Oxford Across the Water

Well, folks, I am attempting to upload my first England video to blogger this evening, so you will have to let me know if it actually works for anyone besides myself. Technology is a fickle hag, and there's no telling whether she'll give you butterfly kisses or stab you in the back.

Anyway, for better or worse, here it is. Enjoy.

And there's more where this came from . . . Stay tuned.

Homecoming

Imagine a darkened room, permeated with the mouth-watering aroma of roast beef, warm ale, and pipe tobacco. Imagine a small, unassuming corner table next to a modest hearth just past the bar.

Then imagine a man in a heavy tweed coat bustling in from the street, beads of rain dotting his leather satchel and the glint of firelight reflecting off of the buttons on his ornate waistcoat. Already seated at the corner table is a man with a high forehead, his hands folded neatly in front of him and a small Bible lying open near his arm. Next imagine each of these two learned gentlemen acknowledging the other with a courteous nod and brief salutation.

"Morning, Tollers. Beastly weather, isn't it?"

"Morning, Jack. The wind practically ripped my coat from my shoulders during the ride down Banbury. But I've got some more of my nonsense to show you."

Then imagine the newly arrived man throwing back the flap on his satchel and drawing out a bundle of worn-edged papers. And on those coffee-stained pages...well, you can just imagine what immortal stories those florid, graceful strokes might entail. Such may have been a Monday morning meeting of the Oxford Inklings at the old Bird & Baby.

And I ate an Angus burger at that very table. Awesome.

The Reluctant Return

Much as Hadrian and Trajan before him (pictured here on the right) were compelled to relinquish control of their British province to their unworthy successors, I was compelled to come home from my foray overseas. Needless to say, I will visit the beauteous island of Britannia again someday, but for now, unfortunately, duty calls here in the boring ol' USA (aka "Wannabe England").

There will be much more to come in the way of holiday snaps, of course. Just at present, however, I'm rather knackered, so you'll have to excuse me for a bit while I have a lovely kip in me own bed. Cheers for now, mates.

Land of Hope and Glory

Well, blogblokes and blogbirds, the time has finally come. I will have my hands too full tomorrow to post anything legible and coherent, so consider this as my last broadcast for a fortnight. England beckons, and finally, I shall answer the call. I will be in contact with you Yanks via the Web, so feel free to send me your messages, questions, suggestions, and what not.

When (and if) I return, I shall plaster my photos all over my blogspace like an anglo-maniac. I will miss you all, and I sincerely wish you could all come along with me on this most life-changing of journeys.

God Save the Queen.

Oxford's Calling, Too

I'm going here . . .

And here...

And here . . .

And here . . .

And, most appropriately, here . . .

Where is this, you ask? Did you note the unobtrusive plaque on the wall above the hearth?

That's right. You may commence with the envious groaning.

London Calling: In Three Days

Lord & Lady Bibb of Eyrieville,

On behalf of oneself and the entire royal family, one extends to you and Lady Bibb the heartiest welcome our noble land can muster. May your stay exceed your expectations in every respect, and may the noble grandeur of London shine forth from every pavement stone as you two explore her limitless treasures. Should you want for anything while you tarry under British skies, please simply notify one of my guards posted outside of Buck House, and my staff shall attend to your needs posthaste.

Perhaps Your Lordship and Her Ladyship might do one the great pleasure of joining one for an afternoon constitutional along Birdcage Walk on Saturday. One shall strive to meet you both across from Anne's Gate at 15:30, provided one's schedule allows one to breathe the summer air for a few blessed minutes.

Your Humble Servant,

Liz II

London Countdown: T-Minus 1 Week

Ok, folks. Enough with the "Stardate" crap. I'm seriously going to England in one week. Less than that, actually. I'll be within walking distance of Buckingham Palace. I'll be able to see the Thames from my hotel window. I'll hear Big Ben chime the hour all day long. Crikey.

At this stage, I no longer know whether all this is a dream or some kind of horribly cruel cosmic joke. Will I arrive at the airport only to hear the raucous laughter of all of the staff, clutching their sides and howling, "You thought you were going to England? What a maroon!" I've actually visualized this scene in a recent dream sequence. The lady at the X-ray machine shakes with huge guffaws as she tears up my boarding pass. All of the other passengers hoot with joy and toss their half-empty Starbucks cups at me as I am unceremoniously escorted out of the terminal by two chuckling security guards. Gosh, I'm neurotic.

But I suppose those are just dreams. I really, really am going to my favorite country in the world. Will I weep? Will I fall to my knees in Heathrow International and sing "God Save the Queen" at the top of my lungs? I don't know. But I know one thing for sure. When Bibb returns (provided that Mrs. Bibb can drug him and drag him to the plane), he'll have a gaggle of photos to share.

London Countdown: T-Minus 3 Weeks

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 061808.3

In the interests of time, I must make my entry a bit shorter today. Preparations for landing have begun (such activities take a good deal longer when you're traveling by space balloon than they do when you use interplanetary vessels like Light Clippers and Solar Schooners), and there are a million things to do every minute. To be honest, I am grateful for the distraction of overseeing the landing because to focus on what happens afterwards is to neglect my official duties as captain. Nevertheless, we received our British transport passes this afternoon via satellite transfer, and seeing the destinations printed on them proved to be another source of the seemingly inexhaustable excitement generated by this journey. To think, I shall walk the streets of Oxford! An uninspiring prospect for some, but the pinnacle of existence for one such as I.

Well, my engineer just notified me that I am needed on the lower basket, where a portion of our hull seems to be unravelling due to the stresses of our descent through the atmosphere. We must also begin the ballast disintegration procedure over the next few hours or else run the risk of being swept off course by the powerful upper winds of the North Atlantic jet stream. Busy days! But the island grows very near, indeed, and my heart leaps within me.

London Countdown: T-Minus 4 Weeks

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 061108.1

There she lies. This morning, just after breakfast, my first mate came to my cabin door and knocked gently three times. This action was per my earlier instructions, of course. The entire crew knows how much I desire to see the great land of my forefathers, the wellspring of modernity, the cradle of the industrialized world. At once, I was out of bed and on the bridge, peering through my squinted eyes at the bright hodgepodge of blues and greens that filled the ship's monitor.

Believe me when I tell you that I almost wept. Had I not been afraid that such a public display of emotion would incite laughter, or worse, contumely, I would have shouted "Huzzah!" and danced around like an impish moon-fox. O, how I long to touch the very soil of that great land, to revel in the simple breathing of its air, to move about in the same segments of time-space that once clung to the immortal forms of Marx, Darwin, Mill, Bentham, Newman, Arnold, Tennyson, Dickens, Barrie, Carroll, MacDonald, Yeats, Wilde, Conrad, Wells, Stevenson, Tolkien, Lewis, and, perhaps the most noble name of all, J. Rudyard Kipling. The honor seems beyond all comprehension, beyond any merit a humble traveler like myself could possess. I am compelled to ask, "Who am I? What right do I have to be here among the ghosts of intellectual giants? Surely my place is on a lowlier rung of humanity's ladder."

And yet, there she lies. Just a few weeks more, and our descent will be complete. In the name of St. Christopher, may those weeks pass swiftly!

London Countdown: T-Minus 5 Weeks

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 60408.3

Things have been relatively smooth during our careful descent to the outer atmosphere, but today we ran into a tiny snag. The weather above the Isles turned rough and unpredictable early this morning, which prevented our navigator from making the necessary calculations for our intra-atmospheric trajectory. Apparently, this sort of thing is common with travelers to England, as the meteorological conditions there change rapidly and often. I have calmed the crew and assured them that this minor setback will do little to delay our arrival, but I cannot help but notice the flaring tempers and raw nerves all over the ship. Such is travel. Such is life.

On a more uplifting topic, however, the plans for our visit become more exciting with each new communiqué we receive from base command. Yesterday, we were informed that Her Inimitableness has requested our presence at a traditional theatrical performance of some sort on the Monday following our touchdown. According to our correspondent, such performances were common in the Middle and Late Renaissance periods in English history, and the "play" we will see comes from the distinguished pen of William Shurkspore...Slacksnear...or something along those lines. They tell us that a reproduction of his original theater still stands in New Southwark, though they had to relocate the structure several times during the Great Floods of 2666. At any rate, such an evening's entertainment should prove the perfect distraction for my exhausted crew, and I welcome the opportunity to view the art of ancient cultures.

London Countdown: T-Minus 6 Weeks

Well, I suppose I'm on my own out here in the lonely blogosphere. No one appears to have anything to say to me these days. But you know what, I'm going to keep blogging anyway! I do this as a substitute for journaling, so who cares if none of you silent blogvoyeurs wish to reveal yourselves through comments! Fine! Crouch behind your keyboards like the cowards you are!

Captain Bibb's Blog: Stardate 52808.4

As you can see, I'm making my continental approach now. We have almost the whole of Europe and Africa on our viewscreen, a beautiful and humbling sight to behold. The phosphorous emeralds and sapphires of land and sea appear to be dropping off the map in the encroaching darkness that swallows the retreating rays of the setting sun. From our current altitude of over ten miles above the Earth's surface, the shimmering glory of our destination catches the eye with its verdant beauty.

This morning, we received a communication outlining our invitation to the Intergalactic Ambassadorial Reception Ceremony of the Keys at one of London's oldest and most historical landmarks, the Tower. We are to report promptly to the West Gate at 2130 hours, whereupon we will be shown into the inner chamber and given an audience with the Rector Regalis herself. Her Luminosity will dine with us and allow us to view the ancient "crown jewels," the royal headress and paraphernalia worn by primitive kings and queens of England before the International Conglomeration Act of 2510.

She has promised us the best accommodations at her disposal, but I have informed the crew that we will be staying on the bend of the Thames formerly known as Pimlico. The landing platforms are all located there, and most of the continental transport originates there as well. Her Ebullience's palace is undoubtedly grand, but I would prefer to experience London as the tourists of old must have seen it, tramping its gritty streets and following its labyrinthine paths to the hidden treasures at its heart. The excitement is scarcely containable.

London Countdown: T-Minus 7 Weeks

Oh, bloggykins. I shudder with tremulous delight. As I write this, Louis Armstrong is telling me what a wonderful world we live in, and though I rarely agree with Mr. Armstrong, I'm compelled to concur at the moment.

The time is coming, my friends, when I shall pass into that glorious land of myth and fairy tale known as . . . England. Even the very name itself rolls off the tongue with a delicious magic, like some ancient Celtic spell. Soon she'll be all mine, the leas, the rivers, the rolling hills, the fog, the heaths, the moors, the overpriced transportation. I realize I sound a bit like a maniacal Bond villain, poised to set in motion some fiendish plot to take over the world, but I'm really just planning a humble trip to the greatest nation the world has ever known. That's right, America, I said it.

I feel like an explorer about to embark on an epic journey to a land he's only read about in ancient, mysterious tomes. My ship has come within a few hundred thousand miles of my destination, and I'm making preparations for my final descent. I plan to be your Bibb-on-location during this trip. If there is anything you have always wanted to do in London or Paris, just let me know and I will take a picture of myself doing it (within reason). I call it vicarious vacationing, and I thoroughly enjoyed it when my in-laws did it for me on their trip to the Holy Land a couple of years ago.

Seriously, I'll do almost anything. Want me to kick a Buck House Guard in the shins? I'll do it quickly and run away. Want me to hurl a croissant at a street mime in Paris? You know I'll do that. Want me to lie down in the "zebra crossing" in front of Abbey Road Studios and sing "Octopus's Garden" in its entirety? I'd rather do "Oh! Darling," but whatever; you're the boss.

*Beep!* "Shall we prepare for our orbit of descent, Captain Bibb? Over."
*Beep!* "Set a bearing of 49 degrees, Commander, and bring her into Gyre Descent Pattern Gamma. Over."
*Beep!* "Aye, aye, sir. Over."

Tee, hee!