My Oxford Year(9)

She stands upright and looks at me sternly, a schoolmarm in a past life. “I’m yer scout, dearie.” Then she moves to the shower, wiping it down with a rag. “Did that muddleheaded porter of a Hugh not tell ya you’d be havin’ a scout?”

“How often do you come?” I ask.

“Why every day, o’ course!” She turns to the sink, polishes the knobs. “’Cept for Saturdays. And Sundays. And bank holidays, fer certain. Seven sharp, on the chime.” She grins at me. “But don’t worry, love. Quiet as a church mouse, in and out in two minutes without anyone knowin’ the wiser. Just ask yer neighbor. Been cleanin’ his rooms for four years now and I only ever seen him with his eyes open but once, and that was comin’ home after a night out.” She laughs to herself. “He’s a jolly one, he is.” She changes the trash bag with a magician-like flourish of the wrist.

This whole arrangement is very Upstairs, Downstairs. And she’s no spring chicken. My midwestern side is uncomfortable having a septuagenarian in service to me, no matter how much pride she seems to take in her job. “Eugenia, you really don’t have to come every day.”

She’s already at the door, bucket in hand. She smiles, grabs the doorknob, and says, “Right then, see you tomorrow, love.” And she’s gone.

AFTER CUTTING THROUGH some texts and e-mails (three from Gavin), I shower, twist my hair into a messy topknot, slap on some mascara and lip gloss, and slip into one of my more responsible-looking blazers. I’m out the door by nine with an unearned sense of victory. I thank Hugh for his very Remains of the Day baggage-delivery service last night and get a distracted grunt in reply.

With an hour to spare before the Rhodes orientation, I grab a bottled Frappucino and some cookie-like thing called a flapjack from some bodega-like thing called a newsagent’s and start wandering.

The High is quiet this early, the shops’ gates still down, the restaurants dark. But a simple right turn, just before a medieval church, puts me in a cobblestone alleyway that opens up to a city alive. I’m in Radcliffe Square, and I stop to take it all in. The iconic, cylindrical Radcliffe Camera stands before me, with its neoclassical architecture and golden walls. It’s as if I’ve stumbled onto an anthill. Students and tourists go in and out of gates on the square’s periphery, disappearing into the basement of a church, emerging with coffee and pastry bags. Interesting. I regret my bottle of newsagent’s coffee.

I’m just turning around like the second hand of a clock, taking it all in. The architecture, the landscaping, the way people are dressed, the way they sound. The constant tring-tring of bicycle bells. I move through the square, past the Bodleian Library, and around the Sheldonian Theatre, its surrounding pillars topped with thirteen stone busts of nameless men. Across the street, tourist shops hawk Oxford gear next to a couple of charming-looking pubs and a few gated colleges. The stores are painted in cheery blues and reds, yellows and whites. A couple of Union Jacks fly out over the sidewalk, where a smattering of café tables and chairs waits for patrons in the dewy early-morning chill.

It’s a more cosmopolitan environment than I expected. It feels old, yes, but it’s thriving. History with a pulse. Warm-blooded ruins. I hear Mandarin, Italian, French, Arabic, and an assortment of English accents. There’s a startling number of Americans. It’s as if this city belongs to everyone. If you’re here, you belong here. It’s like a timeless, ramshackle International Space Station.

At the end of Broad Street, in front of Balliol College, there’s an innocuous-looking cobblestone cross embedded in the street. A memorial, it turns out, for the three Oxford Martyrs, Protestant bishops who were burned at the stake by Queen Mary in the 1550s. I realize, with a start, that one of these men was Thomas Cranmer, the man responsible for annulling the marriage of Mary’s parents, Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon.

My brain tries to reboot. I’m standing on the spot where Thomas Cranmer died. It’s not blocked off, no one’s charging admission. It’s barely even marked. It’s just part of the Oxford landscape. And not thirty feet away, I can buy Oxford University sweatpants and TARDIS cookie tins.

A chill goes up my spine. This moment of cognitive dissonance is just the beginning. Toto, we’re not in Ohio anymore.

Gauging distance in this town is impossible. Maybe it’s the uneven, cobblestoned terrain. Maybe it’s the pods of tourists taking up every inch of sidewalk. Maybe it’s the meandering streets and alleys. I love every cobblestone, pod, and meander, but I misjudge how long it will take to get to the Rhodes House and I end up finding it with less than a minute to spare.

I race up the steps. Just as I grab the door handle, my phone rings. Shit. Even though it’s only five A.M. in Washington, apparently we’re open for business.

“Gavin, hi!” I answer.

A chuckle greets me from the other end of the phone. “Sorry to disappoint, but this isn’t Gavin.”

I freeze, still holding the door handle. “Senator Wilkes,” I manage. “W-what a nice surprise.”

“Ella Durran. I’m a fan.”

I can’t believe this is happening; I’m here, I’m there, I’m—starting to hyperventilate. Chill. “I’m a huge fan of yours,” I gush. “I’m so excited to—”

“Excuse me?”