The trip from Cambridge to Oxford was fun. A train ride in France means insecurity and stress. Here it was an altogether pleasant experience, even though the railway staff had just begun a general strike. A friendly young man explained to me how the ticketing works, directed me tot he right train. The change in London from one King's Cross to Paddington while confusing at first was seamless. Giant stations, lot's of business, apparently even the tech giants now at King's Cross. Easy. I buy myself a protein drink in the tube, sleep a bit on the way to Oxford. 2.5 hours pass comfortably. My mood is not the best. I just don't find a suitable rhythm with my friend F. I'm drifting, she's serious about her future. In principle that wouldn't matter, only that I feel we're living in two different dimension. What can I say to wedding dresses and kid's names? We have been falling back on discussing the weather way too often. I know this is not going to last and it stings. My gf has a symposium at the University in Cambridge. That sounds really cool, I am happy for her. We have a rhythm but at this point I wouldn't be able to describe it. It's going onward, but maybe not up? It's cyclical and I can imagine easier arrangements, but somehow never decide to give them a try. The day off for myself is exactly the freedom I want to chew through my own thoughts. Oxford is a bit like the Sacra di San Michele: [[Torino and Sacra di San Michele]]. It's a destination that I made up for myself. The trip to Cambridge was necessary and it's scientific history is what I am passionate about. Oxford was a reason to branch off, to be independent and adventurous, to enunciate an "I want..." Oxford makes me think of my friend N. His whole vibe fits here, fond of old things, fiercly intellectual and with a recognizable set of mannerisms. He introduced me to the Inklings and the only correct word for his interest in the "Lord of the Rings" is *exegesis*. I bought myself some books on Welsh, Tolkien, the Mabinogion. Reading passionately, taking notes. I can bellow up fire for any and all topics. As I confront myself with the master's original voice, I have an S-tier language learner's moment. An elegant english speech about the peculier spirit and voice of the British Isles, it's wit and rhythm makes me migrate to the edge of my seat - this language is imbued with magick and I am able to appreciate it. I want to procreate just to be able to give them names like *Rhiannon* and *Arawn* or *Blodeuwedd*. I curse my fate for not knowing how to roll an R because I would absolutely tackle this language and go looking for Hobbits in Wales. The more I read the more I realize, that those old linguists of Oxford kicked off an entire epoch of tales. Irish and Welsh in particular have become inseparable from fantasy, especially in games. The myth itself has been retold and reused, probably more so than the Edda. The whole architecture of Middle Earth is decidedly british and medieval and behind it lies a meadow-cushioned idyllic haven of science and erudition. A scholar read old, often fragmentary and misunderstood texts with the eye of a poet, telling us about the power to invent feeling with carefully placed elements of world building. The melancholy of a long heroic life that will eventually fail in Beowulf. The magical betrayal in Aotrou and Itroun, power from the otherworld that permeates reality, the Cauldron of Knowledge raising an army of mute undead soldiers. Sir Gaiwan who has to balance chivalric duty with morality. In Tolkien these long forgotten stories resonated like the best stories I have ever heard. And the western canon made them into spectacles that millions carry in their hearts for life. I get off the train in Oxford and start walking. It's a bit bigger than Cambridge, same style though. A couple of coffee shops are not that impressive, I write confused thoughts. The Bodlean library is my main goal but there are no tickets left. Magdalen college is empty and I don't feel welcome. Everything from the chapel to the inner courtyard is monastic and austere. The roots of one tree reach back hundreds of years, a girl walks by it that could be Yennefer of Vengerberg. I ask myself if I would have liked to study here. Probably not. It seems like a lot of opinion comes packaged with the knowledge. I would have etched graffity into the walls and be expelled for blasphemy. I scroll a bit on the phone. r/Oxford talks about a new Ellison Institute of Technology. US billionaires have think tanks dressing up as prestigious schools here. Maybe I can't see well because of my allergies but the city seems less cute than Cambridge. The buildings are impressive, the people well dressed but something is missing. So I decide to go to Blackwell's. The interior is beautiful, I have probably never been to such a big bookshop. What's more, you can browse and discover. Things are strewn about, everywhere you look some Author or work you didn't expect. I find presents for friends, a cute handdrawn study about smaller british train stations that make me thing of long cold acquaintances in Japan. Why don't I live near one of these? What a pleasure to just come and flip a couple of pages! As I go to buy a book about the Inklings for N the cashier strikes up a conversation. "Have you been to the Eagle and Child?" - "Not yet, I gathered it was rather touristy" She doesn't think so, likes to get shit-faced their with friends. Where do I come from. France. Interesting, she's half French, half British and had spent her childhood in Toulouse. I take my loot with a smile and walking up from the basement, ask myself what just happened. Some people just fly right past your defenses. I would come back here just to have a longer chat with her, but as I turn around to tell her that, she has disappeared. A few minutes pass and I can't find her. I wouldn't call myself shy but I certainly tend to keep to myself. People like her make me happy, just free flowing energy, I don't make a secret out of it. As I grow older I realize that figuring out the world is not my solitary duty, rather, it happens by merging a few hours or days worth of interaction with others. After a handful of encounters like that I go parabolic, 5* day, ideas coagulate on the dark side of my nose and I run through a legion like Asterisk. A short encounter is enough to remind me to keep working on the presence of people who contribute to a vision of life I like. It's about 5pm and I am hungry. "Why not try the Eagle" I mutter, find my way through whatever horror plane trees spew into the air this time of year only to find the famous pub closed for renovation. Foster and Partners no less! Next to it there is a tiny ramen place. The two ladies speak Japanese so I switch tongues. To my surprise it works a bit. I see the appeal now. In a city like this, one can change languages like changing bus lines. Libraries everywhere, a nice chat at the bookshop. "Good place!", I conclude while following a young business lady in a trench coat to the train station. What is this feeling, always wanting to stay somewhere I don't belong? Being an outsider is fun, with a backpack on, but as soon as I return I cry because I'll have to move and leave my friends behind. The train back is equally comfortable. London has a general train strike. But this is a civilized country. So some trains do run and the staff is exceptionally polite. "Gents, if this station had a coffee shop I'd buy you all a round while we wait", the lady says and people immediately loosen up. "If you need to go to X, better change here, you'll catch some sunlight". Defending worker rights while being polite and humane? *Wel, diawl bach!*