As my time in Oxford is drawing to a close, I often find myself looking back on how far I have come, how used to the city I have become. When I first came to Oxford, I almost got hit by bicycles, a lot. Even though I knew that vehicles would be driving on opposite sides of the road, I could not get my brain to stop instinctively looking left, then right, instead of right then left, when crossing a road. Getting used to British idiosyncrasies took time. Each time I would start to think that I had gotten fully comfortable with living in England, a frantic bell from the bike rushing past me would quickly remind me of how much I still needed to learn. It took me one month to get used to looking right when crossing the road. I was making progress.
Yet it seemed like once I was able to successfully refine a particular skill or quality necessary for thriving here, I would begin to notice another glaring insufficiency of mine. I would smile too much or forgetting to show the cashier the signature on my debit card. I always practiced saying “chips” instead of “fries”, “till” instead of “cash register”, “take-away” instead of “to-go”, or “lift” instead of “elevator” in my head before speaking. Still my Americanisms would reveal itself in tongue or mannerisms. It felt like I was living in an alternative dimension, where I needed to conceal the fact that I wasn’t from this particular one I was currently inhabiting.
The first day someone asked me for directions was a mini achievement for me. As I bestowed my navigational knowledge upon this woman, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Of all the people in this crowd, the woman selected me. I had the “local” look. I sent her on her way to the shop she was pursuing and continued my journey to the library. Once I arrived, I decided to double check if the directions I gave her were accurate. I’m sure they were, right? Not exactly. I had sent her in the completely opposite direction of the stationary store. She was probably wandering the city, stationaryless, all because I couldn’t remember where the store was. How would she write her letters now? My thoughts at the time were a bit dramatic, but I couldn’t help it. I had failed.
I was eventually redeemed. One evening, as I was returning home from a tutorial meeting, an elderly couple asked me for directions. Finally, a chance to redeem myself. And I actually succeeded. I knew three quick ways to get to that part of the city.
There was another moment when I finally no longer needed to look up what the Celsius equivalents for oven temperatures. I was successfully eating some homemade pizza, reveling in my successes of living in England alone. That same evening, I was enjoying some time catching up with family back home and my bedroom light bulb died. I just sat there in the black for a couple seconds, my brain uncomprehending of what had caused this sudden darkness.
One would think that a light bulb’s design is universal, that there was no need for it to be structurally different. I couldn’t even remove the bulb from the socket. I was standing there, on my rotating desk chair that would not stop rotating as I tried to change this light bulb, that had also just cracked. I kept thinking to myself: I am studying at Oxford University. I am supposed to be so academic and cunning. BUT I CANNOT CHANGE THIS LIGHT BULB. I didn’t understand what I was doing wrong. At one point I legitimately googled “How to change a light bulb in England”. I felt so incompetent, and very American. I knew that I could no longer use the same method, but could not determine how else to handle this suddenly arduous task.
Finally I was able to work the bulb out. As I looked at the base, I realized why I had such a difficult time. There was no screw cap pattern to the light bulb, as there are in America. Instead It was a smooth base with two small pins sticking out on either side, called a bayonet cap. As I inspected the light fixture’s socket, I realized that placing a new light bulb into the fixture may be equally as difficult. It felt like I was unlocking some secret room with unnecessarily complex motions. Twist until the bulb locks into place, push up, then move the bulb slightly to the left, then pull down. An embarrassingly long number of minutes later, my room was illuminated once again.
Through the trials, errors, and eventual successes through which I have worked during my time in England, I have realized just how many details require constant attention, refinement, and grace. I needed to accept the fact that I would not be able to immediately reverse every mannerism I had used for 21 years. Eventually I learned how to navigate this existence in a new place. Through this experience, I have begun to deepen my understanding of the fact that there is no single “right” way to live. The value in living somewhere else for an extended period of time is that we realize that the world is composed of differences. These varieties do not equate to something negative. Rather they define and expand our world. The further we explore and engage, the deeper we understand.
Featured image by Michael VH, used with permission under a Creative Commons license.
A Scholar Wanders 