On to Oxon

This past Thursday, I decided the re-indulge in my favorite hobby (academic elitism) and decided to take a small trip to a very old school, namely, the University of Oxford. Recognized as one of (or perhaps just) the most prestigious universities in the English-speaking world, Oxford often needs no introduction. Indeed, one can hardly hardly even say the name without affecting a slight accent.

Because of the city of Oxford's close proximity to London and the commuting needs of local Britons, a double-decker bus service known as the Oxord Tube shuttles tourists, students, and the gainfully employed alike between the two cities. (As a slight aside, an intriguing difference I've noticed between US cities and London is that, whenever space is tight, there is a greater tendency in the latter to look vertically for spatial efficiency, rather than horizontally-- or, as the case seems to be in NYC, giving up.) While I mentioned previously in this blog that I would try to shy away from doing anything too touristy there are some things that transcend the mere touristy and go straight to the heart of sublime experience. Also, I wanted to sit up top. See:

After a very relaxed hour-and-a-half drive, I disembarked and found myself in a city that was fused together with pieces from different centuries, at once ancient and contemporary, ponderous and bustling.

Incidentally, I felt rather at home on campus, as the architecture very closely resembled my own alma mater's, albeit without using labor drastically cheapened by the ravages of the Great Depression. Being the old philosophy hand who has kept up his interest in the subject even through the past few years, I was also eager to vist the philosophy department, a venerable faculty consistently regarded as among the finest in the Anglophone world. Though no one was in since term had not yet begun, there was an air of quiet dignity that surrounded the building, possibly due to the subtle grandnesses of the faculty building itself, or possibly the fact that I desperately wanted to be professionally affiliated with that department. Or, you know, random fountain statue:

One thing that deserves mention is the Tesco I ran into for a quick bite. Tesco is the largest supermarket on the English food scene, functionally the British equivalent of Wal-Mart, in relative terms of both size and possible evil. There are also smaller, bodega-sized Tesco Expresses that dot cities, though Oxford had a full-sized one, that featured the huge variety of unique, pre-made, take-away sandwiches.

Some of my favorite examples have been tikka masala; chicken and sweetcorn; houmous and carrot chutney; and my personal favorite: egg, bacon, and sausage with a ketchupy mayonnaise. I was able to snag one as well as a pain au chocolat, a chocolate-filled croissant that I fell in love with the first time I went to Europe way back in 2003. All in all, a solid, Britishy snack.

After touring around the city a little more -- including its very impressive, four -floor Waterstone's bookstore -- I decided that I had had enough of Oxford for a while. I found my way back to the Tube, and bade goodbye to Oxford. For now.