But We All Speak Tolkienese

HEYO AND HULLO FROM OXFORD!!

So AFTER the hair, we went to Oxford. Why? Well, there is really only one reason anyone goes to Oxford...TO PAY HOMMAGE TO THE GREATEST STORY TELLER OF OUR TIME!!!

And apparently there's a school there, too.

I will warn you, as I type this the Rockies are in the heated middle of the Division Series against the Phillies. I have purchased my MLB.TV International Post Season subscription, and I'm wearing my Spilly shirt. ALL THE WAY FROM THE UK - LET'S GO ROCKS!!

Last semester my darling friend Kaitlyn studied abroad in this singular city. (London, not Oxford. Yet.) After her return she compiled a notebook of journeys for me, from afternoons around London to daytrips in, say, Oxford. Thus the notebook, filled with directions and warnings, was held fast in hand.

During the bus ride back from Winchester I sat next to Jim. Jim's friends with a priest who is OBSESSED with Lord of the Rings (henceforth referred to as LOTR). Jim said he wanted to visit Oxford because his friend said Tolkien lived/is buried there. I said, thank God, because I've been looking for someone to journey with me there to geek out! And so we gathered a gaggle of similarly-minded folk (and some who just wanted to get out for the day) and booked a train to Oxford.

Saturday morning we awoke and began to walk to the tube station. I wore my LOTR sweatshirt and brown Aragorn cape (standard issue New Line Cinema costume piece). About half way to the station I said, "Now does everyone have the credit card they used to pay for the train tickets online with them?" Shock and horror ran through the group as Lauren realized she had left hers in her room. She bolted back to the flats. It was then that Mike asked if everyone has their "reference number." Reference number? Humma? Cue a string of college kids running a breakneck speed (did we budget time for this? Dude...) up Farringdon road. I'd like you to envision myself in particular, in full LOTR regalia, cape flying back, pink hair blowing in the breeze, running. And darling, I don't run.

Have we ever been able to go somewhere with a nice, calm, uneventful beginning? Or one that is free from all-out panic? Of course not!

We play pass the laptop and all get our number, run to the tube station, and get to the train station. We run to the ticket printer only to realize that Lauren and Claire wrote down their order number, not their reference number. And our train leaves in 3 minutes.

RUN RUN RUN to the ticket booth. HI WE WROTE DOWN THE WRONG NUMBER CAN WE PICK UP OUR TICKETS HERE OUR TRAIN LEAVES IN 1 MINUTE PLEASE??? "All of you?" "No, just us two, the others printed their tickets already." At this the man started laughing. "If you've printed your tickets already, you better start running, because you can't get a refund if they're printed!" AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Cue more running. OF COURSE our train is on Platform 10. The furthest from the ticket booth. I must say, I am getting very good at bounding around people. Or perhaps I am just shocking them into stillness. There are assets of maintaining a perpetually outlandish appearance. JUMP on the train! And lo, from the heavens comes the conductor’s voice. "We're sorry to inform you that the train is experiencing technical difficulties. We will be delayed." OH THANK JESUS! The rest of our gaggle appears, and we travel ensemble. On the train next to the one we originally boarded, of course, because the technical difficulties caused us to switch trains. We spent the ride playing telephone Pictionary (visions of Ohio).

We arrived in Oxford and detrained. We had not gotten but a MINTUE out of the station before a high-accented British woman asked me how to get to city hall. I'm such a native. Even though I looked at her like she had just asked me directions to Mars. "I...um...I've never been here...I can tell you directions to Mordor..."

We walked to the centre of the city and caught a bus going towards Wolvercote Cemetery. The driver told us where to hop off and we found ourselves...THERE.



There were about 50 of these guys dotting the path. Jim took a picture of every single one. And thus, we arrived.







I was thinking to myself, this may be the most epic moment of my life. I wonder how I should BOOM I started weeping. I dropped to my knees and wept. No preconceived thoughts, no trigger, just the weight of being next to TOLKIEN'S BONES. That man in the ground wrote the story that changed my life, in all ways cheesy and uncheesy. There are no words, people. My first true friendships were built on the ground he laid.

J.R.R. Tolkien wrote in depth about the history of Middle earth. Within his mythology is the story of an elf named Luthien and a man named Beren. Beren came across Luthien standing in a forest and fell in love with her. Theirs was a forbidden love, because she was immortal and he was a man. They defied the confines of their races and wed. Their relationship closely parallels that between Aragorn and Arwen.

Tolkien's wife Edith died before him, and when he buried her he had the name Luthien written beneath her name. When he died, they put Beren beneath his.



The real weight of the gravesite is that it is covered in fresh flowers and thank you's. His books were published in the 1940's, and people are still being touched by them. People from all over the world (signaled by the thank you's in different languages) come here to pay homage and to leave something. The real affecting nature of this place is not that it is where Tolkien is buried, but that it shows LOTR fans are not alone. Other people feel the way I do. Other people care.



We also creeped our way to Tolkien's house. Kaitlyn's directions in the notebook were, specifically, "STEPHANIE REIGN YOURSELF IN SOMEONE LIVES HERE. Pay quite homage and leave." Thus we did.





We then toddled around the school itself. 38 independent colleges. It was during our walking tour of the college area, in between Anglican this and Once-Was-Catholic that, that Jim uttered the immortal words, "#*&$ing Henry VII, Josquin. This could have been OURS!"











Dinner was had at the Eagle and Child, AKA, The Bird and the Babe, AKA, where the Inklings met. The Inklings were a group of authors that included Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. They ate and exchanged stories, shared essays and gave each other criticism. How much would I pay to be able to go back in time and sit in on a meal with them? First born work?





And a good time was had by all.