Whenever I arrive somewhere I’ve never been before in this country it takes a Negroni (maybe two) to smooth out the rough edges.
And nightfall helps plenty. Towns in the USA tend to look better in the dark, assuming the illuminations are artful.
I thought Oxford would be quainter, more charming. (That’s the problem with high expectations.)
Add this: Nothing like a college town to make you feel, uh… mature.
But after a long night in a shitty hotel and shifting quarters to a good one, I begin to see things more clearly with fresh eyes.
At iconic Square Books I cannot resist a couple new books to further weigh me down. (I brought three along for this x-country trek but so far there’s been no time to read even a single page).
One is about Signs, as in, pay attention to intuition, dreams, synchronicity and, as the subtitle states, The Secret Language of the Universe.
I’d already cashed out with a book and a copy of The Iowa Review and a postcard (for this post) when, about to depart the store, I realized I hadn’t yet engaged in a bout of bibliomancy i.e., choosing a book at random from a shelf, opening to any page and uncovering whatever message awaits.
Page 111 of Signs begins with a new chapter titled The Connector. I commence reading: “If you are reading these words right now, chances are that you have already saved someone’s life.”
I could not recall having done that, but I was intrigued enough to purchase the book.
It was not until a couple days later when, reaching page 111 and re-reading that line, it dawned on me.
I mentioned a couple posts ago that after a horrid overnight at The Graduate hotel I moved to another hotel called The Oliver.
Oliver is the name of one of my two grandsons.
About seven years ago, when Oliver was four years old, one afternoon he and his cousin were in my charge. I was reading a book on the back patio while both boys—only three months apart in age—played inside the garage, a few steps away. Suddenly, some kind of intuitive thought struck me about a need to check on them that moment. When I opened the side door, Rylan, the elder grandson, had a look of horror on his face. I turned to see what he was looking at: Oliver, at the base of a very large, very heavy bookshelf, his skinny arms outstretched, desperately holding it back from toppling over and crushing him. I dashed over and, standing over Oliver, strenuously pushed its tilt back against the wall. I was stunned by how heavy it was; by how “my little guy” had managed to stave off being crushed to death until my arrival on the scene. There was no wait out and his arms could otherwise not have lasted much longer, maybe a few seconds. To this day, I remain bewildered by how Oliver found the strength to hold that monster shelf in place.
As for the material world: I only ever buy garments and accessories when I’m traveling. That way I have a story to tell about anything I’m wearing, should anyone ask.
In this case, a haberdashery (remember them?) called Hinton & Hinton…
…and their own-brand (made in USA) socks with enticing motifs.
I like the look of Oxford cloth button down shirts but can’t wear them because they’re too heavy, too warm for me. But here in Oxford another haberdashery—Landry—sells their own label: A cotton-linen blend that has the look without the weight. Poetically, a must-have Oxford from Oxford, to hell with Brooks Brothers and their (mostly) Chinese-made merch.
Come evening: Saint Leo, dinner at the bar, a bottle of Willamette Valley pinot noir. And their Pot de Creme—a chocolate high beyond heaven.
Divine.
Next: Divinity of the natural sort with a full snow moon over Oxford.
Next day, time to chill and catch-up with road trip maintenance: A launderette for clothes and a good scrubbing for the COW; a long hot soak; carving out the next few stops of this journey, a system based partly on whim, partly on spontaneity, always with a desire to overnight somewhere special—an upcoming challenge in the Mid-West given vast distances between special overnights and my preference not to drive more than five hours.
And then a midafternoon snooze during which I’m practically paralytic.
Lulu, too…
Later, after feasting on Argentine salmon and Etude pinot noir in City Grocery…
…the magic arrives at Spring Street Cigars, smack next to The Oliver.
Earlier, I’d been sitting on the terrace of my suite—a spoiler—wondering from where the sweet aroma of cigar tobacco was emanating… maybe a smoker on another terrace?
And now, passing a little shack set deeply down a paver, I have my answer…
I saunter in and the proprietor leads me into the humidor room of their cigar lounge. I’m looking for a mild, aromatic smoke… something small, all I want is a few delectable draws.
Two are recommended. But when the (Arturo Fuente) Hemingway Short Story is invoked, my choice is clear. Snipped, lit and puffed.
My five-buck tip on a $14.49 stogie earns me two fingers of Old Forester. (The youngsters manning the fort aren’t aware this was Faulkner’s favorite hooch.)
A hirsute regular named Matthew wanders in and steers me toward magical elixirs I’ve been hunting since embarking on this cross-country trek precisely three weeks earlier to the day.
Here is Matt’s message from the universe: Go to High Cotton Liquor and purchase a bottle of Dettling Christmas Morning bourbon (distilled in Alabama, aged in Mississippi), a bottle of Crittenden and a bottle of Old Soul.
Later, during slumber, nocturnal dreams (elusive so far this trip) return, including one about a true spy story I wrote up as a newspaper column around this time last year. The message: pay attention, I’m on the right track, it’s a book.
This burst of inspiration causes me to rise as the moon sets…
…and launch to Heartbreak Coffee at 7:03 for a wake-up elixir before moving on to High Cotton for claiming my batch of golden glory.
Come nightfall, a second visit to Faulkner’s graves, maybe catch his spirit orb in my lens.
But Count No’Count (as he was nicknamed) wouldn’t come out to play.
And early next morning a torrential thunderstorm chases us out of town.