36. Thora
CHAPTER 36
THORA
All the melatonin in the world couldn’t put me to sleep this week. My body is wrecked with the time change. I eventually gave up trying to sleep at Fern’s house and just stared out her flat windows at the London streets at night. The city isn’t so very different from Pittsburgh…neighborhoods built and bisected by a river…cobblestones and old architecture sprinkled with new bike lanes and modern parks. It makes me feel at home in a way.
In the morning, Fern—well, with Geoffrey—drives me to Oxford and holds my hand while I sign in for the graduate student housing. I’m living in a glorious old building full of wee flats. My place is one room with a bathroom, tiny kitchen, and nook for the bed tucked in the wall where I can stare up at the beautiful wooden ceiling or stare out the window of the sandstone building.
I don’t have much to unpack, and the kitchen comes equipped with very basic supplies…so Fern gives me a watery-eyed hug and heads back to her own school. The flat has built-in drawers and bookshelves, although I didn’t bring any books to put on them. I fantasize about acquiring some wh ile I’m here…old law texts and reference guides to policies from all the different nations that prioritize social services.
I fall back on the bed, clapping my hands, and pass out in the middle of the afternoon, which isn’t going to do my jet lag any favors.
I wake up groggy in the middle of the night, and by four in the morning, I’m wide awake and ready to face my day. Too bad it doesn’t begin for five more hours. I decide to teach myself about English tea and boil some water in the kettle on my tiny stove. I’m feeling very posh, pouring it into a pot with loose leaves Fern gifted me, but stirring and sipping in silence just leads to thoughts of Odin.
Honestly, I don’t know what to make of the new information I’ve learned and processed. He figured out what he wants to do. He leveraged his family’s wealth to do something nice for me. He told me I’m the only thing he has going right in his life. It’s all too much, too soon, when I need to clear space in my head for this fellowship.
I will call him. Or text him. Eventually, I still intend to give him back his portion of that grant money. I even set it aside in a sub-account in my shiny new international checking account.
After two showers and a long session ironing my first-day outfit, I shoulder my laptop bag, toe on my red flats, and walk to orientation, knowing I look like what I am: a professional young woman starting graduate school.
The sun is shining, which I wasn’t expecting, but I tuck my new raincoat in my bag regardless. I sign in for international student programming and mill around munching an actual crumpet.
“And where are you from?” A guy with a French accent holds a hand out toward me, a hopeful smile on his face .
“Pittsburgh. In the States,” I tell him, shaking his hand and smiling. Look at me mingling. This isn’t terribly different from bartending. Instead of hoping for tips, I’m looking to make professional connections, I remind myself.
“Ah, an American. What brings you to Oxford?” He leans against the mantle of a very ornate fireplace.
I swallow the last bite of crumpet and dab at my mouth with my napkin. “International Policy and Family Studies,” I tell him. “You?”
He talks about microeconomics until my eyes start to glaze, but we’re soon joined by a pair of students from India, here studying the impact of colonialism, and a German dude “reading” English literature.
I lose myself in conversations about relocation, learn that the Indian folks live in my same building, and enter our campus tour buzzing. As we walk across the impressive lawn, I snap a picture to send to my mom. Then I realize it’s three in the morning back home. I sigh.
The rest of the day is a lot of the same. I repeatedly get to say, “I’m Thora Janssen, Rhodes Fellow.” I like it when people are visibly impressed by my achievements. I could get used to this, I think. But it will take some time. I have to physically restrain myself from hopping up to get everyone a tray of water glasses at lunch and I thank the staff too profusely when someone serves tea in the afternoon.
I am grateful for a lull in conversation as people sip their tea, and I take the opportunity to step back from the cluster of other international students. I stand in the window, sipping, looking out at the people milling around campus. The professors here really do wear their academic regalia, or at least they’re wearing it today, billowing around campus in bright red gowns and velvet caps .
Amidst the bustle, I think I see a familiar man limping, but I convince myself it’s just the jet lag. There will be no massive football players here, with or without knee rollers.
But then I hear a scraping sound, and I turn to see a man walking with a cane, entering the room and sort of dragging a cast on his right leg. He’s tall and fit, with bright blue eyes and a smile that has everyone in the space walking over to greet him.
Except me. I stand with a trembling hand; not sure I can trust my eyes until he approaches, and I catch a whiff of him. Cedar and lime and, well, swagger ooze from Odin Stag. I drop my cup to the ground when I see that it’s really, truly him standing here in front of me. In England. He stoops to pick up the cup with his non-cane hand. “Pretty sturdy. I’m impressed it didn’t break,” he says, setting the cup on the windowsill.
“What are you doing here?” All I can do is hiss at him in disbelief.
“Well, I didn’t come to mop up spilled tea, that’s for sure, Janssen.” He leans against the wall and smirks at me like we’re just joking around on campus in Pittsburgh.
“What are you doing here?” I repeat, crossing my arms and looking around to see if people are staring. Some are, in fact.
“I joined the crew team,” he says with a shrug, and I swat him in the shoulder. He grins. “I’m serious.”
I scowl and take a deep breath. “Enough, Odin. That team is for students.”
He grins even bigger, flashing dimples. I realize he’s wearing pants for the first time since I got to know him. He’s a whole mood, in dark jeans and a nice shirt beneath a blazer that hugs his shoulder muscles. He’s got a leather belt on, and my traitorous brain creates an image of him whipping it off and dropping it on the floor with a clank as he opens his pants.
“Right,” he says, reminding me that I’m in public. “I also enrolled in a sports psychology program here. Did you know they let masters students compete in sports in the UK? I’m a catch.”
I blink at him, trying to understand what he’s saying. That he, too, is a student. Here. Where I am a student. Close by. He leans in close and whispers. “Catch. That’s a rowing joke. It slaps with the lads.” And then he winks at me, and I can’t take it anymore. I spin on my heel and walk out of the room.