Anticipation

I picture it like this: a small alleyway of cobblestone curving out of sight just ahead, warm light from a lantern cast against the heavy blue of dusk, and an a cappella choir singing soothing carols as I sip on tea at a café with my wife. I will often ramble through the streets and glimpse a group of children skipping around and singing in Old English, as is proper for any young Brit. Likewise on my daily horse rides through the countryside, I will happen upon many peasant farmers, plowing the land with mules and whistling folk tunes. Around the bend will be their lord's castle, all abustle with activity - bakers and vendors and cobblers and whatnot. And I will return at night to my humble abode where I shall sit and read my correspondence from the far reaches of Tartary, having been sent nearly three months earlier. Yes, this is surely the life that awaits me in England.

Then I shall realize, whilst drinking my tea, that the urge has arisen and will enquire the butler as to the whereabouts of the watercloset: "Where be-ist the WC, good fellow?"
"Se brim banhus?"
Stunned by this man's audacity whereby he shuns my question, I retort, "Heavens! Shame upon your family, and where ever is your lord with whom I shall lodge formal complaint regarding your impunity?"
"Se domne?"
After which I give up and go searching myself, only to realize that there is no WC, nor in fact any closets, and indeed no water running anywhere within the block. And I realize I can really go on no longer in this daydream without proper sanitation; hence, I vacate the premises until my mind has had the chance to sufficiently forget my dependence on modernity.

I have never been to Oxford, so I only have my daydreams and the various pictures I have seen to help me anticipate life there. Unfortunately, in my saner moments, I know it will be nothing like I have imagined - for one thing, those knightly chaps in the fringes of my mind's eye probably won't be around, nor will horses occasionally plod into the scene obscuring my view of the choir. And I suppose I won't be wearing something akin to a friar's cloak. Details, details.

What matters, of course, is that the sentiment will be completely as I have imagined, 100 percent. Oxford oozes romance, it simply must, for that is how I see it. Every picture I have seen, adequately staged by photographers or tourists alike, screams "OLD," which is naturally all I want it to be. Everything old is good, and Oxford is very old, so it must be very good. At least, that's what my stare-off-into-nowhere moments tell me. Life there will be perfect. And I have good reason to believe it will be. After all, wasn't Edinburgh perfect, just as I thought it would be...except for the drunk Irishmen in the room next door at three in the morning. And wasn't Paris bliss...minus the psycho-grumpy concierge. In reality, they were both wonderful, but not at all what I expected.

This time, in Oxford, everything will be completely different. I am married, I will be in school, and I will actually be living there, not just visiting. I simply cannot wait. This is the chance for my most ridiculous medieval romantic daydreams to actually occur. I will be daily walking a city laden with history, they say you can almost breathe it in, perhaps like Georgia's humidity. My college is situated in a fairly new building, as they describe it, only dating from the 1800s - practically newborn. Although America is wonderful, there is something intensely invigorating about going to live among, between, next to, around, on top of, and inside really old stuff. But if experience is any guide, it will be nothing like I expect. After all, I am going to be working on a master's degree, and most grad students I have known were feverishly busy with school all the time. And given the cost of living in England, I will probably not be able to ring Alfred for tea in the afternoon. I might actually have to get it myself (heaven forbid!). And I admit, my daydreams are an absurd mixture of eras, squelching all of the past fourteen centuries into a single picture. Oh, I forgot to tell you - Beowulf leaps across rooftops battling Grendel in the background of my cobblestone scene.

As our departure nears, reality sets in. We will have to pay bills and cook and work and all the usual things we would do here, and we probably will not witness legend in the making. But it will still be glorious, even if it isn't what I expect. It's not every day I get the chance to live in England, and I intend to enjoy it, down to the very last scone.