Monday 20 December 2010

I Don't Think We're In London Anymore

No. 45: Fall down the rabbit hole

“This is something I know you’ll like,” Zeddy tells me as we walk up a short flight of marble stairs just off one of the university’s square gardens. We reach a second level where two imposing wooden doors stand, a stream of people entering and exiting whatever lies behind that doorway.

“Zeddy,” I whisper in reverence as we walk into a long room with a high ceiling and row after row of stained glass windows. “It’s the Great Hall.”

And it is. I am standing in the Great Hall from the wizarding world of Harry Potter. Looking at the lengthy tables set with platters I can almost see Neville Longbottom.

“They recreated this room when they were building the set for the film,” Zeddy replies knowingly as he motions toward a display board in the corner that details how the hall was rebuilt on a soundstage.

I spend about 15 minutes having Zeddy take my picture acting out various scenes from the film and then we exit, set to experience one of Oxford’s most famous and nostalgic pastimes: punting. Punting is a favorite activity of students. Locals spend warm days loaded into narrow dinghies that look more like canoes, laden with picnic baskets and booze while projecting themselves through the water by standing up and see-sawing with a long, skinny pole. It’s great fun and a fantastic opportunity to watch your friends fall into the water.

It doesn’t take long to find a punting vendor alongside the Thames, and pretty soon I’m sitting in my seat low to the water. I’m holding a pink and green floral umbrella that looks passably like something a Jane Austen heroine might carry, and it all feels very “Brideshead Revisited.” I’m pleased when a young man floating by in a lavender polo shirt shouts out that he wishes he had thought to bring one as well.

Zeddy is towering above me trying to figure out how to move.

“I don’t understand why we’re going backwards,” he states as he juts the pole into the riverbed below.

I make some jests at his expense for a few minutes, until Zeddy gets his bearings back and is successfully and peacefully rowing us down the idyllic countryside. I also have no room to mock, as 20 minutes into our float I take my own turn at the stern and have to resort to sitting down and using the pole to paddle as if it were a pair of oars. I look like some sort of modern day Sacagawea without the poise. I hand the pole back to my captain and return to my umbrella.

We get into a nice rhythm though, bobbing down past the beautiful old buildings and chapels that make up the school, passing bright yellow and blue buds that promise me spring has very nearly found us.

“This is just like Alice in Wonderland,” Zeddy says from his standing position. My eyes are closed and I quietly mummer a “Hmm” of agreement, though I have no idea what he means. Zeddy goes on to explain that Lewis Carroll was an Oxford maths lecturer (the Brits say maths, not math) and wrote the famous children’s tale during his time here. Legend has it that Carroll wrote the story in 1856 for a little girl named Alice who was the daughter of the school’s dean at the time, Henry Liddell. He spent many hours entertaining the young girl by rowing her down the river in a punting boat and telling her fantastical stories about rabbits, caterpillars and maniacal red queens. She begged him to write the story down, and the fiction classic was born.

“That’s lovely,” I hum, watching the leaves of overhanging tree branches slowly pass over me like a botanical rooftop.

“Yes. Unfortunately for old Lewis it brought up some dreadful pedophilia rumors.”

“Zeddy!” I shout, sitting up from my blissful posture. “That’s awful!”

“I know,” he replies seriously, still rowing. “It’s a curious world, indeed.”