The bicycle graveyard in Oxford

For some reason yesterday, I thought of the bicycle graveyard.  I think it was because I saw all the bike racks that look like poles with the London Underground symbol attached, which made me think of England and bikes and that short stretch of fence in Oxford where the street divides around a tiny catholic church and its tiny graveyard right before you get to Cornmarket Street.

For some reason, that fence was always adorned with bits of bicycles left behind when other bits of the bicycle were stolen.  There were a lot of seats and front tires with attached bike chains clinging to that wrought-iron-y fence around the ancient graveyard.  It was like a zombie movie, night of the living dead bicycles.

That area always seemed very chilly to me.  Probably this was because the wonky intersection and the tall buildings around it blocked out the sun as I would walk through there in the morning.  It could have had something to do with the Martyrs Memorial at my back as I walked south.  There were a lot of trees in that graveyard, too, muffling what little light would have been left. 

Often I would take the western branching of the road so as to avoid that oddly cold spot, but it was mostly because there was a patisserie on that side of the divide, and a fist-sized quiche Lorraine covered a multitude of hardships on a two mile early morning walk to class.  Mmmmmm, quiche Lorraine. 

I wouldn't always get a quiche because if I didn't leave early, the patisserie would be sold out by the time I got there, which would make me want to cry a little. It was tough to talk about Augustine and philosophy that was way over my head on an empty stomach after a late night trying to write smart 8-10 page papers every week.  The quiche made it better.  Or some real hot chocolate from that cart vendor just on the other side of the High Street. 

No cream, thank you.  It was like putting butter in your hot chocolate and left little oily bubbles covering the top of your chocolate as the skin formed so fast on the really cold mornings.

Quotes, roads, and home

A quote that seems really appropriate for this blog (considering the source of its title ["Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost]):

     "I always did like this road," I said out loud to Mr. Potter and Murphy. "I always liked where it took me."
     Mr Potter nodded. "I suspect that's the highest compliment you can give a road."
     "That's the only road worth driving on," Murphy agreed.

It's from Frances O'Roark Dowell's Where I'd Like to Be. (Page 126 of the hardcover)  This book stars a bright, young female protagonist who is searching for the meaning of home and family.  As a foster kid, she finds the search to be a special challenge.  This book was sweet but not sappy mostly because the protagonist has a very straightforward voice, and she's frank about her weaknesses as well as her strengths.  The characters were each distinct, and their interactions with each other rang true.  It really held me while I read it because I wanted to know what happened to all of the characters (who were closely involved in the story and the resolution).  It was dramatic but not melodramatic.  Of course, I cried at the end.  I liked it.  One of these days I should definitely read the other book this author wrote that won an Edgar Award (Dovey Coe, I believe).

And now for the quote again because it's so great.

     "I always did like this road," I said out loud to Mr. Potter and Murphy.  "I always liked where it took me."
     Mr Potter nodded.  "I suspect that's the highest compliment you can give a road."
     "That's the only road worth driving on," Murphy agreed.