Hello, hello from Rome!
We arrived here late this afternoon, after a long drive through Italy. Several stops were made along the way, including a visit to Pisa and the good ol' tower (she's still leaning). I was temporarily misplaced from the group after walking out of the bathroom at the coach park, to find that the rest of the group had already jumped the bus into Pisa -- about a 3 minute drive -- without me. Not a big deal but I certainly panicked. I took a few cliché photos with the leaning tower, ate some deliciouso amaretto gelato, and was harassed by vendors selling scarfs, knockoff handbags, and the like.
This evening we settled into our hotel in the east part of the city, ate a magnificent four course meal (I've never had such wonderful tomatoes), then walked to the Spanish steps and on to the Trevi Fountain for more gelato (I had a giant cone with four flavors and was in hea-ven), people watching, and soaking it all up. I've been here just a few hours, but I can already tell -- Rome is going to be one of my favorite cities. Dirty, yes, but definitely a lot of character and life.
I need a shower and some solid sleep. Tomorrow's plans include a tour of ancient Roma and a bunch of sites I cannot pronounce. I am very excited for these next few days!
Apologies that Ive been slacking on the skyping. I will call soon!
Love from bello Roma! (I hope I said that right)
Jenny
30 April 2009
28 April 2009
Parlez-vous l'anglais?
Bonsoir:
It has been brought to my most French attention (though, in fact it was already known) that I have been Frenchly slacking on the blog. It turns out that I have a sibling — or perhaps, several beings that are of the same womb as I — that read this; 'Ghost Readers' I call them, mostly because I don't have a counter at the bottom of my page. As such, I have no idea how many eyes skim this page each day, or view my vain self portraits (more about vain-ness later), or express aloud how terribly, awfully, terribly horribly badly I need a haircut. For all I know my dog is reading this, which is not an entirely ludicrous presumption, as she is 84% human (screen name WiLLoWxBaBy99), but that is neither here nor there...
The world is turning, and somewhere seven hours in the future, I am walking in some distant country. If I were to star in a computer game in the 90's, it would be called 'Where In the World Is Jenny' etc. etc., and I would wear a ridiculous red hat, and gallivant about the globe in my trenchcoat. I love this vision. The fact is I am doing just this, minus the sleuth apparel, and you don't even have to guess "where in the world" I am because I will TELL you! How about that!
Today's lovely destination location of glorious magnificent worldly pleasure is Avignon, Provence, France! Actually — I was here when I updated the other day, but I'm still around these parts until tomorrow morning. Avignon is snuggled in the nooks of Southern France, itching to be a coastal city, but settling for exotic shores of Le Rhône River, as well as the Palais de Pape, a.k.a. the Pope's crib from 1309 -1403 during the schism/other papal doings. This castle monstrosity is located about 10 steps from the door of our hotel, in the centre of this cozy, touristy city.
What to say about France? As mentioned before, the language is a giant adjustment. Never before have I been in a country where English was not the primary language; this is at best interesting, at most hilarious, and to the extreme stressful. I've gotten fairly good at faking it. Example: When shopping, I'll enter a store and the shopkeeper/worker will say "Bonjour," which I mimick. Then I shop and hope they don't ask me questions, which they usually don't, and if they do, just nod my head in every direction, as if to say 'yes' and 'no' simultaneously. If I make a purchase, the cashier will say something, which I assume is along the lines of 'did you find everything alright, miss?' and I respond 'oui.' Then they'll say my total in French, and I hand them a credit card/cash and hope it's enough. Bam. They close with 'Merci, Mademoiselle, au revoir!' and I cap the conversation with 'merci, au revoir!' It's brilliant. Too bad my accent isn't clean and my legs aren't long enough to be entirely convincing.
There have been a few bumps in this system, namely trying to order a sandwich the other day at a rest stop. I previously referred to many of the French as knowing at least a little English. This particular sandwich artist at a rest stop in Placewiththescarymarxbrothersstatues, France spoke zero English.
When you're a vegetarian, there is a pretty slim vocabulary for ordering a sandwich: fromage. Cheese. That's it. So I don't know where the confusion came in, but somehow she started making me two sandwiches. I later learned that raising your index finger to indicate 'one' actually means 'two' around here (a thumb means 'one'). I thought I'd ordered one cheese sandwich, but my €9.80 total — about $13.00 — said otherwise. What happened next was language barf until eventually I was eating a carrot and zucchini sandwich. No fromage...no panini...and no Anglais.
I can tell you this is not the worst of it. Just yesterday I decided to send a giant package home, and gathering together a slough of forgotten belongings (useless bricks in my suitcase, etc.) I moseyed to the Avignon post office. This sending of goods was inevitable, however I'd put it off until this stretch of the trip in order to get a better exchange rate (the U.S. dollar is stronger against the Euro, in comparison to the GBP). First order of business was to purchase a box, which the post office had plenty of, and in a bevy of colors. I grabbed the largest box I could find and began assembling it, then queued up to pay. Two minutes waiting and I realized that my box was only for mailing within Europe, and I had to buy an International box, yadda yadda. They didn't have International boxes in the extrajumbotastic size of the European box I was holding, so I attempted to question to the postal worker if they had larger International boxes.
Have you ever talked to a dog? How about a newborn? They're smart creatures, staring back at you with their perplexed eyes and a slight kink in their necks, perhaps a growl or a gurgle; but they have no idea what you're really saying.
I felt awful, the least I could respond to this woman's dire efforts to comprehend me was 'pardon, merci, merci, merci beaucoup.' She was about to tear her hair out, and with good reason. Meanwhile the silly Americans are holding up the line, as locals pile up behind us with their deliveries. At long last I had paperwork in front of me and my credit card swiped. I plunked down on a seat, let out a giant sigh and began cramming my belongings into my 'collosimo' box, then stared blankly at the paperwork — also in French. Great. It never ends.
I listed my residence as the Hotel du Palais des Papes in Avignon. I wrote what I was sending and how much it was worth in Euros, and who I was sending it to, and a million other things. A great hour or so later my box was behind the counter for delivery, and I ate a Nutella ice cream cone to celebrate. Pfffaghhhhhhhhhhh.
Another beautiful three course meal and coffee for dinner, and I was off to a nearby karaoke bar for some singing. I don't know if anyone would believe me if I said I sang three songs last night. I sang three songs last night! There was a little Carly Simon (You're So Vain) some Gloria (I Will Survive) even a little of the B-52's (You can imagine...). The Americans took over the bar, with several French locals here and there to perform their Josh Groban and French love songs. It was a blast.
Today we journied to Arles, about a 45 minute drive from Avignon. Arles holds its fame as a brief dwelling of my boy Vincent Van Gogh, as well as grounds for ancient Roman ruins (which are rare to the Dakotas, but ubiquitous in these parts). Can you imagine walking in a forest in Minnesota and running across a Roman theatre? I can. I can't. I really can't. These ruins are what barns are to the Upper Midwest. Ancient ruins, castles, and original Van Goghs — I feel terrible saying, these no longer phase me.
There was a moment of discernment in the course of this afternoon, as I ate my quatre fromage sandwich in a small village outside of Arles. I was sitting on the ledge of a giant rock wall, right in a nice sunny spot, and I looked down to see hundreds of tiny seashells embedded in the wall, likely the remains of an ancient seabed. I sat there and soaked it up, though there really was nothing to look at but a wall of little shells and a fromage panini, the air and sky, and the walls surrounding me. And nonetheless, I realized I was in France.
I would never experience this back home, just live life from the dodgy/comfy yet questionable easy chair in the corner of Starbucks. They don't tell you how to identify this feeling in my French translation manual. They don't teach you this feeling during abroad orientation. You feel it and you know you're somewhere unbelievable, doing something you won't be able to do forever. Such is life, and so is this experience.
I am absolutely Frenchly knackered, and have a French headache to match. Tomorrow's an early morning with a drive to Cavi de Lavagna, Italy. France has been so fantastic — language aside (which I now have a strong desire to seriously learn) and the hospitality was amazing. I'm sure the same will be said of Italy, with the addition of a Mediterranean Sea.
I need to (re)pack my bags for another excursion!
Love, love, and — amour!
jenny
It has been brought to my most French attention (though, in fact it was already known) that I have been Frenchly slacking on the blog. It turns out that I have a sibling — or perhaps, several beings that are of the same womb as I — that read this; 'Ghost Readers' I call them, mostly because I don't have a counter at the bottom of my page. As such, I have no idea how many eyes skim this page each day, or view my vain self portraits (more about vain-ness later), or express aloud how terribly, awfully, terribly horribly badly I need a haircut. For all I know my dog is reading this, which is not an entirely ludicrous presumption, as she is 84% human (screen name WiLLoWxBaBy99), but that is neither here nor there...
The world is turning, and somewhere seven hours in the future, I am walking in some distant country. If I were to star in a computer game in the 90's, it would be called 'Where In the World Is Jenny' etc. etc., and I would wear a ridiculous red hat, and gallivant about the globe in my trenchcoat. I love this vision. The fact is I am doing just this, minus the sleuth apparel, and you don't even have to guess "where in the world" I am because I will TELL you! How about that!
Today's lovely destination location of glorious magnificent worldly pleasure is Avignon, Provence, France! Actually — I was here when I updated the other day, but I'm still around these parts until tomorrow morning. Avignon is snuggled in the nooks of Southern France, itching to be a coastal city, but settling for exotic shores of Le Rhône River, as well as the Palais de Pape, a.k.a. the Pope's crib from 1309 -1403 during the schism/other papal doings. This castle monstrosity is located about 10 steps from the door of our hotel, in the centre of this cozy, touristy city.
What to say about France? As mentioned before, the language is a giant adjustment. Never before have I been in a country where English was not the primary language; this is at best interesting, at most hilarious, and to the extreme stressful. I've gotten fairly good at faking it. Example: When shopping, I'll enter a store and the shopkeeper/worker will say "Bonjour," which I mimick. Then I shop and hope they don't ask me questions, which they usually don't, and if they do, just nod my head in every direction, as if to say 'yes' and 'no' simultaneously. If I make a purchase, the cashier will say something, which I assume is along the lines of 'did you find everything alright, miss?' and I respond 'oui.' Then they'll say my total in French, and I hand them a credit card/cash and hope it's enough. Bam. They close with 'Merci, Mademoiselle, au revoir!' and I cap the conversation with 'merci, au revoir!' It's brilliant. Too bad my accent isn't clean and my legs aren't long enough to be entirely convincing.
There have been a few bumps in this system, namely trying to order a sandwich the other day at a rest stop. I previously referred to many of the French as knowing at least a little English. This particular sandwich artist at a rest stop in Placewiththescarymarxbrothersstatues, France spoke zero English.
When you're a vegetarian, there is a pretty slim vocabulary for ordering a sandwich: fromage. Cheese. That's it. So I don't know where the confusion came in, but somehow she started making me two sandwiches. I later learned that raising your index finger to indicate 'one' actually means 'two' around here (a thumb means 'one'). I thought I'd ordered one cheese sandwich, but my €9.80 total — about $13.00 — said otherwise. What happened next was language barf until eventually I was eating a carrot and zucchini sandwich. No fromage...no panini...and no Anglais.
I can tell you this is not the worst of it. Just yesterday I decided to send a giant package home, and gathering together a slough of forgotten belongings (useless bricks in my suitcase, etc.) I moseyed to the Avignon post office. This sending of goods was inevitable, however I'd put it off until this stretch of the trip in order to get a better exchange rate (the U.S. dollar is stronger against the Euro, in comparison to the GBP). First order of business was to purchase a box, which the post office had plenty of, and in a bevy of colors. I grabbed the largest box I could find and began assembling it, then queued up to pay. Two minutes waiting and I realized that my box was only for mailing within Europe, and I had to buy an International box, yadda yadda. They didn't have International boxes in the extrajumbotastic size of the European box I was holding, so I attempted to question to the postal worker if they had larger International boxes.
Have you ever talked to a dog? How about a newborn? They're smart creatures, staring back at you with their perplexed eyes and a slight kink in their necks, perhaps a growl or a gurgle; but they have no idea what you're really saying.
I felt awful, the least I could respond to this woman's dire efforts to comprehend me was 'pardon, merci, merci, merci beaucoup.' She was about to tear her hair out, and with good reason. Meanwhile the silly Americans are holding up the line, as locals pile up behind us with their deliveries. At long last I had paperwork in front of me and my credit card swiped. I plunked down on a seat, let out a giant sigh and began cramming my belongings into my 'collosimo' box, then stared blankly at the paperwork — also in French. Great. It never ends.
I listed my residence as the Hotel du Palais des Papes in Avignon. I wrote what I was sending and how much it was worth in Euros, and who I was sending it to, and a million other things. A great hour or so later my box was behind the counter for delivery, and I ate a Nutella ice cream cone to celebrate. Pfffaghhhhhhhhhhh.
Another beautiful three course meal and coffee for dinner, and I was off to a nearby karaoke bar for some singing. I don't know if anyone would believe me if I said I sang three songs last night. I sang three songs last night! There was a little Carly Simon (You're So Vain) some Gloria (I Will Survive) even a little of the B-52's (You can imagine...). The Americans took over the bar, with several French locals here and there to perform their Josh Groban and French love songs. It was a blast.
Today we journied to Arles, about a 45 minute drive from Avignon. Arles holds its fame as a brief dwelling of my boy Vincent Van Gogh, as well as grounds for ancient Roman ruins (which are rare to the Dakotas, but ubiquitous in these parts). Can you imagine walking in a forest in Minnesota and running across a Roman theatre? I can. I can't. I really can't. These ruins are what barns are to the Upper Midwest. Ancient ruins, castles, and original Van Goghs — I feel terrible saying, these no longer phase me.
There was a moment of discernment in the course of this afternoon, as I ate my quatre fromage sandwich in a small village outside of Arles. I was sitting on the ledge of a giant rock wall, right in a nice sunny spot, and I looked down to see hundreds of tiny seashells embedded in the wall, likely the remains of an ancient seabed. I sat there and soaked it up, though there really was nothing to look at but a wall of little shells and a fromage panini, the air and sky, and the walls surrounding me. And nonetheless, I realized I was in France.
I would never experience this back home, just live life from the dodgy/comfy yet questionable easy chair in the corner of Starbucks. They don't tell you how to identify this feeling in my French translation manual. They don't teach you this feeling during abroad orientation. You feel it and you know you're somewhere unbelievable, doing something you won't be able to do forever. Such is life, and so is this experience.
I am absolutely Frenchly knackered, and have a French headache to match. Tomorrow's an early morning with a drive to Cavi de Lavagna, Italy. France has been so fantastic — language aside (which I now have a strong desire to seriously learn) and the hospitality was amazing. I'm sure the same will be said of Italy, with the addition of a Mediterranean Sea.
I need to (re)pack my bags for another excursion!
Love, love, and — amour!
jenny
27 April 2009
MER-CI!!
Bonjour from France!
I've been slow to write since leaving Oxford. We've been drifting through France, our first stop in Paris (as I wrote that extremely lacking post the other night from an Internet café, whilst surrounded by gamers) and now in Avignon.
I don't have much time to write, but I will start by saying it was a long, long day yesterday with nine hours of traveling, from Paris to Avignon. The conditions were rain all the way, so a swell day for being on a bus/sleeping/doing three hours of journaling.
As I am so behind, I really must reflect on the places in France I've seen at this point, namely Paris and Versailles (as outside of that, I suppose I've only seen countryside and rest stops). First and foremost: We simply did not have enough time in Paris. There is so much to experience in a city of those proportions and I did not even scratch the surface. There was a day that I had to myself — I mentioned that I overslept (or rather, my alarm reset itself) and missed the coach to Chartes Cathedral. I spent that day wandering about, but it's hard to know where to even begin. Kind of overwhelming.
Versailles was hands down one of the neatest things I've seen on this trip, and possibly in my lifetime. I know I've abused that phrase throughout my recounts, but honestly. Louis XIV did not mess around when he built that place. Floor to ceiling and everything between is unbelievable, coated in gold and elaborate decoration. The gardens are nothing short of epic, grand, flawless. There were no flowers in bloom during our visit, but I can only imagine.
Avignon is stunning as well. I won't go into detail now as I have not yet toured the city (I will in 20 minutes) but our hotel accommodations are phe-nom-e-nal. Absolutely outstanding. We had a group dinner here last night, a lovely three course meal and wine to welcome us to the city. We are very well taken care of!
I should mention that I am now yet another hour ahead, so +7 difference from Central Time.
Finally:
I'm the one in the giant sunglasses that are swallowing my face. Can't be too careful.
Au revoir!
jc
I've been slow to write since leaving Oxford. We've been drifting through France, our first stop in Paris (as I wrote that extremely lacking post the other night from an Internet café, whilst surrounded by gamers) and now in Avignon.
I don't have much time to write, but I will start by saying it was a long, long day yesterday with nine hours of traveling, from Paris to Avignon. The conditions were rain all the way, so a swell day for being on a bus/sleeping/doing three hours of journaling.
As I am so behind, I really must reflect on the places in France I've seen at this point, namely Paris and Versailles (as outside of that, I suppose I've only seen countryside and rest stops). First and foremost: We simply did not have enough time in Paris. There is so much to experience in a city of those proportions and I did not even scratch the surface. There was a day that I had to myself — I mentioned that I overslept (or rather, my alarm reset itself) and missed the coach to Chartes Cathedral. I spent that day wandering about, but it's hard to know where to even begin. Kind of overwhelming.
Versailles was hands down one of the neatest things I've seen on this trip, and possibly in my lifetime. I know I've abused that phrase throughout my recounts, but honestly. Louis XIV did not mess around when he built that place. Floor to ceiling and everything between is unbelievable, coated in gold and elaborate decoration. The gardens are nothing short of epic, grand, flawless. There were no flowers in bloom during our visit, but I can only imagine.
Avignon is stunning as well. I won't go into detail now as I have not yet toured the city (I will in 20 minutes) but our hotel accommodations are phe-nom-e-nal. Absolutely outstanding. We had a group dinner here last night, a lovely three course meal and wine to welcome us to the city. We are very well taken care of!
I should mention that I am now yet another hour ahead, so +7 difference from Central Time.
Finally:
I'm the one in the giant sunglasses that are swallowing my face. Can't be too careful.
Au revoir!
jc
25 April 2009
fourteen minutes
i am at an internet cafe in paris right now and i have just 13 minutes to tell you about this city:
so beautiful.
france is 19 times more gorgeous than england
(bear with me this french keyboard is very difficult)
i saw the eiffel at night and during the day
the d orsay
the louvre
ate a crepe while walking around notre dame
visited the UNBELIEVABLE GORGEOUS OUTRAGEOUSNESS of versailles (thought of you the whole time holly)
and even overslept for a field trip to chartes cathedral this morning: whoopsies: i roamed paris instead
got the hang of the paris underground (yuck); and ventured solo (daytime of course)
ate nice meals
walked along the river
had interesting experiences with people*
and am trying to adapt to the language barrier (luckily many french know at least some english)
this is my last night here and we go to avignon tomorrow; it will be an evening of friends; wine; and relaxation
love to all
jenny
so beautiful.
france is 19 times more gorgeous than england
(bear with me this french keyboard is very difficult)
i saw the eiffel at night and during the day
the d orsay
the louvre
ate a crepe while walking around notre dame
visited the UNBELIEVABLE GORGEOUS OUTRAGEOUSNESS of versailles (thought of you the whole time holly)
and even overslept for a field trip to chartes cathedral this morning: whoopsies: i roamed paris instead
got the hang of the paris underground (yuck); and ventured solo (daytime of course)
ate nice meals
walked along the river
had interesting experiences with people*
and am trying to adapt to the language barrier (luckily many french know at least some english)
this is my last night here and we go to avignon tomorrow; it will be an evening of friends; wine; and relaxation
love to all
jenny
22 April 2009
21 April 2009
The Glory, the Glory!
Happy day! I took to London once again this afternoon, and squeezed in a quick visit to the British Library. For starters it wasn't the glorious, ancient structure I'd expected, but rather a semi-ugly totally dated (opinion) brick building circa 1998 (see here). Nothing brawny like the British Museum, that seems to ooze BAM! I was kind of put off by the BL, until I remembered "it's what's on the inside that counts." (Cue cheesy music.) Much roaming and question-asking finally brought me to the only relevant room in the building, a small space housing a decent collection of significant something-or-others. The majority of these documents were absolutely insignificant to me, though there was a handful I thoroughly enjoyed: Original Beatles' lyrics scribbled on envelopes, paper, napkins, and what have you; the Lindisfarne Gospels; a draft of a Sylvia Plath poem (who I discovered has beautiful penmanship); Captain James Cook's journal (who has some of the most beautiful penmanship I've ever seen); Lewis Carroll's journal; and manuscripts from Bach, Mozart, and Handel's 'Messiah', even Beethoven's tuning fork. A special room housed an original copy of the Magna Carta, which seemed familiar to me. I quickly realized that I had seen another copy of it during a visit to Salisbury a few weeks ago (there are four copies still around).
I met up with a friend for a late dinner, and arrived back in Oxford at an early 0200 after saying goodbye to London for good. In all I've visited five times, so it's not sad to go. I feel that I accomplished most everything I wanted to in the city — for now, at least.
I've just one lecture left, exams on Wednesday, followed by a farewell dinner in the evening. Then Thursday morning…I leave for Paris! Paris!
Until then — it's beautiful here, and I plan to sprawl out in the park tomorrow and eat coconut ice cream. Ahh, the glory of it all!
Love each and every one of you.
xo
jc
P.S. - Sorry for all of the Wiki links...
I met up with a friend for a late dinner, and arrived back in Oxford at an early 0200 after saying goodbye to London for good. In all I've visited five times, so it's not sad to go. I feel that I accomplished most everything I wanted to in the city — for now, at least.
I've just one lecture left, exams on Wednesday, followed by a farewell dinner in the evening. Then Thursday morning…I leave for Paris! Paris!
Until then — it's beautiful here, and I plan to sprawl out in the park tomorrow and eat coconut ice cream. Ahh, the glory of it all!
Love each and every one of you.
xo
jc
P.S. - Sorry for all of the Wiki links...
19 April 2009
Praise Be!
I feel I am getting a little lazy on my updates, but things have been somewhat wild. I am always on the move, and when not on the move, I want to move and make the most of each moment. This is not a place to sit still and stare at a computer screen, but a place to get out and breathe the world and everything around. I want to soak this place up while I can.
Being my last Sunday in Oxford, there was no way I was going to sleep in. I'd considered attending service at Christ Church Cathedral once again, then reconsidered and decided on another church. My professor had made mention of St. Aldate's, a contemporary (Anglican) church across the street from CCC. I wanted to give it a try and made it just in time for the 10:30 worship. Two hours of singing, praising, and glorifying later I was back on the street.
What happened at St. Aldates? They certainly had a rocking rock band, and the laity I'd only seen in movies: parishioners throwing up their hands in praise, singing with every breath that God gave them. The first forty-five minutes was solid singing. After that, there was a sign of peace. The man next to me, who had been ex-treme-ly uncomfortable during the entirety of the chorus, turned to me and introduced himself. "Good morning, I'm David."
There was an American lay person that gave the sermon, followed by more singing. Suddenly I saw from the corner of my eye and heard with my ears, David came out of his shell. He was singing loud and hard, louder and harder than the others around us, and I could see the tension and hesitation evaporate as he threw up his arms. He held them in the air higher and longer than anyone else, and after a minute he recoiled them to his body. Make no mistake, David had wanted to do this all along — I could see, and he could see that I saw. And he felt good about it.
At the very end of the service, the "clergy" (though I don't believe that's a correct title for the leaders of this worship) invited those that desired to talk about their worries and sufferings, to come forth and speak with an appointed member of the church. There were about a dozen lined up along the front of the seats, waiting silent for strained souls to make overtures. A group trickled toward them and I could see David, hesitant, reborn David, hankering to do the same. Within several minutes he slid past me and advanced to the front. I stood and sang 'Amazing Grace' as I watched David bring a man to tears from his words.
St. Aldate's was friendly, with open arms and abundant exaltation. And David.
Lunch at the Jericho Cáfe was next in line. I've probably mentioned this place a time or two, because I've been meaning to visit it since day two. It's located in — yes — Jericho, and is better known (to me at least) as the place where Radiohead had their beginnings. And you pay for it too — this place was a pricey lunch. I was craving a full-blown Sunday breakfast like I'm used to back home: eggs, hashbrowns, toast, the whole bit. I settled for a falafel instead.
Shopping in the afternoon, where I bought two great albums for £10: Ray LaMontagne's latest 'Gossip in the Grain', and classic Van Morrison 'Astral Weeks.' A book in the tall, green grasses of the sunny park, dinner and long, long walk to Summertown completed my evening. Well — there was a glass of wine at The Eagle and Child, too.
Tomorrow, another day closer to surveying the continent!
Goodnight,
jc
Being my last Sunday in Oxford, there was no way I was going to sleep in. I'd considered attending service at Christ Church Cathedral once again, then reconsidered and decided on another church. My professor had made mention of St. Aldate's, a contemporary (Anglican) church across the street from CCC. I wanted to give it a try and made it just in time for the 10:30 worship. Two hours of singing, praising, and glorifying later I was back on the street.
What happened at St. Aldates? They certainly had a rocking rock band, and the laity I'd only seen in movies: parishioners throwing up their hands in praise, singing with every breath that God gave them. The first forty-five minutes was solid singing. After that, there was a sign of peace. The man next to me, who had been ex-treme-ly uncomfortable during the entirety of the chorus, turned to me and introduced himself. "Good morning, I'm David."
There was an American lay person that gave the sermon, followed by more singing. Suddenly I saw from the corner of my eye and heard with my ears, David came out of his shell. He was singing loud and hard, louder and harder than the others around us, and I could see the tension and hesitation evaporate as he threw up his arms. He held them in the air higher and longer than anyone else, and after a minute he recoiled them to his body. Make no mistake, David had wanted to do this all along — I could see, and he could see that I saw. And he felt good about it.
At the very end of the service, the "clergy" (though I don't believe that's a correct title for the leaders of this worship) invited those that desired to talk about their worries and sufferings, to come forth and speak with an appointed member of the church. There were about a dozen lined up along the front of the seats, waiting silent for strained souls to make overtures. A group trickled toward them and I could see David, hesitant, reborn David, hankering to do the same. Within several minutes he slid past me and advanced to the front. I stood and sang 'Amazing Grace' as I watched David bring a man to tears from his words.
St. Aldate's was friendly, with open arms and abundant exaltation. And David.
Lunch at the Jericho Cáfe was next in line. I've probably mentioned this place a time or two, because I've been meaning to visit it since day two. It's located in — yes — Jericho, and is better known (to me at least) as the place where Radiohead had their beginnings. And you pay for it too — this place was a pricey lunch. I was craving a full-blown Sunday breakfast like I'm used to back home: eggs, hashbrowns, toast, the whole bit. I settled for a falafel instead.
Shopping in the afternoon, where I bought two great albums for £10: Ray LaMontagne's latest 'Gossip in the Grain', and classic Van Morrison 'Astral Weeks.' A book in the tall, green grasses of the sunny park, dinner and long, long walk to Summertown completed my evening. Well — there was a glass of wine at The Eagle and Child, too.
Tomorrow, another day closer to surveying the continent!
Goodnight,
jc
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
