A college friend sent me this marvelous tour of Oxford's pubs, making me feel warm, nostalgic, thirsty, and old all at the same time. The article beautifully captures the diverse atmospheres of the different watering holes scattered across the venerable city. I have fond memories of trying them all, and of drinking in not just the damned warm beer but also the sense that you had sit yourself down for a friendly drink in a spot where history had happened. It seemed amazing at the time that you could go to such a place that had been there so long and that there would be a chair and a pint for you — it was like being able to get a reservation at the Lincoln bedroom for a long weekend. At the time the pubs still had to close at 11, so we'd meander slowly back to Stanford's architecturally depraved dorm on the High Street, perhaps stopping at a Kebab van to have a pita filled with some unknowable meat carved from a juicy haunch on a spit, careless of the danger, happy recipients of the amused goodwill of the English.
I mean, we learned stuff, too. But the pubs stand out.
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