the summer of '71 . . .

found me graduating from college and wondering what the heck I was supposed to do with the rest of my life. Trying to stave off the inevitable, my friend Cyndee and I decided to sign up for a six week summer exchange course at Oxford University. The only problem being . . . we didn't want to spend the remaining six weeks touring Europe with everyone else . . . seeing a country-a-day from a train window, waving hello and goodbye in the blink of an eye. We wanted to spend the three weeks before and after, on our own, exploring the British Isles. The idea was met with a resounding no by the powers that be. Ouch. Fortunately, it seemed that in the end, they required just two more warm bodies to make the trip a go and we were, reluctantly, granted our wish . . . we would fly over with the group, bid them a fond farewell, take off with our Brit Rail and U-Rail passes in hand and meet them three weeks later in Oxford . . . study English Lit from 1871 to 1971 . . . a passion of mine . . . and then take off again for the last three weeks before meeting them at Heathrow for the trip home. Perfect!

So there we were, bright eyed and eager, our first morning in London with suitcases, books, back packs and toilet paper wondering where to start. Loaded down as we were, it seemed most propitious to head to Oxford, dump our non-necessities and head out from there. We managed to navigate the Underground after only a few missteps . . . thinking a sign that said Subway was, um, a subway. Nope. A subway there was an underground walkway to the other side of the street. Makes sense to me . . sub . . way. Hopping off the train in Oxford, we asked for directions to St. Hilda's College. We were told to go to the round-about and turn left. When the light bulb clearly failed to go off, our would be guide started to twirl his fingers round and round in a circular motion . . . . you know, where the traffic goes round about. Light bulb on.

Our first night in Oxford was spent in the home of a Mrs. Paine . . . there never being a more aptly named matron and her amazing feather beds. It was the first of many bed and breakfasts we would inhabit. Asking for a recommendation for dinner, "If you don't mind Blacks", she said with utter disdain, "I have two other boarders who are just heading out for libation and repast." That was our introduction to the British/India class struggles of the early 70's. It was also our introduction to Scotch eggs, warm lager, low ceilings and learning to order two beers using one's thumb and index finger rather than one's index and middle fingers . . . the apparent equivalent to a solitary middle finger salute back home. We were also well advised: "Ladies don't drink pints, they order 'alf pints." Duly noted.

Looking back 37 years and six months later, those first three weeks were a blur. We stayed at B&B's enjoying the massive breakfasts that came with the night's lodging, grabbed the train to wherever caught our fancy, noshed on yogurt and bread on the fly and fish and chips for dinner . . . all for under $5 a day. I still have that mangled note pad that helped me keep track of my finances that summer. But all that is really left of that time are some brass rubbings, a handful of yellowed photographs and some fleeting remembrances of our grand time along the northern coast of Scotland . . .

. . . watching a crowded movie theatre go berserk cheering for "The Duke." As royalty goes, John Wayne was "king".

. . . sitting in a field of heather as far as one can see. Our night's hostess carefully wrapping some up for us to take back home . . . the feasibility not withstanding.

. . . looking down the length of Loch Ness. . . hoping, hoping, hoping.

. . . sticking our toes in the Black Sea because we could

. . . queuing up along the side of the road in Edinburgh because everyone else was and having Queen Elizabeth drive by not four feet from our faces and marveling over those perfect circles of rouge on her cheeks.

. . . sliding down the dung filled goat paths of the crag behind the castle: a student rite.

To be continued . . .