Doing Nothing in Oxford

Punting

Garden

Circus street

Fiddler

Taking it easy has never been easy for me, but I've been so tired for the first few days of this trip that I finally just succumbed -- sleeping late and lazing around. I'm no longer a tourist in this place anyway, so there's no need to charge off into the streets determined to visit every landmark, cathedral, or museum. We're here to see our daughter, mostly. In fact, I heard her leaving for work early this morning, and I called out, "I love you!" but I don't think she heard me, so I rolled over and went back to sleep, and the next time I looked at the clock, it was after ten, but I felt rested, so I guess I needed that.

Only in this slow and easy mode would I have taken the time to do some laundry before charging off on some arbitrary exercise walk or a compulsive march onto the busy streets of Oxford lest the morning get away from me. Instead, I did the wash by hand in a basin in the sink, and went outside to hang it on the line. Is it weird to say that I enjoyed this chore? I liked the feel of those old clothespins, faded like driftwood, and there was something simple and satisfying about clipping them to the line and seeing everything afterwards neatly hung and awaiting the good effects of wind and sun.

The clothesline is behind the house in an area Miranda calls "the garden" -- a deep, narrow stretch of green that really does have the feeling of a secret garden. There are overgrown weeds and scraggly flowers and leafy trees that drop little white flecks of blossoms on you, and there are abandoned flower pots, a rusting bicycle, and an old wooden chair so weathered and paint-peeled as to be a work of art.  It's pleasant back there behind and between the brick row houses of Hurst Street.

Eventually we ventured into the world. Our mission was to buy a map, so we walked along Cowley Road to the High Street, heading into the centre of the city.

Suddenly there were sirens, a blustery roar of motorcycles, a helicopter hovering overhead, and police positioned everywhere we looked, some of them on horses. A series of important-looking vehicles sped past us, and one of them said FLOTUS. Sure enough, it was Michelle Obama, on her way to Christ Church College to deliver a talk to schoolgirls.As it turned out, I had a chance to witness the motorcade again a little later as it exited the college. It was fascinating to get a sense of the elaborate precautions involved in such a visit and to see the daunting police presence, the guards on rooftops, the conspicuous-looking secret service agents.

A small crowd began to form along the street behind the barriers, and one of the policemen told me that the First Lady would be coming out any minute, so I stood with the others and waited. Soon enough, the motorcycles made their flashy overture, and then the motorcade emerged, sped by, and that was it.

An English woman behind me expressed her indignation. "H-m-m-ph. If it were the Queen, they would have at least slowed down, and she'd have waved. The Royals know how to do it."

I also heard a few folks speculating as to the cost of the arrangements and wondering who was footing the bill. An attractive black woman, who actually bore a slight resemblance to Michelle Obama, pointed to a fresh pile of horse manure where the mounted policemen had gathered and said (I kid you not), "I wish I had my shovel! This stuff is great for the garden."

As I was walking back towards Cornmarket Street, a little girl with bright red hair took a great leap and landed on both feet directly in front of me, so suddenly that I almost tripped over her. Her mother apologized, but there was something astonishing about it -- it really seemed as though she had dropped from the sky. It was beginning to be that sort of day, a circus day, a surreal circus day. Life is fun when you've had enough sleep and you're not rushing around trying to accomplish things.

Meanwhile, on Cornmarket Street a man in a red shirt, black vest, and bowler hat was dancing about on a wire three or four feet above the ground playing a fiddle, and playing it well. I wish I could do any one of those things all by itself, let alone three of them together. I put a pound or two in his open fiddle case, then walked with Monte back to Christ Church Meadow, where we sat in a sun-dappled patch of grass and leaned contentedly against an old stone wall.

Two young women were stretched out on the grass in front of us, talking and giggling. One of them was a robust blonde in a blue knit dress and black tights, the other a thin brunette, a beauty, wearing jeans, a white blouse, and big sunglasses. She kicked off her sandals, looked at her cell phone, then leaned back like a cat to enjoy the sun.

I asked Monte, "Do you think those two have any idea what a magical time of life they are in right now, and how they might one day look back on it? Do you think they have any sense of how ephemeral their youth is?"

"Absolutely not," said Monte.

He's probably right. Certainly there is a way of understanding youth that can only be attained from the vantage point of age.  And from the vantage point of age, I sometimes envy the young. But an advantage of the vantage point of age, given the right frame of mind, is that everything becomes more wondrous...because you begin to truly understand that just being here is a gift.

We walked back behind the Botanic Gardens and beneath a canopy of trees. I never know the proper names of plants, but one tree had leaves of brownish-wine exactly the color of the kelp we see at home.

A man in a formal suit was sitting on the ground, his back against a tree trunk, intently studying from a seriously heavy-looking book.

On the Cherwell, a few kids were punting, or attempting to punt. They kept bumping into the river's green banks or veering towards each other, laughing.