Indie author Libby Mercer, whose book “Unmasking Maya” has been making waves in the indie publishing e-world, has gathered up a bunch of talented gals and gentlemen for the Girly Blog Hop. For my contribution, I am posting some personal pictures that I took while I was studying at Oxford University in 2005.

Oxford is spooky.

It’s magical.

The smarts are practically contagious (I swear I came back with a slightly higher IQ. Thank you, tutorial system.)

And it’s got great bars. And guys. To my husband, this was all before I met you. Promise.

My favorite picture.

Baby Panther loves the Bodleian! The library to end all libraries!

Spires!

My dorm room. Magic happened here, people.

You are absolutely not allowed to walk on that grass. I learned that the hard way.

My roommate Nicole twisted her ankle after a night at our favorite establishment, the Purple Turtle. So she had these crutches and hobbled around everywhere. One night we were walking across campus and she went to walk on the grass. I told her, “No! You’ll get in trouble.”

But she was a rebel with blonde curly hair, so she said, “Eff it,” and hobbled across the grass. No one saw her. She didn’t get in trouble. It was a great act of rebellion.

Two nights later I was swaying home from the Purple Turtle and whispered to my other friend Laura, “Hey … Let’s walk across the grass.” She was apprehensive and told me to go first (note to past self, that’s a sure sign of “Nooo.”)

I didn’t even take a full step. The bottom of my shoes lightly graced the tops of the gorgeously groomed grass blades and the porter came out of hiding and yelled, “DON’T walk on the grass!”

It was a little Clint Eastwood-esque, and this was before Grand Torino came out.

I was so surprised that I jumped back and looked behind me to see the portly porter standing in the opened doorway of his little porter house. I don’t think I even said anything, because I was in shock from just being yelled at by an old British man and from getting caught. I mean, Nicole clumsily made her way all the way across the grass and nothing happened. It took her like ten damn minutes. But she walked across the forbidden grass.

That is unheard of at Oxford University, my friends. This might be the only story of this kind.

So I guess the moral of my story is, when traveling, respect that culture’s weird and unreasonable social rules. Even if one of those silly rules is to not walk across the grass that they groom with a fine tooth comb.

Because breaking such rules will get a gal yelled at. And the only thing to remedy those shameful feelings is more trips to the Purple Turtle.

This was the porter who caught me. He was from Wales and his name was Cyril. I kept calling him Cereal. Probably didn’t help my case.

I have another confession. I am the slacker who didn’t put together a prize to win. I was too busy conditioning and massaging my little patch of weeds on the side of my town home. Go here to see who else contributed to this blog hop and go win yourself some prizes.

But if you leave a RAWResome comment here, I’ll give you a load of respect.

So comment away! What’s your story of rebellion?