Oxford Month 1

School terms at Oxford are nasty, brutish, and short. In contrast to Yale’s twelve weeks of instruction (with two weeks of break somewhere in between and one week of exams towards the end), they last a mere eight. Logically speaking, this equates to around 24 weeks of instruction per year in both cases, but these feel very different. During my last two years at Yale, I wrote the bulk of my papers during the holidays and had time during the semester to eat long meals with friends and participate in extracurriculars. At Oxford, this buffer is gone. Every week is a mad dash towards the sweet release of the upcoming holiday season, and there is barely enough time to do any one thing well.   

Nevertheless, I did have a few opportunities to take part in some quintessential Oxford activities. One Wednesday morning before class, I went punting with some of my housemates (the same motley crew from the pub quiz on 0th week). We took off from Cherwell Boathouse, first going downstream along University Parks, then upstream past Wolfson College. We passed many intimidating geese on the way, but fortunately suffered no grave incident.

On the 16th, we had our matriculation, which is an event that officially confirms our acceptance by the university. To my surprise – after having sat through two hours of lectures on how to dress, where to go, and what to do – the ceremony at the Sheldonian Theatre lasted only fifteen minutes. It started out with a heavily accented Latin speech (my hatred of aspirated Ts and non-rolled Rs in Latin has shot through the roof while at Oxford), and quickly proceeded to one of those unoriginal speeches with which academic institutions abound.

The event was preceded by perhaps two hours slotted for individual and group photographs, and another hour or so for a cold lunch at the college dining hall. After that, our dean led us down to the Sheldonian, where the entire process resembled a well-oiled conveyor belt. Given the number of students at Oxford, colleges matriculate in groups, with a cast of university officials presiding over multiple identical ceremonies in quick succession. If there is any mystique to the ceremony in the UK (and I do not know there is, given how little I heard about it before being admitted), there is none left after the whole thing is over and done with.  

A low quality picture I took with my phone during Matriculation
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