the Dalaverse

Well, now. I just don't know where to start. How does last Monday work for you?

I was meant to spend this day as I spend every day -- doing the note-taking bit of my Archaeology paper -- but frankly I was too keyed up to get much work done. I met tiggothy! She is tiny and cute and sweet, and we had hot chocolate at the Thorntons cafe, then wandered around until we were distracted by Waterstones, where I have so far resisted the 3 for 2 sale on a bunch of books I want AND all of Patrick O'Brian (mostly because I think I'm buying books for my seminar paper and they need the suitcase space). We had Cornish pasties, my first (even though it's just across the Clarendon Center from me), and then she caught the bus home. And then I really did get down to work, and finished my paper in good time (read: an hour before tutorial) the next day. Nothing else interesting happened, except on Wednesday I was frantically running back and forth across the street between here and the St. Peter's library, because my tutor mixed up her schedule and wanted to meet that afternoon, despite the fact that I totally hadn't written my paper yet. Eventually the paper, she was written, and I was ready on Thursday morning to welcome The Parents to Oxford.

They got here around noon, pretty well jetlagged. My mini-tour mostly got blank stares and yawns. We had lunch at the Turf, which Dad thought was cool, as I knew he would, and I dragged them to the Oxford Story. 1970s Disney-does-Oxford -- not a bad way to spend an hour, but certainly not worth the seven-something pounds it cost. After some napping at the hotel, which is a good twenty-minute walk from here, we had more good, non-St. Peter's food, and we all crashed so that we could get up at ass o'crack in the morning and catch the bus to London.

First of all, MY PARENTS WERE LOST IN THE CITY FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF, because they did not take the sensible course of a. staying on the one fucking road where we were supposed to meet, where I walked up and down about five times or b. going back to their hotel, the single place in Oxford they could reliably locate. Finally, they found St. Michael's Hall, and we got on the bus much, much later than I'd planned. The London itinerary was as follows: Buckingham Palace (we got stuck in the changing of the guard crowd), through St. James' Park to Trafalgar Square (I came thisclose to being hit by a car while I was staring at the Admiralty Arch), hang for a bit (I managed to climb up on the platform of Nelson's Column, though the lions were too slippery), hit the National Gallery (saw Stubbs' Whistlejacket!), get horrendously lost on the way to the British Museum (hustled through it to see the Rosetta Stone, the Elgin marbles, and the mummies), be too late to get inside Westminster (my mother threw a temper tantrum at this), attempt to find the bus stop home. I navigated pretty successfully for most of the day, but by the end I was too exhausted to make any sense of my map. We did make it to the station, by what means I don't know (Buckingham Palace Road! Stop #10! Just a mental reminder), and back to Oxford, where I left them at the hotel in order to 'study.'

In reality I had an extremely bad night, which I do not want to talk about. I'd like to delete the last flocked and comment-disabled post, but...it's out there, now, and I can't take it back. The whole situation was one of the reasons I was absent for so long; it occupied my thoughts to a frightening degree, but I was determined it wouldn't occupy my public space. I went to bed a degree under miserable, with the thought of Portsmouth in the morning, and also because Meg popped on just as I was about to sign off and cry myself to sleep. Among other things, she said, 'You're losing sight of the mission - boys with accents,' which is one of the best pieces of advice I think I've ever gotten. I suppose I'm mostly okay about all of it now. I'm not over it, but I'm on my way.

Or, one of the best days of my entire life. Three hours of anticipation on the train ride there, and then...Portsmouth. We bought the all-inclusive harbour tickets and hit the Mary Rose museum first thing. The intro video had a most pleasant and familiar score. I'll give you a hint: rhymes with 'Shmirates of the Haribbean.' I geeked out and took pictures of virtually every display case (with MY CAMERA and its beautiful telephoto lens and manual focus), and I bought a replica of a pewter spoon because I was not walking out of there without a replica, and it was the cheapest they had (also a poster of the MR, the Victory and the Warrior). We walked down to the end of the harbour, past the Victory, which I could not give the proper attention yet because there was the Mary Rose Ship Hall. My feelings about this can be summed up in one sentence.

The hull of the Mary Rose being conserved is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

I stared at her for a few moments. Then I took a dozen or so pictures, and I don't know if they'll turn out because it was so insanely dark, but even if they don't I'll know exactly what the great dark blob is. Then I sat down, and leaned my head against the glass, and cried very quietly. It was a profoundly emotional, nearly religious experience, and I'm not really sure why that is but I am so very grateful to have it.

We ate crepes beside the Victory, and I bitched about the pigeons, which have become my least favorite denizen of the animal kingdom ever since they tried to murder me in the Saxon tower at the North Gate. There are some extremely goofy pictures of me clinging to a giant figurehead-esque statue of Vice Admiral Nelson, and a bunch of the ship herself -- the ones I took will have to keep until I get home and develop the film, but Dad took some on the digital camera too. Then we boarded and walked around the Victory for about forty-five minutes. It was kind of weird -- I mean, it's the Victory and that's awesome, but I didn't really like the way you tour a rigid path; it seemed almost sterile. I realize this site gets a bajillion more visitors yearly, but really I like visiting the Constellation better. Still and all, I stood on the deck of the Victory, and I had a moment of silence on the orlop deck where Nelson died. Or I tried to, with my mother whispering in my ear, 'Who's that in the painting? Is this the spot where he was shot?'

The last leg of our tour (we didn't have time to go on the Warrior, which considering all else didn't upset me much) was the Royal Navy Museum, which was very airy and friendly and all around a good museum, like its Mary Rose counterpart. About half of it (or what we saw; we didn't go into the 20th century part) was devoted to Nelson, including a really neat interactive Trafalgar exhibit with PotC-the-ride-looking figures and smoke and the big panorama painting. After a last stop in yet another gift shop, where I bought a model of the Victory and some postcards, we headed back to the train station, happy and exhausted -- mostly two of us, since my mother does not really understand the appeal of Portsmouth and was really a good sport about the whole thing. At home I watched "Caddyshack" and continued to not study, and fell into bed having only thought about That and Them once or twice all day.

We went back to take care of more touristy activities, getting to the other side of the Thames so Dad and I could ride the Eye (So. Cool.) and Mom could take a river cruise. In a moment of personal triumph, we figured out the Underground, which is pretty much just like the Metro only with infinitely more lines, and took it to the Tower of London. This we got through in under an hour, since I'd already been there and dragged them around to the points of interest quickly. Also, it was raining, and I wanted to go home. This time we found the bus stop with less difficulty and came back to enjoy steak and ale pies, and then a viewing of "Brokeback Mountain," which impressed me more the second time and which the parents at least sat through without incident. And I still didn't read for my windmills and water-mills paper.

I hit Christ Church with my seminar in the morning, introduced the folks to the covered market, and spent much of the remainder of the day familiarizing myself with my shiny new laptop, which they brought with them and which I have named Sir Christopher Wren. I miss my mouse and the right-hand number keypad, but I must admit it's nice to type something up in one's lap. And now I can download stuff, and watch streaming Daily Show, and play Solitaire until my eyes bleed green and black and red. Which I most did, instead of my reading, and I put off the entire paper -- research included -- until about 9:00 this morning. I finished it at 2, got the full two thousand words out of it, and it's even not half-bad.

As of right now, I'm officially back -- back as in reading the flist, and commenting, and posting, and writing fic very very soon. Not tonight, though, as it's Quiz Night at the Turf in an hour, and I need a Quiz Night.

Oh! Before I forget, thank you again for the covers, hannahrorlove, and for the Valentine's goody, linaelyn, which could not have come at a better time.