It's never quite a settled feeling, visiting places that hold a place in your mind and heart. It just leaves you feeling...scattered. Spent the day in Oxford on Friday, as Mum and Dad and I drove down to London out of the Lake District. We walked the city, yours truly being the tour guide. From Christ Church Meadows, to the Bodleian Library, to a nice cream tea 'round 2ish, and up to St. Anne's where I studied last summer. Every little street was like meeting an old friend, but one who doesn't remember you as well. You try to explain it to the people you're with, try to introduce the thing remembered and the ones you're with, but it always ends awkwardly. After all, how can you explain that right there, right at that very spot, you fell in love with a place? You walk around, pointing to the bench you sat on to read in the mornings; the tiny corner room in an old Victorian house with windows that created the perfect cross-breeze for an afternoon nap; the unassuming cafe that became a sanctuary for the mind; the path you walked out of busy Oxford, to suddenly burst upon the Port Meadows with its acres and acres of rolling English countryside. How can you explain memory? How can you make someone remember with you, feel with you? For that is what memory seems to be, an emotion.
And thus, we misrepresent the place, the thing remembered. For we cannot truly remember it for someone else. It isn't theirs to remember, to feel.
...And as you can see, I am sidetracked. I love Oxford. It was a glorious day, despite the gnawing wish to turn back time and simply live it again. I guess that simply attests to its charm. From Oxford, we drove to London and checked into our hotel. Two full days of walking, and a few brilliant pub moments (e.g. eating fish and chips on the Thames, having a pint of Carling with a pie, watching the U.S. vs. England World Cup game in a British bar...etc.), and we'd seen it all. I must say, if ever anyone would like a tour of England, I've got it pretty pat...
No comments:
Post a Comment