kaitlin the class act

as i walk down the street and observe oxford students starting to pack up their belongings to head back home over the break, i feel a burning sense of sadness - i'm gonna miss these crazy kids. i've had some time to reflect on my adventures in oxfordland, of late, and it really only makes the nostalgia all the more difficult to stomach. i could regale you with tales of my more noble pursuits, though these would be far too many to count, and perhaps less intriguing to read about. compiled is a list of experiences that often left me wondering how in the world i was able to hack it over here.

stanford welcome dinner, night 2: it was brasenose hall. it was assigned seating. now the principal of brasenose is kind of a big deal, i.e. some renowned physicist who worked on the linear accelerator, has received honors from the queen, etc. etc. naturally, they place the genuis asian girl who's taking two tutorials in math and physics next to him. how was it that the next logical step was to place me, kaitlin, the english/creative writing/makes naively inappropriate remarks student next to the man? and why in the world was i also placed next to the director of our entire program? sandwiched between two important, intimidating academics for the evening - something had to have gone wrong. it wasn't all terrible to begin with though. i held my own. principal brasenose was actually quite witty, which put me at ease. i joked back, maybe overstepping my limits a bit, but he was tactful enough to handle my very well-intended sarcastic blows. we talked about skiing, we talked about our backgrounds, we talked about how the c.s. lewis relics at brasenose weren't half as impressive as the christ church links to harry potter (to be honest, i think that's where it all started to go downhill; he looked pretty sad when i brought that up). though this appears to be taking on a certain direction of its own, rest assured that it wasn't a conversational faux pas that left me cringing at the end of the evening. oh no. near the end of the dinner i was pretty sure i had made it through unscathed. then the dessert made its way out: a delectable pear tart covered in whipped cream and accompanied by an assortment of berries and multi-colored syrups. de-lish. i set to work, sans a knife, and it was this lack of a knife that was to make all the difference. this pear tart was freaking hard as a rock. my mouth watered during the years that lay between bites, my hand started to ache as i tried breaking this thing with my fork, with my spoon, with my fork and spoon. the rest of the world became a haze, as all that existed for me was that pear tart that i couldn't for the life of me eat like a normal human being. and then it happened. my harsh yank back into reality. the fork slipped, the sound of metal on porcelain echoed throughout the hall, the pear tart flew back behind my head, leaving sprays of whipped cream all over the table cloth and my nice dress. it finally came to a halt on the floor, leaving in its wake a trail of sugary goodness and a gape-mouthed me. all i could do was stare on in horror, until the principle turned to meet my eye, observing, "sounds like you've been fighting with your food over here." i'd say that i was glad he was able to have a sense of humor about it, if it weren't for the c.s. lewis comment i had made earlier. hence, i'm thinking this was more of a low blow, a one-upmanship, especially as i had made my way onto defacing school property. and i didn't even get to eat the whole tart!

there must just be this thing with me and important authority figures, because the next formal hall that i went to was at my home college, magdalen. of course i was running late, having arrived 40 minutes into the dinner due to a delayed bus ride from london. after one of the servers kindly allowed us in, my friend and i sprinted into the hall as they were bringing out the second course. unfortunately, the only two seats left included one amidst a group of friendly students, and the other, next to the president at the high table. guess where i got to sit. he didn't pay me much heed, as several of his friends were also present - perhaps professors or tutors at the college. and lucky for me, my junior dean was sitting directly across from me so i got to talk to him for the majority of the remaining dinner. but then me and the prez got to talking. i can't remember much of what was said at all, except that after he told me he went to cambridge for his undergraduate work i called him a traitor. this seemed like a clever remark to me...at the time. when he told me, i thought of the diehard rivalry between stanford and cal, and i thought that maybe it paralleled such an oxford/cambridge rivaly. such is not the case, as the two british universities are far too sophisticated and upstanding for these types of trivial layman's games. the conversation petered off after that moment. i try to comfort myself by imagining that perhaps he didn't hear me. after all, he was having a difficult time with that earlier, and truth be told, i'm sure he just wanted to get back to his friends. but as i gradually related this tale to others, the gravity of my remark became more daunting. score one for kaitlin.

i have a broad range of interests, and so i don't like to think that there's any one experience that i'll miss out on in life. this includes some of the more foul tasks the world has to offer. it was a thursday and my friend and i were leaving student night at one of the local clubs. the entire evening had been a bit strange because a bunch of what seemed like 16-year-old boys had been buying us drinks. it felt a little creepy. so as we were finally leaving i was probably being a little too sassy as usual, joking a little too harshly with random strangers, and strutting down the street like there was no tomorrow. and then all of a sudden something caught my eye - two construction workers barracaded off with a noisy truck and a pump thrust into the ground. "what are you doing?" i asked, fascinated. "hahaha," the toothless man grinned. "just pumping some sewage." i should have turned and politely walked away at this point. but no. my response: "sweet! can i try?" "HAHAHA. sure!" the man handed me the equipment. i began to pump sewage. after a few minutes of childlike laughter, drawing attention to myself, and overall awe at my labor, the episode lost its novelty. i was quickly handed a moist towelette and sent on my way. oh, what a night.

and now for the screw-up in the social setting - the night i defaced brasenose property, part 2. it was rugby cocktail night...all-you-can-drink cocktails for 6 pounds. taglines like that only provoke me. cocktails, as it turned out, translated into giant plastic bins full of rum and coke and gin and tonic. after getting my temporary fill, kicking some major ass in chugging contests (i will stand by this statement forever...i dare any one of you to take me on), and flashing the horns for several pictures, i decided it was time for my friend and i to man the bar. i hope none of this gets back to any of the rugby guys, because i successfully snuck several bottles of cheap vodka to my friends. those sloshed rugby players were none the wiser. my friend and i then took to the floor again, as it was approaching the end of the night. then, half-naked, giant rugby player sporting st. george's cross on his chest walks up carrying the remnants of the cocktails in a plastic bin. he says something to the effect of, "you two have been good sports. help us finish this, we can't let it go to waste." i had a genuine, burning desire to help those guys finish the cocktails. i couldn't let them go to waste. but i wasn't thirsty. solution: take my cup, fill it to the brim with gin and tonic, and pour it directly on to the floor right in front of rugby player's face. i'm not sure how i got away with it, but thank god i didn't incur the wrath of the entire rugby team. i did get several hateful stares from a group of girls about ten feet away, however.

i feel as though this is probably a good place to stop. i may decide to withold further stories for another day, or perhaps i'll find within myself a sense of shame and decide to keep them hidden away forever. either way, it became clear to me this term that fools like me can survive the big, sophisticated world of british academia, despite their day-to-day fuck-ups.