Day 6, October 16th, 2011.

Slang of the Day: grog. Origin: Australia. Definition: anything with alcohol in it. Used in a sentence:I drank so much grog last night that it made me wanna snog anything with elbows.

Apparently I remembered more of the previous night than I do now after consulting my notes (and no, despite the embarrasingly great image, I didn’t sit scribbling each bar name as I entered them at the time). I ended up hitting The Cellar and the Purple Turtle, the Oxford Retreat, Turf Tavern and Kings Arms. I slept in till like noon.

It felt great.

Sacha and I returned to the Kings Arms and ordered the rabbit pie, a huge flaky mess, with mash or chips (fries, duh) as the side. I’ve always wanted to try rabbit but wasn’t allowed, as me mum owns a rabbit. Now that I’ve tried rabbit, I think I can go home happy (it’s actually very tasty and tender).

A good thing about Britain, and I presume the rest of Europe, if there are no tables available, you can just ask anyone with empty seats at their table to join them. I’ve done this several times and never been turned down; in fact, we usually end up in a delightful conversation with old people and heavy doses of secondhand smoke because of it.

From there, we went on the free Oxford walking tour, led by an old middle aged Brit who fit the bad teeth stereotype (which is overplayed; it’s really only with the older generations),  a poor bastard who grew up in Oxford but never went to any of its million colleges. In England, while you may go to Oxford, you’re associated with a particular college under the big Oxford umbrella, so they won’t say they go to Oxford, they’ll say they go to St. Catherine’s. Anyways, it was a nice little tour.

We saw the famous St. Mary’s church, a few of the main colleges of Oxford, the Bodleian library, the Bridge of Sighs, Oxford Castle, etc. We saw some places where Harry Potter was filmed, and saw the outside of the library that housed the room that inspired the Great Hall (score!). We also saw where Lewis Carroll lived, as a neighbor to a certain Alice (in Wonderland, if you’ve never read a book like Michael). Most importantly, I learned of Oxford’s humble beginnings (it was, quite literally, an ox ford, or where oxen would cross the river if you didn’t play Oregon trail).

Afterwards, as recommended by David (he explained that he had a mini orgasm after trying the delicacy), we visited the Fudge Kitchen and indulged in some fucking great fudge. I tried the toffee and mojito one’s and purchased the belgian chocolate. I thought it was a store unique to Oxford but then I saw one in (spoiler alert) Bath. Thanks a lot, David. We also got directions to the pub where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien would drink and talk little boys (hobbits), and enjoyed a pint.

So basically, if you’re a nerdy scholar who likes beer (um, me and this David schmuck I keep mentioning), you’ll love Oxford. A fun sample of who attended any of its colleges: Adam Smith, John Locke (the guy from LOST), Imogen Stubbs (I don’t know who it is, but helluva name), Dr. Seuss, Kris Kristofferson, TS Eliot, Mr. Bean, Tony Blair and Stephen Hawking. Ithaca College has…David Boreanaz.

Back at the hostel, I met Jane, a saucy minx from the Czech Republic who lit up when I told her I planned on going to her country. And I would’ve tried a border crossing then and there, but she had a boyfriend who was staying in the very same hostel room. Lame.

I also met Paul and Kevin, two Frenchman. We promised we’d meet them for a beer at The Bear. But before that, I had pressing business. It was Sunday, and I was gonna find an NFL game on the telly. It was easy, but there wasn’t a lot of choice, so we watched the Falcons butcher the Panthers at a place ironically called Eurobar. We had two jugs (pitchers) of cocktails and met some British guy who went to Troy University (Alabama) who was, get this, a Mariner fan who bought us a pint and a shot of jager. He was wasted, buying two poor Indian guys drink after drink though they clearly wanted to leave.

We met Paul and Kevin at The Bear and all enjoyed a pint together, and had a swell chat. I couldn’t tell you a single thing that we talked about, actually, but I think the French guys liked us. We returned to Turf Tavern for a couple Old Rosy’s, then back to Kings Arms, where Sacha and I gave shit to 18 year old Oxford students. This was actually the start of a trend where I felt old at bars, especially with my beard. I still haven’t gotten carded anywhere but at clubs (and my driver’s license has been fine).

By the end of the night, I was tossed and fawning over the bartender, a blonde bombshell who found my 20 pence (like 36 cents) tip overwhelmingly kind. But she was busy cleaning and closing up after last call, so I had little to no chance to turn on the Andy charm, whatever that is. So, inspired by the aroma of academia, I wrote her a lovely note, and handed it to her as Sacha and I giggled on our way out. Needless to say, she’s my future wife.

Up next: BATH, and not Stonehenge.