Ballgowns and Tutu(s)

What a weekend this has been!

When spring rolls around, there are differently themed balls hosted by various Oxford colleges. My friends and I decided on the St. Hugh's Secret Garden ball, which was this Saturday.

Everyone met at Julia's, where we did hair and makeup and took pictures a la high school homecoming.
Here Julia and I are, all ready to go--and with flowers in our hair as a nod to the theme of the evening. Rachel Zoe's got nothing on us.
We collectively made our way over to St. Hugh's, where there was a giant queue to get it.

Never in my life have I seen so many men in tuxedos. Amazing. Men almost unfailingly look good in tuxes, which I am coming to believe are the sartorial gods' contribution to mankind--and I do mean mankind, most of whom seem to struggle with achieving much with clothing beyond just covering flesh. One of the things I love about Oxford is the pervasive presence of men in tuxedos--it's nearly impossible to leave the house on any given evening without seeing at least a handful of them. But I digress.

(Seriously though, look how many there are in not even half a block.)We got a little antsy in line. Patience is not one of my virtues. Luckily I make up for it with wit, intelligence, style and humility.
We also got rained on. Or were suddenly cast in Fiddler on the Roof, as this picture might suggest.
(Let's all sing together, friends--matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match...)


To their credit, St. Hugh's provided entertainment for their increasingly impatient--and damp--guests: circus acts. Just what one would expect to find in a secret garden.

AND fudge. Served by a man in a tuxedo. Well played, St. Hugh's.
Inside, the fun continued. There were flowers and garden-y themed items, as well as completely unrelated stuff like coconut throwing--

Bathtubs full of Pimm's--
A maze--
A ferris wheel--

And bumper cars, which were loads of fun and completely ridiculous to drive in ballgowns and heels.
Although we enjoyed it all, the group came to a consensus that not one member of the ball planning committee had ever seen or read the Secret Garden, as there were no boys who talked to animals, no shutaway cousins who believed they were hunchbacks, and no Mrs. Medlock anywhere to be found.

We also ate and drank our way through the 85pound ticket fee--
And danced the night away to musical acts including a old timey rock and roll band, a Beach Boys cover group, and a Queen tribute band led by a man who seemed to believe very deeply that he was, in fact, Freddie Mercury.

(As does Julia, sometimes.)

(And Whitney too, for that matter. We all have our moments where we're burning through the sky, yeah--belting into a hairbrush/wine bottle/russian nesting doll and having delusions of grandeur.)
Despite the rain, cold and inevitable onset of pneumonia in the coming days, it was a lovely evening.


But more importantly friends:
this weekend I also met Desmond Tutu (twice).
He hugged me (twice).
He airkissed me (twice--one on each air cheek).
We ate together (twice). Okay, we were in the same room but at different tables.
We are besties.

Someone at Kellogg is somehow connected to him, so they brought him here for a lecture and other events.

On Saturday there was a student lunch with him, and Theresa, our MCR president, asked me if I wanted to present him with a gift basket from the college. hell yes I did.

When I gave it to him, he gave me a little hug/ dual air kiss thing. It was a little awkward because I didn't really know how one embraces a nobel laureate and badass world changer. But as Theresa said, it doesn't matter how it went down, it went down.
Here he is at lunch, giving us pre-soup wisdom.


And here we are mid-embrace. The photo is dark and since you can't actually see his face there's no proof that this is in fact the Archbishop, but still. I like that it looks like he's whispering the secrets of the universe into my ear.

Afterward we were all aglow with Tutu-induced inspiration.

Yesterday was the big lecture at the Sheldonian. They seated the students way up in the nosebleed section, but nothing could dampen our Tutu-enthusiasm.
He gave a brilliant speech, of course. I definitely teared up a few times because COME ON, there's Desmond Tutu, talking about ubuntu, common humanity, social justice--how could you not be moved?

The third and final act of Tutu-palooza 2010 was the fundraising dinner, geared mostly toward the college hotshots, but they let a few of us lowly students in as well (though they stuck us in the corner).


And then, as the night was wrapping up and he stood up to head out, shaking a few of the higher ups' hands on the way out, something came over me. As happy as I was about our lunchtime exchange, I really wanted a proper picture, and though his posse had done a pretty good job of keeping him inaccessible to the crowds of people at various events, I recognized an opportunity to creep. A creepertunity, if you will.

So I got up from the table and headed toward the lobby--no big deal, a few other people were stretching their legs or going to the bathroom. But then I just lingered there. I pressed my friend into service as photographer as she emerged, a bit surprised, from the ladies' room.

And then it happened. The archbishop came out, and as he passed by, I sort of inserted myself into his path, asked him for a quick picture, and of course he was incredibly gracious and friendly, even after I gave him another quick hug.

And that, gentle readers, was my weekend. Sometimes at Oxford, you sit in your small cell-like room poring over books on a Saturday night and wake up with highlighter on your face. But sometimes, you go to a ball and dine (twice!), hug (twice!) and get photographed with a nobel peace prize winner (twice!). Sometimes I wonder why on earth I moved across an ocean, left family and friends, took on a giant loan and started over in a strange country....and usually, I convince myself it's worth it, but sometimes I am presented with undeniable proof that it's really, really worth it.