Second Spire to the Right

My first journey to Oxford University from departure to arrival can best be marked by strange men who saw me cry. 

Man 1. Baggage steward in Dublin. 

Background: I had spent the entire day delayed in D.C., followed by another delayed layover in Boston. We took off from Boston around 1 a.m. I had just nodded off, slumped against the window, when they turned on the cabin lights, turned Captain America on the overhead TVs and began serving beef stew. By the time we landed in Dublin, I had about 15 minutes of sleep, 24 hours of travel, and a meager 45 minutes to catch my final flight. Shaking internally, I squinted at signs to comprehend the navigation of the airport.

A charming and vaguely Andy Serkis-looking airport steward must have seen me standing inept and bewildered and asked me if I needed help. To my mortification, my voice broke in answering him. My new best friend/Knight in shining armor He responded in reassuring cheeriness that he could get me to my gate. Reaching down to my suitcase, he said, “shall I just take this, then?” The suitcase handle obliged, but the suitcase did not. He paused momentarily, blinking at the detached suitcase handle in his hand. “That’s alright!” He announced, scrambling to reattach it. Somehow we managed to run together with limping luggage to the gate in time. 

Man 2. Cab driver 

By the time I drew my first breath of English air outside Heathrow Airport, my brain was rapidly failing me. A broken suitcase had now derailed both plan A (train) and plan B (bus) of transportation to Oxford since both would include a lengthy walk with an un-wheeling and unwieldy suitcase. My grad school had set a few suggestions for alternate means of transportation, the next of which was car service. I dragged my luggage outside to a line of waiting cabs and asked if they would take me to Oxford. “Oxford?” The cabbie said, “We can take you there, but it will cost you a pretty quid.” The exact amount? £250. I repeated the amount back to him, face mercifully hidden by sunglasses, but unable to conceal a breaking voice. No amount of exhaustion and desperation could justify a $500 car ride. I thanked him and embarked on the luggage-drag-of-shame back into Heathrow. 

I pulled out my grad school papers and found the number for a van service they recommended. I sank into the nearest Costa Coffee chair, dreaming desperately of sleep. Before long, my phone rang with an unfamiliar number and the man announced he had arrived. In hindsight, there is probably some risk to getting into a strange man’s dirty blue van next to his dry cleaning, but his price was fair and I lived to tell about it. 

Man 3: Driver of said blue van

We rode in silence, and I stared in fascination out the window. There’s a moment in the drive from London to Oxford, when you round some magical corner of the M40. London suburbs disappear and “England’s green and pleasant land” envelops you completely. Farmland creates a patchwork, while cotton sheep speckle verdant undulating hillsides. It’s a thrilling sight no matter how many times I have made the drive, but on this first occasion, the beauty of it all overwhelmed me to the point of tears. Hiding behind sunglasses, I hoped he wouldn’t notice this tired, incompetent American shedding happy tears in his back seat. 

The upside of being exhausted to the point of delirium  was that arriving at a destination like Oxford truly felt like a fairy tale. The sight of stately sand-colored walls, cobblestone sidewalks, and so many spires would come to feel like home. But seeing it for the first time felt like a dream. The driver took me to the gate of Lincoln College on Turl Street, where I checked in with the porter. A rich tapestry of ivy hung down the stone walls of the quad, as the porter led me up a creaking wooden staircase to my home for the summer. 

The ceiling curved to one side like a cozy cave, upheld by sturdy, exposed beams. Outside my desk window, the stones stood in a checkerboard pattern as if I were peering through a castle parapet. The room even held a stately wardrobe, which did not go to Narnia. I checked.

That night I would stagger down to dinner and meet strangers who would become some of my dearest friends. I would stumble back to my room and collapse into sleep. And in the morning, Oxford would be waiting to be discovered.