This Saturday I took the plastic cover off of the burgundy ball gown I got four years ago in Vienna, pulled on a pair of flat black shoes and ivory ruched opera gloves, and sat in front of the mirror for about an hour while my lovely friend Serena pinned my hair on top of my head in a chaotic tangle of twists and curls and braids. I met Andy (in white tie) outside, and off we went to the ball.
Yup, the ball. As in:
(Look out for the couple at about 0:17 with the woman in a blue scarf.)
His Excellency the Austrian Ambassador Dr Emil Brix brought himself and his impressive title here from London to host the Grand Viennese St Valentine Ball in the Oxford Town Hall. We waltzed and polkaed and quadrilled and marched and galloped and polonaised and mazurkaed as a vivacious orchestra frolicked its way through three hours of Strauss and company. It all evoked the strong sensation of being in Vienna again. I danced two dances--a staggeringly athletic polka and waltz--with a French friend, and spent the rest of the time hanging out with my date, dancing and having a wonderful time, enjoying the fabulous music. We ended the night dancing to An der schönen blauen Donau.
Just like that time four years ago in Vienna when I went to the ball in the Hofburg palace with my roommates, I have caught myself in the days after the ball absently humming songs like "I Could Have Danced All Night" and "Shall We Dance." I've earned some odd looks, but have made no effort to do anything about it. I intend to hang onto this sensation of having visited a fairy tale for as long as possible.
The photo album is here on Facebook, and there are two more very short videos from the ball: waltz and polka.
This is a short post, so I will now provide you with an appendix of relevant youtube videos so that you can waste as much time here as you normally would if you were reading one of the long effusions I usually write. The following three videos sum up Saturday night quite nicely:
The evening gatherings in pubs are becoming less like events worth recording and more a routine part of this surreal life in Oxford. They're not any less joyful, but they are less surprising. There is less of an urge to document every moment so that I can relive my time here later--which is kind of a problem, because when I'm not here, I know I'll want to relive every moment.
My two biggest accomplishments since we last spoke have been submitting my DPhil application to Oxford and turning twenty-five, both of which happened on the same day. Doing battle with an online application system does not the best birthday make, but I had a lovely evening out with friends and saw War Horse in the cinemaaaaaa. And as we all know, watching a horse movie DOES a great birthday make.
The next day I attended a gripping recital of my supervisor's compositions, and that weekend my mom arrived for a ten-day visit.
One event I will document in gory detail is the Burns Night dinner at Wolfson on the 26th. A brief context for the benefit of the Great Unwashed:
Robert Burns was an 18th Century Scottish poet who has since become a national hero and the inspiration for a glorious holiday. Those who require more historical detail may take advantage of the bibliography at the bottom of this post, but what I want to talk about now is the dinner and what followed.
Burns Night is a highly scripted ceremony that is observed with a strange combination of self-deprecating amusement and almost religious reverence. The guests followed a bagpiper into the hall where long tables were laid out for a formal dinner. After we found our places, the bagpiper established himself directly behind me and blasted those ungodly notes for all he was worth. This led me to the conclusion that bagpipes, while delightful, are really an outdoor instrument. Next a nearly-intelligible prayer was recited:
Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.
It was now time for the pinnacle event of the evening: The Piping In of the Haggis.
I mean, really. We start with the heart, liver, and lungs of a sheep ground up with some oatmeal and onions, and this is all smashed into the poor sheep's stomach and boiled. Which pretty much sums up the philosophy of British cuisine, as far as I can tell: when in doubt, mash it up and boil it.
(I hope my English friends will forgive me for that. I love your country--I really do!)
So this bulging sack of boiled sheep guts is plunked on a silver platter and paraded around the perimeter of the hall in a procession of bekilted men, lead by our favorite bagpiper, who is still honking away from the bottom of his plaid little heart.
Oh, don't worry, it gets better. Now we address the haggis. I am NOT making this up. Robert Burns wrote a lengthy poem, not about some haggis but rather to a haggis, in the same non-English as the above blessing. I understood about four words of it. Maybe if you record it and play it backwards it turns into English...it's worth a try. Or maybe it's the same backwards as forwards. I don't know.
Having said all those nasty things about haggis, the food was actually really good. I decided to go in a spirit of adventure and eat whatever landed in front of me on my plate, which turned out to be cock-a-leekie soup, a flap of beef, a pile of haggis with neeps and tatties, and typsy laird for pudding. Don't ask--I have no idea what most of that is. After finding out what haggis was, I decided to stop asking "what is this?" and just eat it in blissful ignorance. Eating the haggis was more of a mental exercise than anything else. I can honestly say that I enjoyed it.
After the meal, a few more people stood to perform various poetry recitations and toasts. The highlight was the traditional Toast to the Lassies. A Frenchman and an American put on their best Scottish accents and delivered this raucous tribute in the form of a hilarious poem that was rather determined to rhyme. Our friend Sneha retaliated with the Toast to the Lads.
We went upstairs for coffee and returned to the hall before long for the ceilidh. Rather than make you give yourself a hernia trying to pronounce that, I'll just provide the IPA:
['keI lI]
This is essentially a Scottish squaredance. The band played folk music while the announcer called out the steps and we all hopped and spun around the dance floor. I think the announcer was a little mystified by our general inability to follow the dance steps. The great minds of Oxford found it extraordinarily difficult to form a square.
Make world-changing discoveries and publish them in academic journals? Sure!
Stand in a square with three other couples? Easy there, skippy, don't let's get carried away.
Figure out how to do-si-do right shoulder to right shoulder? No one can live at that speed!
It was another one of those enchanted Oxford nights. Any day now I'm going to wake up and find that I've been working in a car wash all this time and happened to doze off and dream up this unbelievable adventure.
Well, that's enough for tonight. Sometime I'll have to tell you about the classical music pub quiz, Spamalot, Iron Chef Wolfson, and the Wadham Choir ladies' night, but this is plenty for now.
