Poof (British Baseball Pt. 2)

Just like that, my time in Oxford is over. My roommate and my other mates just left for their Eastern Europe jaunt, aiming for a 00:50 bus to get to another bus to make a 6:15 flight to arrive in Budapest tomorrow afternoon. It was kind of sad, but we've spent quality time together here, and I have honest hope that I will see at least some of them again in the homeland.

Thankfully, my departure will not be at such a forsaken hour--I leave for Edinburgh tomorrow at noon. That's very soon, but the only thing I have to do is pack: Trains are easy to take and I've done it before. Then I walk to a hostel, settle in for four days, see the sights, hear the sounds, and then get on a night bus on Wednesday, arriving London early Thursday morning to catch my flight home.

I will analogize this trip with baseball. All of a sudden, here I am on third, eyeing the plate. When you're on base, you're necessarily in danger (but how would you ever score if you don't put yourself there?). You're in transit even when you're standing still, because there's no staying on base. The prospect of a pick-off, a force-out, a double-up, hang over your head, but all outcomes are braved for the run (on the run). With the fear lives the hope of sweet return--to be safe at home.

And I didn't want to ruin the image with this, but what I'm really eyeing is the plate of spaghetti I'm going to make myself. It will be stacked so tall and wide with semolina, it will be dressed in hot olive oil, herbs, and garlic, and it will all cost me about US$2.50, which is about one pound seventy. I can hardly wait.

But I must. I'm going to decompress in Edinburgh (which I find myself pronouncing two ways, "ed-in-berg" and "edin-bura"--I'll ask when I get there). And I'm going to read calmly.

I spent my last night here with a Welshman and a Kiwi, and then in the JCR playing pool. I gave my friend Ted a great going-away gift--I scratched on the eight-ball with all seven of his balls still on the table. I'm in a gift-giving mood because as term draws to a close, everything here becomes Christmas. There's a tree up in Hall, there's a giant tree on Broad Street, there is a tree in the JCR, there are Christmas lights strung across Cornmarket street, there is caroling on street corners. And it's almost, kind of, sort of, nearly cold. And wet.

Scottish snow will prepare me for my return.

You may or may not read another update on this blog, but I encourage you to check so that I am encouraged to write.