We human beings land ourselves in some pretty precarious pickles in pursuit of amusement, don’t we? I mean, we’re the only animal species who willingly dive out of airplanes, ride surfboards over treacherous waves in the ocean, or jump off bridges with only a bungee chord strapped to our ankles – all in the name of fun.
Me, I’ve never been the danger-pursuing type. Call me a wimp, but I’m not into perilous, adrenalin-inducing sport. No, my entertainments of choice involve either movies, theatre or choral music. Over here in the U.K., I’ve got all of those on my radar screen. Nice, low-key, wholesome activities and above all, safe.
Wrong. Last night I had a ticket to a concert by the City of Oxford Choir at Exeter College Chapel on the campus of Oxford University.
That I made it back home in one piece is a testament to dumb luck and the intervention of my higher angels, who must have been howling with mirth that I should have been so stupid as to undertake such an outing.
Now, you must understand that Oxford was laid out shortly after the Earth cooled. Its street map is the two-dimensional equivalent of a Rubik’s Cube. The chaps in the Middle Ages had never heard of (1) a straight line, (2) signage of any kind, (3) motor cars. Aside from being Medieval eye candy, the Oxford town center is simply not equipped to handle 21st Century traffic.
Which is why the Oxford Tourism Board’s website says very plainly, “DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DRIVE IN OXFORD. Park your car in a satellite lot and TAKE THE BUS.”
On the drive up to Oxford in the afternoon I had lunch with the delightful sister and brother-in-law of my house exchange partners, who live in a fascinating old (circa 1650) blacksmith’s house. As they drew me maps to show me how to get into the town center, they kept saying, in typical British understatement, “Oxford is not very car-friendly, I’m afraid. Have you considered the PARK-AND-RIDE SCHEME?”
Back on the main highway, I kept seeing warnings, “USE PARK-AND-RIDE FOR OXFORD,” and “YOU MUST TURN HERE FOR PARK-AND-RIDE.” On the main road leading into the town center, one lane is conspicuously designated For Buses Only. But I’m determined to do this on my own. It’s Saturday evening, not mid-week. Driving my automobile into town is my right as a citizen, correct?
As I passed the park-and-ride lot, I swear there was a sign along the lines of “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Driveth Here.” A skull-and-crossbones wasn’t visible, but I was beginning to get the idea. I downshifted and plowed boldly forward.
I had a strategy: Find the railway station and navigate from there. Oh, wait, the railway station is not where it’s supposed to be. There are no signs anywhere. OK, I’ll reason it out by turning…here.
My confidence took its first hit when I found myself on a one-way street heading the wrong way – with a bus coming straight at me. Ooopsy. I make a quick left. Oh, dear. I’m in a dead end alley. OK, all I have to do is make a quick seven-point turn and head back where I was. AAACK! I can’t find reverse, where’s reverse, doesn’t this car have reverse???
Deep, cleansing breaths. Slowly, slowly I meandered and got back out to a “main” street, only to realize that hmmmmm, there seem to be no other cars around. Only people on foot. Lots and lots of people on foot – in the middle of the street. As in, “This is a pedestrian mall. And I’m driving on it.”
“Oh, S***!!!!!”
The next 15 minutes were a blur. Not many options here: I’m lost, I’m driving around in circles on streets that are closed to automobiles, my maps are meaningless, I’m inches away from being pulverized by the Buses That Rule Oxford, I’m dodging dozens of kamikaze bicyclists, I’m being stared at by hundreds of Oxonians who are clearly wondering which planet I come from, and I’ve got to find a loo SOON.
So I did what any self-respecting American would do under similar circumstances: I smiled a little Mona Lisa smile, and pretended to know EXACTLY where I was and where I was going. Faking confidence, I downshifted and plowed boldly forward.
I had gleaned one fact from all the online and hand-drawn maps given to me – find Broad Street, and I’d be near Exeter College. By sheer magic Broad Street finally materialized. After all, even a blind squirrel can find a couple of nuts. I sensed I was closing in on Exeter. I decided to park and strike out on foot.
Only problem with this gem of a plan is that there are NO SIGNS on any building at Oxford. Wouldn’t be cool, I suppose. It’s as if the exclusivity of the place has been perpetuated by insiders who know the secret handshake. Obviously I didn’t know the secret handshake or the code or whatever cryptograms the Chosen Ones use to find their lairs.
After asking a half-dozen student-type individuals, I found Exeter College and its gorgeous little chapel, which could have been straight out of a Harry Potter movie set. Stepping into the quad of the vine-covered college was like stepping back several centuries. Really enchanting! I couldn’t imagine being privileged enough to attend school there, or at any of the 30-something colleges that make up the University. On the other hand, you’d have to be pretty hardy to withstand the discomforts of living in dorms that old.
The concert was, frankly, a let-down after the rigors of the trip to get there. It was OK, but the theme – plainsong through the ages – was so high-brow I’m not sure I “got it.” I suppose I should have expected something that erudite. It was at the oldest and most prestigious University in the world, after all.
I’m happy to report that I managed to escape the rabbit warren of streets without killing more than one or two bicyclists, and found my way home. But never let it be said that choral music has no perils or hazards. I’d take white water rafting on a Class 5 river over Oxford traffic any day.
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