almost nostalgia

I had a wonderful week in Oxford, which has actually me somewhat nostalgic for the place, maybe out of sheer familiarity more than anything else. I never entirely loved the place--there were times I downright disliked it--but I have loved too many people there to leave it easily.

Dinner at high table at Univ was great fun; sitting across from a retired fellow of medieval history who was so perfect an embodiment of the stereotypical aged Oxford don that I kept having to sip more wine to hide the fact that I was on the verge of laughter. We had a rollicking conversation; he told me all about recent goings-on with the Vice-Chancellor and Congregation and I told him why he shouldn't pay attention to Bernard Lewis. It was amusing to play-act the Oxford game again; I do it rather well now, and almost forget those early days when I didn't know what sherry tasted like or which fork to use. Thereafter followed many coffees and pints with friends, many books (three by Vikram Seth) borrowed and read, and long nights of conversation with R. and S. in that tall enchanted house on Merton Street, which I've left scattered with my books and photographs, a lingering reminder of my presence.

A particular high point was Saturday evening, when I managed to attend Halloqueen--the annual Halloween drag party at St. Antony's---for the fourth successive year in a row. The Middle East Centre crowd had commandeered the downstairs sound system, and I danced my feet sore; it was a perfect redux of all our innumerable late bar nights with shisha and swirling hips and Amr Diab on the speakers. The men's boat club finally fulfilled their vow of many years to come as the East German women's swim team; and the JCR president pulled off a stunning Weimar cabaret look. (Still, the best Halloqueen was undoubtedly two years ago. I attended attired in fez, moustache, and miniskirt, accompanied by a harem of four very beautiful brown men in saris. The resulting photographs are very dearly treasured, and potentially disrupting to future political careers in the subcontinent).

I also managed to attend an Amnesty conference in London on human rights issues in the Middle East--more on that later--and cook meals for a few friends, and finish it all off with two mornings in the Grand Cafe on the High. I didn't make it out on to the river; that's the only regret.