Oxford and the Lives We Chose Not to Live (UK Travels - Pt. 2)
Remember to get jealous of yourself and your own life
I’ve always gotten irritated when people say that Oxford looks like Hogwarts. Oxford is about a thousand years older than Harry Potter and J.K. Rowling was undoubtedly inspired by it. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? “So Hogwarts looks just like Oxford!” Otherwise, it seems very disrespectful, as if Oxford were some Harry Potter theme park.
Not that I’ve ever been covetous of Oxford. I’ve never been a Jenny from An Education, Ollie from Saltburn, or a Caroline Calloway. Its appeal is understandable, though, and I’ve enjoyed reading Substack accounts of those who’ve studied there.1
Still, going on a day trip to Oxford made me think of how I’ll never be a student there. A simple, factual statement. Or was it I’ll never get to be a student there? The addition of one little three-letter word, now implying regret and sorrow. As we get older, we wonder more about the paths that are no longer open, even if they’d only ever been available in a remote, fantastical way. You can only have been born in one place, raised in one place, studied in one place. Every choice negates another, leaving some of us to wonder if we “may never get inadvertently pissed on by leering gays from the Berghain balcony.”2
I thought of a good friend in college, one who’d studied abroad in Cambridge (close enough). By senior year, I’d drifted away from that friend group, so he and I never talked much about his time there. But a smart and kind—not to mention handsome and tall—guy like him? I’m sure he’d had the time of his life. Admittedly, part of me also hadn’t wanted to hear about those stories, not at that age. I think I’d want to hear all about them now, but unfortunately, it’s been several years since we’ve talked.
The photos I took at Oxford didn’t turn out as well as I’d hoped they would. The first roll I’d shot in London was in black and white, which in addition to just looking cool, is also more forgiving in terms of lighting. With this colour roll, fearing that I’d end up with suffocatingly dark pictures, I’d overexposed my shots, resulting in blown-out white skies. But I’m still fond of these photos I took. The first is that of a trio of young women, whom I presume were summer students or something. They were having a lively picnic on Christ Church Meadow, so I asked if I could take their photo and they agreed.
“Just pretend I’m not here,” I said.
Those young women probably get asked to get their pictures taken all the time. Once in NYC in the Lower East Side, I asked a group of guys sitting on a stoop if they’d mind if I took their photo. They were so speechlessly flattered. They asked if I was some fashion magazine photographer. I had to disappoint them and tell them I was just a hobbyist.
This other shot was taken while I was laying on the green in Magdalen College, which was one of the few colleges open to the public (for a small fee). I was sitting on a bench reading Patrick Hamilton’s Hangover Square when out came this pair, flopping themselves down in the middle of the impeccably manicured lawn. Hadn’t I seen signs explicitly forbidding this?
After debating it for a while, I decided to walk onto the lawn myself and ask them if I could take their photo because they just looked so relaxed. They said yes, and I too laid down on the grass to snap a couple of shots. I then thanked them and joked that it wouldn’t be long before they kicked us off. They said they were fellows and were allowed to go on the grass. So I’d done the forbidden thing. Now the lawn would bear my imprint forever.
Oh and I left my phone on a bench, but a little girl chased me down across the whole courtyard to give it to me. What an angel!
As it got closer to sunset, I went to a bar for a beer and some writing time for my journal before the London train was to arrive. A large party eventually sat down at the picnic table next to mine and as I’d noticed some of them had to stand, I told them they could use part of my table. This led to us talking, mostly about soccer, photography, and how Brits call bachelor and bachelorette parties stag do’s and hen do’s, respectively (I’d noticed several bachelorette parties, and even a wedding, that day). They were from a nearby town called Banbury and were there to celebrate their friend’s birthday. Young folks, just out of university.
When I tried to make my leave, they insisted I keep hanging out. So I went with them to a Slug and Lettuce, which one of the women, Chess, told me was your “basic British white-girl bar.” I had two blue cocktails with gummy sharks in them (it was 2-4-1 happy hour). The second venue was classier. To show my appreciation, I got us all a round of tequila shots.
“You truly know the way to an Englishman’s heart,” said one of the guys.
I made a toast to the birthday girl (whose name was Ellie, I think) and thanked everyone for their hospitality. The funniest thing was how the biggest guy there, Sam, could not handle tequila at all and nearly puked. Shortly after, I said my goodbye, telling them that if any should ever find themselves in NYC, to hit me up (provided they can get over their fear that every American carries guns and a shootout can happen at any given moment).
I’m currently reading Brideshead Revisited. It’s technically a re-read since I first read it back in tenth grade at the recommendation of my English teacher. But I remember almost nothing from it, except that I didn’t like it all that much. It’s much better this time, partially because I can picture the campus better. I wondered if I ought to have read this book before going to Oxford, but afterwards seems to have been the right move.
On the train home, a couple of tipsy women started singing We Are Golden by Mika, which just so happens to be on my college playlist. A great throwback song. The duo was surprisingly good—Mika songs are not easy to sing—so I made sure to compliment them. When I got home, I wasn’t quite ready to turn in, so I wandered through a raucous Soho to get to a Nando’s.
The next day, I had lunch with
, another person I’d gotten to know off of Substack and was meeting for the first time in person in London. She’d written me up a great guide of the coolest streets to explore, for which I was very grateful. I’d have been pretty flailingly lost otherwise. It was interesting to hear from her how the literary scene in London is not as vibrant as that of NYC, which struck me as counterintuitive.Speaking of NYC, all the while I was thinking of what different lives I might’ve had, I was also thinking of how grateful I should be for the one I’ve ended up living. Many people dream of visiting NYC and I’ve had the fortune of living here for over eight years now. I’ve lived in other great places too like Seoul and Vancouver. I’ve seen a summer’s worth of white nights in St. Petersburg. And I will always defend Philly from the haters.
If I could invent an app, I’d make one that would take your best photos and swap you out of them and populate a fake IG account with those pictures. Then this account would come across your way and you’d grow dour with envy, only to eventually realize it’s actually you. We should get jealous of ourselves more often.
In part 1, I mentioned how I’d come across a curving street with a building the colour of vodka sauce, which made me wonder where that street led to.3 As Nikkitha and I headed from Exmouth Market to the London Review Bookshop, we ended up walking along that street from the opposite end. The demystifying of a foreign city is both exciting and a little sad. At the shop, I bought her novel, Ghost Chili4 and got it signed.
From my hostel, I retrieved my bag to make the move to Hackney, where I’d stay in an AirBnb for a couple of nights. I’d wanted to neighbourhood-hop from Central to East London and to also see what a London apartment looked like. The bus ride over was a bit taxing because it was hot, crowded, and I couldn’t ride on the upper level because there was puke on the floor there. Even in NYC, I’d never seen vomit on a bus.
The apartment was beautiful and provided lots of privacy since the owners were out camping for the week. But I didn’t end up liking that. What’s the point of a well-decorated living room when you should be out and about? And privacy just means more temptation to go interneting, which I did for the first couple of hours at my new temporary home. I felt rotten after that, as if tainted by the grime of my everyday life and all its bad habits.
The next day, I proudly my Tottenham shirt around the city all day because that night was our season opener away at Leicester.
“You’re not winning any trophies this year, bruv!” said one Arsenal fan from inside his parked car.
“You’re not either!” I said. “Enjoy second place again!”
And yes, I realize that my retort: (i) did not deny we’d finish the season empty-handed yet again, and (ii) admitted they would finish above us in the table. Such is the life of a Spurs fan these days in our rebuilding phase. It will simply make long-awaited glory taste all the sweeter when it comes. One day. COYS.
I made my way along Regents Canal down to St. Paul’s where my firm’s London office was. The receptionist was yet another Gunner, so there was further bantering. A colleague very graciously gave me a tour of the office. My job is pretty remote, so I think my firm would let me work out of this office for a few weeks or maybe even a couple of months if I wanted to. A lovely thing to think about, even if I never do it.
But why just stop at thinking and daydreaming? I’ve stayed put in NYC—only traveling home to the familiar—and have told myself it’s because I like life here so much. And I do, but how much of that is complacency?
That night, Tottenham drew to an injury-riddled Leicester that had just won promotion back to the Premier League. Not promising. Maybe our manager should’ve been at the match, not drinking with us in Dalston.
The next day, I set off for King’s Cross to head north to Edinburgh. Unlike with Oxford, I’d had half a mind in college to study abroad there. Time to see what I might’ve missed out on.
“We should get jealous of ourselves more often.”
i like this a lot
Nice piece Chris. That’s a beautiful app idea!