I have been an Anglophile for as long as I can remember, so when the opportunity arose for me to study English at Oxford, I was fully committed to becoming an expatriate.
In comparison to New York, Oxford proved itself to be lovely aesthetically, but difficult culturally and even creatively. By the beginning of March, I was starting to feel mentally sick. Sick of Restoration literature, of the grey skies, of the bland diet, of the unnecessarily quaint and cluttered way people spoke my native language. I was sick of England.
