Week 14 @ Oxford

When I probably averaged about three hours of sleep.

Dearest readers of the Substack—

Good day. First and foremost, before I go any further, I am going to need you to buy a ticket to Fiddler on the Roof. “But Emma, I’m not even in Britain right now!” Well, then, consider this your lucky day. The proper thing to do would be to buy a plane ticket and move heaven and sky to come see the show.

However, as I’m sure I have proven time and time again, I am an incredibly understanding person. So I will settle for only the friends in my close proximity to buy tickets.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s move on to the fun stuff, shall we? This week was characterized by one of the most intense “work hard, play hard” mentalities I have ever adopted. After all, I had to get it all of my system before my self-imposed dry period starting… well, today. We’re entering the final rehearsal push for Fiddler, and with the way my voice is feeling today, I really shouldn’t risk another night out, where I will inevitably scream the lyrics to some Taylor Swift song at the top of my lungs.

So as you read, keep in mind that I did get a lot of work done this week. I holed up in the Magdalen library for hours and days on end, braving the social anxiety that comes with being overtly perceived by a bunch of Oxford students who know you don’t technically belong. Besides, why dwell on my study sessions when I rallied myself to go out four times this week?

Yes, four. Don’t judge.

We’re starting off strong with Monday night! (Wow, I actually can’t believe Monday was a part of this week. It feels like a lifetime ago.)

I reconnected with my Hilary term Brasenose roots by attending that night’s BOP. (Every time I use that word, I feel the need to re-explain that BOP stands for Big Organized Party, an acronym that feels like a crime against humanity.)

If you’re wondering why we are all wearing the exact same business-y outfit, it’s because the theme was “sexy sub fusc,” referring to the traditional, formal clothing worn underneath academic gowns at Oxford. You’re supposed to wear your sub fusc for exams—yet another form of cruel and unusual punishment. In America, we do things right: we pull up to the ACT or SAT in sweatpants and beleaguered looks in our eyes. At Oxford, some students have told me they wear their sub fusc even during take-home exams, just to “get in the spirit.” Wild.

We headed to DTB, the Brasenose bar, where we were ecstatic to discover that we could use Khushi’s Stanford-provided dining dollars to pay for drinks. That probably wasn’t Stanford’s intention when they set us up with meal plans, but it did make the night very affordable!

From there, we headed to Thirst, where I reunited with my friend Marianna and forcefully attached myself to her Brasenose friend group once my friends retired for the evening—an obnoxious tactic that I have chosen to undertake many times recently in order to expand my social sphere. But how else does one make friends without inserting themself into someone else’s plans?

Seriously, though, if you have any better suggestions, let me know. I fear I’m starting to piss people off.

Oh, I almost forgot that I had rehearsal that day! We were back in Queen’s College Chapel, the site of my very first rehearsal photo of Tom and Kyle—also known as the photo that started it all. It was due to this one blurry, not super flattering picture, snapped during the middle of warm-ups, that my cast discovered this blog. And as a result, they have never stopped giving me sh*t—and probably never will.

But anyway, enjoy this video of Joe—my stage husband—and I rehearsing “Now I Have Everything” (though it’s technically from last Sunday’s rehearsal). Oh, and peep the little Wicked Easter egg at the end. Joe loves that final riff from “Defying Gravity,” and if he throws it in during one of our performances, I think I might crack.

Tuesday will have to be skipped because I have a grand total of zero photos from that day. Which I think proves the fact that I was, indeed, wholesomely studying in the library. At least, I hope it does.

Wednesday, too, was spent hitting the books before taking a much-needed break to catch up with Sophie—one of my favorite Oxford students ever—over pastries at Gail’s. I am highly tempted to take her up on her offer of letting me crash with her in London once the term is over. I’m simply not ready to leave.

Thursday, as I exited the library from yet another all-day study session, I came across my friends crowded around a phone, excitedly watching the news. Very rarely does a person seem happy when watching current events these days. Naturally, I was intrigued.

Turns out, we got a new pope! An American pope! A pope who (supposedly) hates Trump and watched the movie Conclave to prepare for the selection process! I don’t know much about the whole pope system, but it is crazy to think that Pope Leo XIV probably grew up eating Big Macs like the rest of us, and now he’ll be delivering international sermons in an American accent. Maybe this is when America starts building a more robust cultural identity.

(Prior to the Pope’s naming, I was being grilled by my British friends about the “American mythology” and what constitutes the “American myth.” And frankly, I still don’t have a good answer.)

When I showed up to rehearsal that night, people were already drinking. Leftover prosecco left out on the tables at Queen’s apparently means one is obligated to complete its consumption. Perhaps I would have also indulged, but I had to save my strength for later that night, when I rushed straight from rehearsal back to Stanford House to change, pregame, and go out—all within the record time of fifteen minutes.

Together with Dana and Sowmya, we hit up the Thursday night classic: Bridge. As much as I enjoy publicly sh*tting on Bridge, I have to admit that the music is always fantastic. At least, it is to me. I don’t need a DJ pretending to be cool and bumping EDM tracks with no chorus. Once Rihanna came blasting through the speakers, I was over the moon. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if Rihanna ever hosts a reunion concert, I will pay any amount of money to be there. That woman is my ride or die, even if she has no idea who I am.

The only problem with dancing your little heart out at Bridge is that you feel like a truck ran over you the next morning. Typically, that would be tolerable, but when you’re stuck on an hour-and-a-half bus ride to Bletchley Park for an educational field trip about codebreaking, it’s enough to make you rethink your entire existence. Luckily, I had Darla, Stanford House’s 20-year-old program assistant, to guide me through, all while proudly sporting her Learning Leader badge.

Immediately after returning to Oxford, it was time to prepare for yet another event: Fight Night. Although it was news to me, “fight nights,” where a series of fighters, ranging from novice to seasoned veteran, beat each other up in a boxing ring. According to Sophie, it’s all the rage. “You have to experience a British fight night,” she told me. So that’s exactly what Dana and I did.

I had no idea what to expect when we walked into Oxford’s Town Hall an hour late and emerged onto the balcony. Thank goodness that Sophie informed me about the black tie dress code, because otherwise I would’ve been the only person in a sundress amongst a sea of ballgowns.

Who knew that people took amateur boxing so seriously? I was shocked by how… real it felt. And by “real” I just mean that everything looked a lot closer than I’d anticipated to what I’d imagine a Vegas boxing match to be like. Not that I’ve ever witnessed one. But I get the general idea, from movies and such.

Dana quickly got into the pomp and circumstance. I… didn’t really understand what was going on, to be quite honest. I wasn’t sure who to root for, or if there even was someone to root for in the first place. Me and sports don’t really mix. I rarely know what’s happening. But it was for a good cause: the OddBalls Foundation, which raises money for testicular cancer. Yes, I, too, thought my friend Sveva was joking when she told me. I actually tossed back my head and laughed—in the middle of the library, too. But turns out she was serious. The price of my ticket went to raising awareness for cancerous testicles.

Dragging my body out of bed Saturday morning was one of the most difficult chores of my life. I started the day at a vocal recital for my friend Sydney, who is playing my sister, Tzeitel, in Fiddler on the Roof. Unsurprisingly, she sounded amazing. In fact, I’m actually quite jealous thinking about it. Throwback to when I used to be able to sing classical music. Now I’m pretty sure I only know how to belt.

But the big focal point of this week, the event I spent a whopping £180 on (let’s not talk about that), was a ball at Lady Margaret Hall (LMH). Fun fact: LMH is Emma Watson’s college, where she’s currently pursuing a masters degree in English, though there are rumors of her dropping out and/or switching colleges. Unfortunately, I did not run into Emma. But I did run into my cast-mate Zara, who was kind enough to let me surround myself by the members of her friend group in order to stay warm once the sun went down.

Let me first introduce you to a new character: Adi, welcome to the Substack. After repeatedly questioning me last night as to whether or not he would finally make his official Substack debut, I have decided to do him a favor and elevate him to this coveted platform. (Even though our original deal was that he’d have to pole dance on the acrobats’ spinning wheel first before he could earn a feature.)

(And yes, there were acrobats. Wearing Hawaiian print.)

Because it would be criminal to get dressed up and not document the outfit in a million photos, we started with an extensive photoshoot at Magdalen, where we were in full view of all the students enjoying their dinners on the grass. Their stares were conspicuous. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to feel a lick of shame. Photos come first. Always.

Oh, and thanks again, Adi, for acting as my personal photographer. Bravo for braving the camera I shoved into your hands.

This is how you know I’m dedicated to this Substack. I spent that entire photoshoot trying to capture the perfect thumbnail for today’s post. (I can already hear Tom and Kyle calling me self-indulgent right now.)

Looking back at these, I’m realizing I do the same face and pose in every single photo. Where is Sita to give me a lesson on photo-taking when I need it? Again, I am issuing my formal plea: my dearly departed (not dead, just at Stanford) friends, please return. I miss you all.

(Guys, don’t get it twisted. Obviously, I love my friends here now as well. But imagine if everyone was together!)

After exhausting my (very limited) modeling capabilities—and my phone battery—it was time to go. This was me upon discovering that there would be free food at the ball:

I guess that’s what £180 gets you.

Thankfully, we were all in agreement: there was simply no way we could trek the 15 minutes in our heels to LMH before spending the rest of the night on our feet. We were mentally preparing for the long haul. The ball was scheduled to last until 5 a.m. Maybe some other, slightly more sane person would see the 5 a.m. end time as a suggestion rather than a rule. But we were determined to get our money’s worth.

And get our money’s worth we did. Upon arrival, we immediately began indulging in the free—well, maybe not so free, since we did pay for that ticket—amenities, including alcohol. The partygoers were dressed in all sorts of finery; I spent the evening admiring other girl’s dresses and making mental notes of which ones to purchase for myself.

The biggest downfall about the LMH ball was its high volume of seemingly never-ending lines. There was a giant line for risotto, a glacially slow line for gyros, a wending and weaving line for cocktails, a shockingly line wait for ice cream despite the cold, a line not even worth attempting for donuts, and a veritable mob around the bar. Oh, and then there were the lines for the carnival rides, which I attempted to brave for about ten minutes before my fingers and toes felt like they were becoming icicles and I simply had to get out of the open air.

You may be thinking, “Emma, why didn’t you just put on your alcohol blanket? Why didn’t you just drink away the cold?” Well, that’s easier said than done when the line for the bar takes 45 minutes and they limit you to two drinks at a time per person. Adi was truly my saving grace when he managed to befriend one of the (heavily intoxicated) bartenders, was allowed behind the bar, and started serving people beer.

Unfortunately, because I had wasted most of my battery on that evening’s photoshoot, my phone died after only two hours. I’m pretty sure that night was the longest I’ve gone without access to my own technology. And I wasn’t alone; most of my friends were walking around with dead devices, too, which made locating each other quite tricky at times. At one point, after Jui and Khushi convinced me to retrieve my coat from coat check (despite my protests that it would ruin my outfit) because my lips and hands were turning blue and I was beginning to look hypothermic, I ended up losing my friends for a solid hour. In that time, one of the nice staff members took one look at my pallid face and let me use the staff bathroom, where I remained for far longer than I should have simply because it was warm. And then I went and ate gyros with some other American exchange students I’d just met.

Basically, all of that is to say that I have very few photos of the night. Which is slightly sad for all of you, but was weirdly cathartic for me. Maybe this is why people do technology cleanses. It was kind of nice not being able to check my phone.

Hands down the best part of the night was the bumper cars. For some reason, Adi let me drive, even after I’d warned him that I am widely considered by my family to be a terrible driver. It was only after I’d gotten us into quite a few rough collisions that I admitted to totaling my car at 16 years of age.

It was a one-car accident. There is literally nobody else to blame but myself.

Okay, wow, Emma, you really should’ve been keeping your eyes open while driving that bumper car. No wonder I slammed my knees into the dash so many times and now have bruises all over my legs. Even I don’t seem to trust my driving skills in these flicks.

Once it hit 3 a.m., the DJ turned into a silent disco, which Adi complained about incessantly until he realized it would allow him to change the channels on the headset so he wouldn’t have to listen to girly music. Call me basic, but I was perfectly happy with “Party in the USA” and “Love Story.”

We danced until the ball shut down promptly at 5 a.m. I will probably be considering this event my cardio for the week. Because by then, the sun was coming up, and the soles of my feet felt like I’d spent the past hour walking across a bed of needles. (I had neglected to bring a change of shoes and was stuck in 3-inch heels all night.)

But though the odds were stacked against us—i.e., dead phones, freezing temperatures, and barriers to alcohol—we made it to sunrise. Here’s our survival photo:

And then it was back in the Uber and home to Stanford House.

Side note: why has everyone in Oxford been lying to me the past few months? I was told that “Uber doesn’t exist in Oxford.” That is not true. It does. I used it last night. Twice. I deserve retribution for the struggles I have struggled due to my incorrect belief that walking is the only option.

So there you have it, folks. My bender of a week(end). This was my version of Dunch, the annual Stanford darty that is famous for being the craziest, most fun party of the entire spring quarter. While my Stanford friends were Dunching, I was doing all of this. I feel that’s a fair trade-off. One day of Dunch is honestly equal to a full week of regular partying. That darty has sucked the life from me every year I’ve attended. (Which I guess has only been twice, but you get the point.)

That reminds me, now that it’s (mostly) warm and sunny, Oxford would be a great place to darty. So if any of my Oxford friends are reading this, please let me know what you think about bringing this classic American frat tradition to the hallowed lawns of Oxford University.

But for now, I’m off to drink copious amounts of tea, heal my voice, and prepare for sitzprobe tonight, when my cast will run through all the music from Fiddler and I will have to pretend that I didn’t destroy my vocal chords. To my parents (and anyone else who’s concerned about my health or liver), next week will be far more tame. It has to be—I’m getting too old to maintain this type of stamina.

And with that, I bid you farewell. Please pray for me to get some sleep this week.