I wanted badly for my room to face High Street.  I wanted the romantic view of the famous dreaming spires of Oxford.  Instead, I had a room in the second quad.  That wouldn’t have been so bad if the room had faced the quad itself.  As luck would have it (and I have long reconciled myself to having the worst kind of luck), my room faced an alley, Magpie Lane.  The day I arrived, while I was trying to take a nap amidst noises of hammering and a dumpster truck in operation, I heard a tour guide tell his group of tourists, “This Magpie Lane used to be the seediest part of Oxford.”  

From my window, I could see the balcony roof top of the Oriel College kitchen, a dumpster next to the kitchen, three storeyed apartment buildings and student dormitories with laundry hung in the windows.  No dreaming spires, just chimneys.  Normally I might have found chimneyed rooftops romantic, but  in Oxford, anything other than the much publicized spires just didn’t cut it for me.  

I contemplated taking a few pictures of the chimneys, but decided against it.  Dirty chimneys in Oxford?  I would climb up the tower of the University Church of Saint Mary the Virgin and take my own pictures of this romantic city.  I wanted to capture what Oxford was supposed to look like.  My pictures would show the beautifully manicured college quads, the gothic churches, the gargoyles, the curvy High Street, and of course, the spires.   

High Street at night would be especially romantic.  It would be soft and serene, basking in the warm yellow streetlight and the bright full moon.  I would fall in love with an Oxford student and he would give me an interpretive tour of medieval Oxford on one of those full moon nights.  We would not hold hands because he knew I was married, and besides, he was very English and would not be demonstrative with his feelings.  We’d have a platonic courtship and I would leave Oxford carrying fond memories of those moonlight walks.  And I would think High Street at two o’clock in the morning was the most peaceful and love-inspiring place in the world.  

Well, I like making up stories, and I’m a dreamer.   

******  

I did go to the pubs a few times in the evenings with a group of American students.  While sitting on the outdoor picnic benches, feeling self-conscious of our foreignness, we tried to carry on conversations without substance, pretending we were paying no attention to the robust demonstrations of love, of people, sitting only inches away from us, sticking their tongues into each other’s throats and smelling of alcohol.  Where was the repressed Oxford student who would show me the history of this romantic English city?  

Contrary to my romanticized, medieval, bucolic vision, Oxford was a city smelling of raw urban fun, down-to-earth practicality, and bustling tourism.  It was the second most popular city in England for tourism.  It was still a prestigious place of learning.  But it was also a place to get lost in the fun.  Stereotypical scholar types (with badly trimmed hair and thick geeky glasses) shared the Oxford streets with the smartly dressed tourists, the hippie tourists, the big-haired club hoppers, the bums, the shopkeepers.   

Oxford was still beautiful at night, but juxtaposing the manifestations of history is a vibrant urban nightlife.  I could never decide whether or not to make eye contact with the pervasive street beggars, who were almost always canine-accompanied.  As early as eleven o’clock in the evening, men desperate for a leak would urinate against my romantic buildings, walls, and churches.  

One morning I found Lois dejected at the breakfast table.  The legendary mess hall served the same breakfast every morning: eggs, bacon, sausage, coffee, tea, wonder bread, and Kellogg’s cereal.  It couldn’t be the breakfast that was getting Lois down.  I wanted to know what was wrong.  She had been waiting to be asked. She said she had finally gotten back to Oxford at 4 o’clock in the morning, after a failed attempt to visit Calais.   

“You won’t believe all the scary weirdoes walking the streets.  Guys making big splashing sounds peeing right on the street.  Bums telling me they needed a wife.  I’ve never had so many wedding proposals in my life.   “The worst part was,” Lois continued after a few pregnant seconds, “This kid took his pants off a couple of feet in front of me and did a dirty dance.”  

“Yes?  That sounded like fun,” I said, “I would’ve loved to see it.”   

“No, you don’t understand,” Lois looked genuinely disturbed, her brows knotted, her eyelids narrowed, “I saw the first uncircumcised penis in my whole life.”  

******  

What was a woman travelling by herself to do when hearing about the possibility of seeing a man pull his pants down two feet in front of her to do a dance with his uncircumcised penis?  I wanted to see it for myself.  I fantasized about what to say to the dirty dancer.  I would say, “Is that how big your carrot is?”  If a bum proposed to me, I would say, “Bring me a white elephant and I’ll marry you.”  But I didn’t stay out late and didn’t go out by myself at night.  When three bums playfully proposed to me, I tensed up, looked away, and walked as fast as I could.   

Back at Oriel College, those whose rooms faced High Street complained about catcalls and drunken revelers right under their windows.  The drunken revelers were just as noisy and vulgar as in any big city.  I was jealous.  I wished, even more than when I had just arrived, to have a room on High Street.  At least I could have spied on the exciting and often vulgar activities at night. I was no longer obsessed about the dreaming spires.  I wanted to experience the real Oxford.  I didn’t fall in love with any Oxford student.  I didn’t experience my moonlight medieval courtly love.  I came home with a few pictures of the spires that looked suitably dreamy, much like those in the postcards and guidebooks.   

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