dedicated window shopper (or is that stall shopper?) so I'm more than happy to poke my way through racks of furs, piles of metal signs probably stolen in the dead of night from some un-CCTVed corner, and trolleys full of Chanel-type scarves for hours on end. Need a break? No worries: plenty of reasonably-priced ethnic food from every corner of the globe hawked by some very vocal standkeepers. Mulled wine and donuts in flavor varieties I never knew existed? Don't mind if I do. It's an addiction. Or a calling. Or both.

To market, to market

Spitalfield market from above. Check out those stands! 

Yesterday, upon the excellent suggestion of my flatmate Mags, I packed up my camera and my sense of adventure and went a-marketing at Spitalfield and Brick Lane markets in London. The two have very distinct, very different styles, and a little something for every taste along the way.

Spitalfied Market reminds me of a craft show: most of the goods are homemade and many err on the expensive side. Looking for a peacock feather collar for your winter coat? How about a hand-spun mohair shawl? A necklace made of old spoons and an antique pocket watch?



Check Spitalfield. The market is mostly indoors, in a cavernous mall-like structure lined with local chain restaurants and buzzing with locals and tourists alike.  There are two sections: the one labeled "Old Spitalfield" proved more my style, as that one mingled craftsy-type stalls with food vendors hawking their wares, many offering samples and free demonstrations to passers-by, in hopes of generating some business for themselves.

a photo of cameras! Look how witty I can be! 

Brick Lane market is mostly vintage clothing, jewelry, bags and scarves, and an absolute treasure trove for those willing to put in a little elbow grease. The sprawling indoor market was absolutely crammed to the gills with every style you could imagine, from hand-tooled leather bags, Russian scarves, jewelry made out of legos and children's toys and the quintessentially British graphic t-shirts. Brick Lane's food area boasted cuisine from a variety of ethnicities to tempt the palate: Mexican, Japanese, Spanish, Thai, Mongolian, French, Ethiopian, you name it. The sights and smells were enticing, but this was a photo mission, not a stuff-my-face mission, so I trolled with my lens, not my stomach  (this time!)

 The street swarmed with artsy-type people of all ages and origins, although the Brick Lane market appeared to cater much more to the younger, London-dwelling set than Spitalfield. I got the sense Brick Lane was the hep spot for those who have mastered the art of London Vintage Couture: spend thousands of pounds looking like you don't really care what you wear, add a generous dose of self-importance, stir in a dash of disdain for anyone whose outfit doesn't look like a hodge podge of decades and influences, and smoke like a chimney while munching a vegan Thai wrap. But I digress.

As you can see, the market scene is a photographer's paradise: the colors, textures, patterns, and quirky still-lifes just waiting to be snapped could easily eat an afternoon. And for the photog who also likes to shop? Stop the presses, and hope I don't have any work to do, because this girl's day is gone. I didn't snag any good deals this time around, but now that I know the ways of the market scene, I know where I'm going for Christmas shopping. Forget Oxford Street, Brick Lane is the place to get good deals on unique finds. After all, for the savvy bargain-hunter, that's what shopping in the city is all about.

they didn't have enough table space, apparently. 

om non nom. Italian tasty treats. 

glasses made of old bottles? How cool is that?

Some seriously awesome purses. My wallet cried a little.

Feasting on London's Finest

This just in! All British food is NOT terrible. I know what you're thinking, and I was skeptical too at first. But trust me on this folks: there is good food to be had in this city, even if much if it is international. You just have to know where to look. Anyone who knows me well knows I LOVE food. I love reading about it, looking at it, shopping for it, cooking it, and most of all, eating it. This week is also the London Food Festival, so the timing was right for me to go nosh on some London goodies. The actual festival takes place in restaurants across the city, the majority of which are out of my price range. So I decided to do it my own way and hit the market for some home-grown goodies instead.

Covent Garden (one view at left) is one of my favorite places to go hang out, mostly because of the variety of good shopping in both the covered stalls and nearby Apple and Jubilee markets as well as the excellent people-watching. There's also a Real Food market outside on select days, showcasing the wares of local farmers, butchers, and general food producers from a surprising variety of nationalities and backgrounds. Buskers and street performers hang around the perimeter and a musician or two can usually be found inside, both of which make for an interesting afternoon.

Today was sunny and summer-warm (I'd say about 70 degrees, maybe warmer in the sun) so I took my time wandering over to Covent Garden. Okay, okay, I got lost. I don't know what it is about markets, but no matter what city I'm in, I tend to lose them. Florence, Rome, Paris, London, it doesn't matter. If there's a market tucked away somewhere, it will take me twice as long to find as any other landmark, guaranteed. Needless to say, once I did find it, I was very glad I did.

Next challenge: what to sample. The Real Food market consists of vendors selling everything from Mediterranean wares like tabbouleh, humus and balaclava, farm-raised lamb and beef, hot sauces and chutneys, all sorts of breads, pastries and tarts, pierogis and Polish sausages, Italian meats and cheeses, Spanish paella and mussel stew, Mexican corn crepes with grilled veggie filling, German bratwurst, local fruits and vegetables, cupcakes, and even one stand selling fresh oysters and champagne. Everything looked delicious, and it took me several passes to figure out my options, never mind what I wanted to try myself. Ever the frugal traveler, my wallet finally won out. Most everything went for between 3 and 6 pounds, which isn't bad considering a meal in that vicinity can easily run a person 10-15. But why pay 3 pounds for a meat pie or bratwurst when I can get a full meal for 5.50? The Polish stand was selling a "lunch box" containing a scoop of grilled spiced potato chunks, a scoop of salad (think coleslaw with some sort of light oil instead of mayo), pickles and a Polish sausage piece or chicken and sausage skewer for 5.50. Sold, to the hungry American!

I wish I had remembered my camera, because this little box was a thing of beauty. Okay, okay, it kind of looked like a cafeteria-style paper box full of junk. But man, was it tasty. The Polish sausage (Kielbasa in my house, thankyouverymuch) was of the smoked variety: juicy enough to squirt at me when poked with my little wooden fork but tender enough to fall apart with some encouragement from the same. The potatoes were nicely spiced, but not spicy enough to take off any taste buds, and the salad and pickles made a nice, fresh compliment to the heartier components.

 Best of all: I got to eat the whole thing sitting with my back against a sun-warmed pillar listening to a busker (who wasn't half bad, actually) playing American classic rock on his guitar as I watched people of all nationalities wander by. I could listen in on accents and languages from all over the world and catch aromas of charcoal and cigarette smoke, the tang of countless different sauces, and the occasional whiff of some man's too-strong cologne drift by as I sat there, soaking up the rare English sun. It was an afternoon of beauty, my friends.

Afterward, I decided to take a little wander and ended up catching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace entirely by accident, stumbling into an African festival at Trafalgar Square, stopping by my old buddy Big Ben and Westminster Abbey just to say hello, and generally getting my bearings around the city. I promise, next time I WILL bring my camera, because these sights are something else. The sun was setting behind Westminster as I left, blindingly brilliant as I was walking directly into it. I don't know if I'd want to live directly in London for any length of time; too many tourists, and the traffic is hellacious, but it's sure a gorgeous place to walk around for the day. One of these times, I'll snap a few shots and show you, from my own perspective.

Royal Mail: A Royal Pain in the. . .

Found this on a blog about Royal Mail dysfunction. Second that, mate

Our flat comes conveniently equipped with two things: a mail slot for letters, magazines and fliers from takeaway restaurants, and a buzzer for larger packages or things that require a signature to be delivered. My parents sent me a package this past week, which I expected to sign for when it arrived. The Royal Mail service, known for its efficiency but apparently not its initiative, chose not to utilize the buzzer method.

How do I know? I was in my room reading when I heard the mail drop through the slot. I went out to get the mail, and retrieved a form with several check boxes, on which was written an address where I could pick up my package. The check box for "we tried to deliver your package but. . ." was not checked. Twats. Anyway.

The London Transportation Authority has a "Journey Planner" on their website which I had utilized before as a useful tool for figuring out the quickest and most convenient way to get from point A to point B. It told me which bus to take, which stop to get off, and that it would be an approximate 2 minute walk to my destination. No problem, I thought.

So I undertook my first ever bus ride by myself to the nearby town of East Ham. The announcement system on this particular bus ran on a delay, so it rarely announced each stop until miliseconds before, or sometimes slightly after the stop, leading to a pissed off bus driver and lost passengers. Never fear, loyal readers! Some other (less confused) traveler was getting off at my prescribed stop, so I thought I was good to go. And miracle of miracles! A post office sign gleamed just a few steps away from the bus stop. Success.

Or not. I showed my little card to the post office attendant who smiled and politely informed me I wanted the Canning Town post office, not the East Ham one. "Just go down Barking Road," he said. "All the way into Canning Town." Thanks, Journey Planner. Some two-minute walk. It apparently didn't realize WHICH post office I wanted, just that I wanted one. There's British efficiency for you. Just to give you an idea, the East Ham post office was located at 860-something Barking Road. The East Ham post office sat at 22. And these are not New York City blocks, people. Good thing it wasn't raining.

So I walked. And I walked. I passed chip and kebab shops, discount grocery stores, a few funeral parlors, and some curious-looking Middle Eastern men who seemed perturbed that this confused-looking white girl was wandering through their neighborhood. An hour or so later, I finally reached the Canning Town post office to retrieve my package.

Holy giant box, batman. I wish I had taken a picture of this thing before I dismantled it, but this box was not fooling around. It was large. It was unwieldy. And it weighed a TON. Trekking the odyssey back to East Ham was not only unappealing, it was clearly not an option if I and my new friend Mr. Box wanted to arrive in one piece. So it was back to the buses for me.

A quick word to the wise: when reading a bus route, make sure you don't misinterpret the little filled-in line. The white part is already-traveled. The black part is yet-to-travel. If you invert them, you will sit on the bus for one stop (approximately a block) congratulating yourself before the bus driver informs you the route ends there and you have to get off. It's fun, trust me.

I never thought about this before, but this is a wonderful invention

Another word to the wise: don't attempt to haul a bigass box three towns away during school rush hour. That's the magical time when all the schools along the route let out at the same time and hoardes of miniature Britons in uniforms crowd onto the bus. I never thought I'd extol the virtues of private school bus services, but let me tell you, there is nothing more titilating than being crammed (with Mr. Box cutting off your leg circulation) onto a hot, sweaty bus with crowds of screaming schoolchildren and the bus driver standing up and yelling at everyone to make more room at each stop. On the bright side, at least this time I was marginally sure I had boarded the correct bus. Sort of.

Getting off the bus was another challenge, but after an hour and a half of this sardine stuff, I was more than happy to cheerfully to take out a few cranky British mini-blokes to get me and Mr. Box safely on our way. The closest stop to my school was a fifteen-minute walk back to campus, but let me tell you, it felt downright good after cramming in with the kiddies.

Moral of this story? Packages are fun, welcome and appreciated. Royal Mail carriers who refuse to deliver them are not. But hey, at least I figured out the bus system and familiarized myself with the ghetto between East Ham and Canning Town. Live and learn, ladies and gents. Live and learn.

Like a Kid in a Sweet Shop

Holy shoe heaven, batman! Yesterday, I took myself shopping in Central London (strictly a reconnaissance mission) and happened to stumble into Selfridge's on Oxford Street which just opened the world's largest shoe gallery. The gallery boasts over 4,000 pairs of shoes in a twisting, turning labyrinth of a shoe-lover's paradise.

The website boasts a map of the gallery, which includes side "apartments" for all our favorite designers: Gucci, Dior, Christian Louboutin, Prada, Fendi, Jimmy Choo, etc. Each designer was given total creative control over their gallery, which gives each nook it's own unique atmosphere. Those lowly "lower end" designers who just made it to the center gallery are labeled unassumingly with a little placard bearing their name, just in case the iconic designs of Marc by Marc Jacobs (cute flats this season) or Stella McCartney (oh, those over-the-knee boots!) aren't enough. Oh yeah, the gang's all here, and I can barely afford to look at any of them.

As a dedicated shoe afficionado, I could have easily spent a few weeks (and my entire life savings, projected about 50 years and allowing for inflation) in this shoe department. Fortunately for my wallet, unfortunately for my closet, my budget (and lack of credit card) managed to restrain me. Still, for anyone who's interested in a bit of fashionable sight-seeing, or just wants to hold those luscious leopard print Jimmy Choo pumps in their sweaty little hands, Selfridge's is definitely good for a gander.