Serendipity

This morning’s walking tour marked the end of my orientation program here at Oxford. When I arrived, we were promptly sectioned off into groups of 18 (not 20.) Going with my gung-ho approach, I just started introducing myself. First I met a nice American girl and then later, I zeroed in on a shorter girl who I thought might be European. She said her name was Rosa and that she was from Finland. So I said "woomenda" or however you actually spell “good morning” in Finnish. I told her about my family being Estonian and it turns out that her family has lived in Estonia since 1991. Her parents are journalists and wrote for Finnish daily’s in the months and years after independence.

So, here we were walking down the street in Oxford, speaking Estonian. I had hoped to find some Estonian-speakers to practice with!

Otherwise, today was a graduation day, so I was constantly confronted with new grads in their gowns, mortarboards and hoods. It was great fun and got my mind spinning about next summer/fall when I get to do the same thing…hopefully.

Day Two: The Turf

After a full day of firsts, first time in the Examination Schools, first meal at the Hall at Magdalen (and second, incidentally), and I went to the Turf Tavern to meet some fellow Magdalen graduates. It was a great chance to meet some of my fellow students and the pub atmosphere lends it self well to otherwise awkward social situations. The Turf is a bit of landmark, supposedly very tough to find. My guide book claims it dates to the 13th century. We actually shut the place down tonight (something I never do), but that's because the pub's pulls dry up promptly at 11pm.

E P Raun

This is my room. A little bit ago I heard what I thought was someone fiddling with my lock, but I was wrong. A nice girl was putting up my name plate. It's shockingly permanent. I wonder if I get to keep it?

I'm here and aside from fatigue, I am well.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is already today. Tomorrow (today) used to be six months away. I leave for England in 15 or so hours. If anyone knows of a good quote about time, let me know.

Wish me luck.

In Search of...

It just occured to me why I should be a travel writer. I often do my best thinking in the bathroom, and this is no exception.

I should be a travel writer because I am a quester (one driven in pursuit of a noble (or not so noble) quest.) While others far braver have proceeded me, searching for knight's for their round tables or the holy grail or du temps perdu, I go in search of the ultimate...hot dog.

During my trip to Estonia it was the search for the best traditional Estonian meat pastry (yum!) When I was in Ireland, it was the search for the coziest spot of tea. When I spent this summer in Bloomington, it was the search for the greatest Cary Grant film. And when I was recently in New York, it was the search for the best possible French cooking, stateside.

For the most part, it's food that is my fancy. But on my forthcoming journey to England (where I'll really have the chance to perform an exhaustive 10 month search) who knows what I might find. I guarantee it will be something (perhaps the cloudiest day or the dowdiest dowdy.) For the quest is what drives me. It throws me out of bed in the morning and says, "Is that the best you can do?" For in the seemingly pointless search, we come across the surprises that delight each and every one of us when we travel. I wish I could edit a book about the surprise encounters and discoveries that our travels (and quests) have awarded to so many of us.

The thing is, none of my searches ever seem to end.

that altogether infuriatin' palm pounding

Why can't we have a president who is also a human being? What has happened along the gulf coast is horrifying, so why isn't the president horrified? I sit there and wonder, why can't he show some genuine emotion or empathy, something that makes him more like the rest of us? Could he maybe admit that he is licked? Instead, he repeatedly pounds his right palm on the podium in his token way and tells us everything will be back to normal soon enough. What is so wrong, or so hard, about admitting that you are overwhelmed by this tragedy? Make the rest of us feel like you really get it! Empathy is not a failure of leadership, it is leadership.

Tartine, W 11th and 4th Street, Greenwich Village, New York

Keeping with my theme of reviewing French restaurants, lend me your eyes and I'll tell you the tale of Tartine.

Tartine. What does it mean? I had to look it up, but it seems to translate as "slice of bread." The offerings are certainly much more than a simple slice of bread, but maybe the name is an homage to where it all began, French food that is, with a damn good slice of bread (and grew into sourdough and flaky croissants and crusty baguettes.)

Blake and I arrived at 8pm to a small crowd of fans gathered out front, watching the lucky friends at tables enjoying their meals. I had read that there is no 'putting your name in' tradition at Tartine, but rather you stand in a line. Tonight, however, the line was nonexistent, but one of the servers kept us in mind and magically knew when it was our turn to sit and so we all did, eventually. The other people waiting were just as excited as we were and what's more, they were our people. They were kind and curious and quick with a smile. This isn't Balthazar where you breathe only when absolutely necessary and hope you don't slip on a rogue mussel. Here, we were at home with the other 20 or 30 diners (if only because we were all essentially eating together because the room was so tight, but then again, that's Paris.)

The food. We began with goat cheese croutons. They were simply divine. The toasted French bread slices were coated (goated) with the cheese and accompanied by marinated and grilled red peppers and bits of basil. Thankfully, there were three slices and three of us, or else we may not have gotten out of there alive.

For our entrees: Kristin had grilled sausage with potatoes, Blake had a chicken and mushroom dish served in puff pastry and I, again, ordered mussels (with french fries!) I was so involved with eating my mussels, I accidentally wore them all the way home on my shirt. I suppose that all's fair in love and war and French cooking and I was wearing brown, the most forgiving of colors.

My mussels were exquisite. Blake said he had the best pot pie of his life and Kristin was very happy with her entrée. We didn’t order dessert, but instead, we walked a block to the Magnolia Bakery in search of their famous cupcakes. I have never had a richer frosting experience, I may never be the same. It was like biting into a stick of butter. I said that I was fine never going there again, but it was worth a try.

Tartine is BYOB. We picked up a nice and affordable French Bordeaux on our way.

I highly recommend Tartine. We are thinking of moving to the Village to be able to see it each and every day.