Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Friday, August 12, 2016
Day 49
We had football last night, and with a pang, I realized it would be the last time I'd play with these crazy people. Sir Andy made it into an "Egypt against The Rest of the World" match, and the echoing chant of "ROW! ROW! ROW!" still rings in my ears.
I already miss this.
My final exam for philosophy was today, and now I'm just working on my supervision paper.
I already miss this.
My final exam for philosophy was today, and now I'm just working on my supervision paper.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Day 48: Many Meetings
Today was my last day of classes, and I can't say I'm particularly sorry about that. As much as I appreciate discussing thick ethical concepts and the ethical implications of cultural devastation, I've decided I much prefer, you know, the hard science of psychology.
But that's not to say I didn't enjoy the class.
This is Ray.
I think he hates the both of us now.
So here's to you, Freddie. You've made me seem conventional.
Let's not have it be another ten years or whatever before we talk again.
But that's not to say I didn't enjoy the class.
This is Ray.
I met Ray when we were in kindergarten. I don't remember a time when we weren't both friends and fierce competitors, both academically and athletically. We were so close that he was the only boy I'd invited to my tenth (or twelfth or something) birthday party.
He came over, played the piano at fortississississimo (I thought it would snap in two), and grandly presented me with MCR's The Black Parade, which had me thinking on my feet so I could pass it off to my parents as an album of love ballads. He was Romeo and I was Prince Escalus, and that's the way our relationship went until he moved away after elementary school.
Over the years, I'd seen him at the odd MUN conference, blasting people away with his booming voice and motorboat laughter, but we really fell out of contact once we hit college.
And then I came to Cambridge and there he was.
And we had a class together.
And we had seminar for that class together.
It was just like old times, honestly, even if, for the first few seminars, I couldn't look at him straight without laughing at how ridiculous this was.
Plus you have a weird face, Ray.
Anyhow, I was unsurprised to see that he'd brought his longboard over with him (His longboard. In Cambridge.) but was rather surprised at how easily we fell back into making faces at each other behind the professor's back. Granted, we thankfully have matured beyond the point of casting spitballs from the back row (I think), but being around him just reminded me of how crazy we were as kids.
And so, on the last day of class when our typically impeccably-dressed philosophy professor showed up looking like he'd wandered in from the beach, we seized the opportunity.
So here's to you, Freddie. You've made me seem conventional.
Let's not have it be another ten years or whatever before we talk again.
Day 47: This Is A Strange Place
I went for a short run this morning with you-know-who down to you-know-where and came back to do a bit of work on my final supervision paper. Today was also the Fitzwilliam Museum's 200th anniversary, so I went down in the afternoon to have a look around.
Despite the fact that I walk past the Fitzwilliam Museum every day to get to class, I'd never been inside. It was surprisingly grand.
"This is a piece of British culture," Sir Andy had said earlier, "You must see it."
He's also a a (fantastic) singer.
(Of human trees.)
But I won't embarrass him on here by posting that amazing video I have of him at open mic. Man, that was glorious.
Instead, have three misfits.
(Chairs are for standing.)
Despite the fact that I walk past the Fitzwilliam Museum every day to get to class, I'd never been inside. It was surprisingly grand.
There was also a fair variety of work there, from gaudy golden Italian stuff to realist landscapes and van Gogh, though I did skip the Egyptian exhibit because I don't think I've quite recovered from the mummies at the British Museum.
And then I went out to watch the Morris dancers.
I'm still not entirely sure my memories of the following half-hour aren't the result of some elaborate hallucination.
I don't know what was the most bewildering--seeing old dudes with flowers in their hats and Santa's sleigh bells strapped to their legs wheezing and jumping around looking like I'd have to call 999 any second, or the other old dude going around and alternately whacking people on the backside and tickling them with this weird stick-thingie (I got tickled with the weird stick-thingie. The LA in me had a fist cocked before I realized that maybe slugging a sixty-year-old dude might lead to trouble), or the one dancing dude who tripped over a pram and fell on a baby, or the simple fact that there were two accordion players, or the stick-whacking, or the handkerchief-waving--
What the heck did I just watch?
Somewhat dazed, I staggered back to King's to get a bit more work done (it didn't happen).
Since this is the last week in Cambridge for one of my friends, I decided to go to formal at Pembroke just as kind of a good-bye dinner. I complain a lot about his disgustingly cerebral jokes, but I really did appreciate getting to know him, and having a partner-in-crime with whom to suffer through interminable philosophy lectures was an added bonus.
(Of human trees.)
But I won't embarrass him on here by posting that amazing video I have of him at open mic. Man, that was glorious.
Instead, have three misfits.
(Chairs are for standing.)
Monday, August 8, 2016
Day 45
Laundry days are always busy days.
You may notice that I'm once again typing this up at some ungodly hour of the morning. In response: well, yes. It's about half-four here, and I've been up for over two hours. Why?
Because, well, Cambridge.
After yesterday's (Sunday) debacle of a very unintentionally literal pub crawl, I took things a little easier Monday morning, pottering around on creaky knees with tasks for my supervision (and being surprised by the open possibility of beginning a collaboration between UCLA and faculty here). I tore over to the Engineering Department for a quick lecture on graduate school at Cambridge, which is, unsurprisingly, freakishly expensive (upwards of 40,000 GBP/year for a Ph.D in the sciences, which exchanges to a little over 50,000 USD).
Because, well, Cambridge.
We had our inter-house football cup tournament tonight on the little AstroTurf arena down at the Sports Grounds. Though the original plan was for a seven-a-side bout, we ended up just mixing houses and tallying house points by goals and fouls. It was much more interesting that way.
The sun is rising. Time for a run.
You may notice that I'm once again typing this up at some ungodly hour of the morning. In response: well, yes. It's about half-four here, and I've been up for over two hours. Why?
Because, well, Cambridge.
After yesterday's (Sunday) debacle of a very unintentionally literal pub crawl, I took things a little easier Monday morning, pottering around on creaky knees with tasks for my supervision (and being surprised by the open possibility of beginning a collaboration between UCLA and faculty here). I tore over to the Engineering Department for a quick lecture on graduate school at Cambridge, which is, unsurprisingly, freakishly expensive (upwards of 40,000 GBP/year for a Ph.D in the sciences, which exchanges to a little over 50,000 USD).
Because, well, Cambridge.
We had our inter-house football cup tournament tonight on the little AstroTurf arena down at the Sports Grounds. Though the original plan was for a seven-a-side bout, we ended up just mixing houses and tallying house points by goals and fouls. It was much more interesting that way.
The sun is rising. Time for a run.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Day 44: The Way of the Wimpy Pole
After a day of banging my head against my laptop as part of the writing process for my supervision paper, I decided yesterday on a last-minute trip out to the Cambridge Shakespeare Festival to see Henry V.
I nipped over to St. John's to find all the chair chairs in the garden taken, so I had a seat on the grass, glad I'd brought my towel.
I love Shakespeare almost as much as I love Arthur Conan Doyle, which is to say--quite a lot.
It was a bare-bones cast, probably as it had been in Shakespeare's day, with a company of fifteen or so.
At the intermission, I had a quick tour around St. John's, which is (according to King's) the least-favored (and second-richest) college of Cambridge. Someone told me that St. John's is like the Slytherin of Cambridge.
I didn't mind.
The Bridge of Sighs.
Bare bones indeed.
Bum aching, I returned to King's fully satisfied.
This morning, I went on a hike (more of a very long walk than a hike, actually) to Wimpole.
It was glorious.
We came in through the north entry gate thing at around a quarter past one via Wimpole Way to see some fake ruins.
And sheep. Because, you know. Sheep.
And cows.
From Wimpole Hall itself, the view was magnificent.
We had a bit of lunch at the on-site restaurant, after which Sir Andy looked rather beat, so we went out and had a kip in the shade.
Yep.
The National Trust: Nationally-Protected Napping Grass.
It'd been a hot (as you can tell by the freakishly blue skies), windy 12 miles out to Wimpole, and Sir Andy looked at me as if I was deranged when I announced my intention to run back to Cambridge.
Nothing new there.
He took the kids back to Pembroke via taxi, and I headed out back across the fields.
It was so. freaking. hot.
(But beautiful.)
I became hopelessly lost at one point near Hardwick Forest, completely overshooting Wimpole Way on the public footpath and ending up at an abandoned farmhouse from Creepy Creepsterville, complete with the groaning corrugated steel roofing and the rusted, rusty car.
But honestly, when you see signs like these, I think the mistake can be forgiven.
Somehow, I wandered back onto Wimpole Way, and off in very far-off distance, I could see King's College Chapel and the prison tower of the UL.
Trees are human.
At mile around mile eight, I fell into a ditch.
I ended up crawling into a pub on the outskirts of Coton for the most massive, expensive bottle of water I have ever encountered in this short life.
I nipped over to St. John's to find all the chair chairs in the garden taken, so I had a seat on the grass, glad I'd brought my towel.
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention,
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
I love Shakespeare almost as much as I love Arthur Conan Doyle, which is to say--quite a lot.
It was a bare-bones cast, probably as it had been in Shakespeare's day, with a company of fifteen or so.
At the intermission, I had a quick tour around St. John's, which is (according to King's) the least-favored (and second-richest) college of Cambridge. Someone told me that St. John's is like the Slytherin of Cambridge.
I didn't mind.
The Bridge of Sighs.
Bare bones indeed.
Bum aching, I returned to King's fully satisfied.
This morning, I went on a hike (more of a very long walk than a hike, actually) to Wimpole.
It was glorious.
 |
| THEY GROW BEANS HERE. |
 |
| Wimpole's Folly, a bunch of fake ruins apparently built on the order of some rich lady. |
And cows.
From Wimpole Hall itself, the view was magnificent.
We had a bit of lunch at the on-site restaurant, after which Sir Andy looked rather beat, so we went out and had a kip in the shade.
Yep.
The National Trust: Nationally-Protected Napping Grass.
It'd been a hot (as you can tell by the freakishly blue skies), windy 12 miles out to Wimpole, and Sir Andy looked at me as if I was deranged when I announced my intention to run back to Cambridge.
Nothing new there.
He took the kids back to Pembroke via taxi, and I headed out back across the fields.
It was so. freaking. hot.
(But beautiful.)
I became hopelessly lost at one point near Hardwick Forest, completely overshooting Wimpole Way on the public footpath and ending up at an abandoned farmhouse from Creepy Creepsterville, complete with the groaning corrugated steel roofing and the rusted, rusty car.
But honestly, when you see signs like these, I think the mistake can be forgiven.
Somehow, I wandered back onto Wimpole Way, and off in very far-off distance, I could see King's College Chapel and the prison tower of the UL.
Trees are human.
At mile around mile eight, I fell into a ditch.
I ended up crawling into a pub on the outskirts of Coton for the most massive, expensive bottle of water I have ever encountered in this short life.
I am so very, very tired.
Friday, August 5, 2016
Day 42
This morning's run was crisp and sharp, bright and a little painful after last night's football that involved a minor ankle sprain and a fantastic blow to the head.
Football is a non-contact sport, right? Right.
On our way to Grantchester via Byron's Pool via Trumpington, we came across a field with a large wooden rabbit bolted down right in the center.
"What the heck, man?"
"It's art. Public art."
Football is a non-contact sport, right? Right.
On our way to Grantchester via Byron's Pool via Trumpington, we came across a field with a large wooden rabbit bolted down right in the center.
"What the heck, man?"
"It's art. Public art."
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
Day 39: No, But Really
Honestly, I have issues.
The weekend, other than my little adventure with Sir Charlie, was chock-full of paper-writing, and I handed in the last of my term papers today, which was a bit of a relief.
Last night, though.
Last night was amazing.
Why was last night amazing?
Last night, my friend, was football night.
I went for a quick run just beforehand, and it'd started to drizzle on the way back through the meadows, so I nipped back up to my room to grab my waterproof before jogging over to Pembroke. I should feel a bit guilty for admitting I was rather glad the rain had halved the turnout, but I really was very happy things'd turned out the way they did.
By the time we got to the Sport Ground, only the diehard remained, so we ended up just shoving about one of the full-size goals and settling for a half-field scrimmage.
Last time it was slippy out during football had been after an afternoon of rain. Here we were, playing football, in the rain, wearing sneakers, and absolutely just sliding everywhere. I took Sir Andy down with a soft tackle early on, and he straight up tripped over me and went flying through the air, taking me down with him. Shortly after, he nailed one of my teammates straight in the behind with a laser of a shot, sending her slipping and flying through the air as well. I then ricocheted a shot off the upright, off his backside, and into the net. It was glorious. We staggered about like drunken goats on stilts, I got frustrated and took my shirt off, and we all cried when Sir Andy slipped chasing a juke and fell on his noble behind.
We played World Cup the last half hour or so, so it was two-on-two-on-two, with Sir Andy in goal (or gaol, more like). Because we are mature young adults, my friend and I played as Djibouti and, of course, won the match.
Boom.
Honestly, though, I haven't laughed so much in a very long time. Rain makes us all delirious, I guess.
This morning (Tuesday), I went for my customary jog with Sir Andy (not to Grantchester this time-surprise!). It was still raining, so I literally ran blind for most of it--all I know is that we somehow ended up in the same field as the last time Sir Andy got lost, and that same huge dog (just one of them this time) came around barking at us.
Lovely.
About a quarter of the way into our run, Sir Andy said, "So, I didn't know you were a musician."
"Huh?" I replied, nearly stepping into blurry traffic. I snatched off my glasses and wiped them on the sopping hem of my tank top.
"You've been holding out on me."
"Um."
"Charlie tells me you're a pianist."
"You two talk about me when I'm not there!?" I squawked, "What is wrong with you guys?"
"You know, open mic night is tomorrow," Sir Andy continued conversationally as we blatantly jay-ran across a busy intersection.
"What the heck is that supposed to mean?" I spluttered.
"I'm sure everyone would love to hear your musical talents," Sir Andy replied to himself. I was too busy dodging monstrous green blurs that should have been bushes.
Guess who is now performing at open mic night?
I am going to strangle that man. The nerve.
Just before noon, I had an interview with the Pembroke College Recorder (actual name of position, not joking) about being a scholarship student and that was all very nice. After lunch, I wandered down to the dungeons of King's where they keep the grand piano and had a blast merrily screaming away some Oasis and swearing fluently in my mind about having to come up with a song to play at freaking open mic night.
I had class, dozed off several times whilst blearily taking notes on cultural devastation, then stripped to my racing shorts and stood nearly panstless in the lobby of the Engineering Building while I waited for Sir Charlie.
Sir Charlie and I walked over to the track at Wilberforce Road together because he thought it'd be good to have me train with his running club, despite the fact that I'd run a fairly decent amount this morning and my bouti still ached from Monday night's football.
We did some fairly standard stretches and spent the evening running hill intervals. I've become resigned to the fact that old, saggy, baggy men three times my age will always run faster than I ever will.
We did a bit of stretching after the workout, and as the command was given to the arm-over-back-of-the-head lat stretch, I found myself fiercely wishing that I'd shaved this morning.
British people choose the strangest time to begin conversations.
There we were with our faces tucked against our sweaty armpits, and this nice woman next to me decides to strike up a conversation.
Why?
I don't know. I just don't know.
And now, after my second shower of the day, I once again am sitting here, struggling to determine what in tarnation I am going to sing tomorrow night.
Oh, how I will miss this place.
The weekend, other than my little adventure with Sir Charlie, was chock-full of paper-writing, and I handed in the last of my term papers today, which was a bit of a relief.
Last night, though.
Last night was amazing.
Why was last night amazing?
Last night, my friend, was football night.
I went for a quick run just beforehand, and it'd started to drizzle on the way back through the meadows, so I nipped back up to my room to grab my waterproof before jogging over to Pembroke. I should feel a bit guilty for admitting I was rather glad the rain had halved the turnout, but I really was very happy things'd turned out the way they did.
By the time we got to the Sport Ground, only the diehard remained, so we ended up just shoving about one of the full-size goals and settling for a half-field scrimmage.
Last time it was slippy out during football had been after an afternoon of rain. Here we were, playing football, in the rain, wearing sneakers, and absolutely just sliding everywhere. I took Sir Andy down with a soft tackle early on, and he straight up tripped over me and went flying through the air, taking me down with him. Shortly after, he nailed one of my teammates straight in the behind with a laser of a shot, sending her slipping and flying through the air as well. I then ricocheted a shot off the upright, off his backside, and into the net. It was glorious. We staggered about like drunken goats on stilts, I got frustrated and took my shirt off, and we all cried when Sir Andy slipped chasing a juke and fell on his noble behind.
We played World Cup the last half hour or so, so it was two-on-two-on-two, with Sir Andy in goal (or gaol, more like). Because we are mature young adults, my friend and I played as Djibouti and, of course, won the match.
Boom.
Honestly, though, I haven't laughed so much in a very long time. Rain makes us all delirious, I guess.
This morning (Tuesday), I went for my customary jog with Sir Andy (not to Grantchester this time-surprise!). It was still raining, so I literally ran blind for most of it--all I know is that we somehow ended up in the same field as the last time Sir Andy got lost, and that same huge dog (just one of them this time) came around barking at us.
Lovely.
About a quarter of the way into our run, Sir Andy said, "So, I didn't know you were a musician."
"Huh?" I replied, nearly stepping into blurry traffic. I snatched off my glasses and wiped them on the sopping hem of my tank top.
"You've been holding out on me."
"Um."
"Charlie tells me you're a pianist."
"You two talk about me when I'm not there!?" I squawked, "What is wrong with you guys?"
"You know, open mic night is tomorrow," Sir Andy continued conversationally as we blatantly jay-ran across a busy intersection.
"What the heck is that supposed to mean?" I spluttered.
"I'm sure everyone would love to hear your musical talents," Sir Andy replied to himself. I was too busy dodging monstrous green blurs that should have been bushes.
Guess who is now performing at open mic night?
I am going to strangle that man. The nerve.
Just before noon, I had an interview with the Pembroke College Recorder (actual name of position, not joking) about being a scholarship student and that was all very nice. After lunch, I wandered down to the dungeons of King's where they keep the grand piano and had a blast merrily screaming away some Oasis and swearing fluently in my mind about having to come up with a song to play at freaking open mic night.
I had class, dozed off several times whilst blearily taking notes on cultural devastation, then stripped to my racing shorts and stood nearly panstless in the lobby of the Engineering Building while I waited for Sir Charlie.
Sir Charlie and I walked over to the track at Wilberforce Road together because he thought it'd be good to have me train with his running club, despite the fact that I'd run a fairly decent amount this morning and my bouti still ached from Monday night's football.
We did some fairly standard stretches and spent the evening running hill intervals. I've become resigned to the fact that old, saggy, baggy men three times my age will always run faster than I ever will.
We did a bit of stretching after the workout, and as the command was given to the arm-over-back-of-the-head lat stretch, I found myself fiercely wishing that I'd shaved this morning.
British people choose the strangest time to begin conversations.
There we were with our faces tucked against our sweaty armpits, and this nice woman next to me decides to strike up a conversation.
Why?
I don't know. I just don't know.
And now, after my second shower of the day, I once again am sitting here, struggling to determine what in tarnation I am going to sing tomorrow night.
Oh, how I will miss this place.
Saturday, July 30, 2016
Day 36: What the Heck
Well, this happened.
I'd left a window and curtains open last night because it was kind of stuffy, so I ended up grumpily rising with the sun at a bit after four. I went and met Sir Charlie at Pembroke a little before eight, and he commandeered a spanner from the porters in an attempt to lower the seat on his spare bike.
Let me say now that Sir Charlie isn't much shorter than Sir Andy, who I recently discovered is over a foot taller than yours truly.
Needless to say, Sir Charlie's efforts were in vain. Appreciated, but in vain. The top tube came up to about my waist, and we stood there for a moment, wondering how we were going to make this work.
"It's alright," I said to Sir Charlie, who looked from his bike to me and back again with increasing bewilderment, "I'll figure it out."
I rue the day.
It took me approximately two false starts to mount up and wobble away, down the left side of the cobblestone street with only the vaguest recollection of bike-riding to guide me. Every junction was an exercise in a flying dismount and painful re-mount, and every downward stroke a calf workout, the tips of my toes clinging to the pedal.
Somehow, we made it to Milton in one sweaty (on my part) piece, and we did a bit of warming up together, taking the first loop of the course at an easy jog as Sir Charlie indicated bridges and "twisty" turns that would be "slippy" because of the recent rain. We did our own pre-race drills, striding and leaping about like idiots across fields where there grew actual green grass. The weather was wonderful--about the mid-sixties--as we lined up at the start. I bid farewell to Sir Charlie, who elbowed his pointy way to the front, and then we were off.
It was a pretty crowded start, what with no seeding and no waves, just one huge mass of brightly-clothed humanity blasting off from an invisible line. I said to myself that I'd be glad with a sub-8:30 average, given my complete and utter lack of speed training since my last half, but I found myself clocking around 7:30 for the first mile, and all my pre-race "Please don't take this race seriously" and "Please treat this as a tempo workout" demands flew straight out the window.
Sir Charlie hadn't been lying when he'd said the course was "twisty." The longest straightaway we had probably wasn't much longer than two hundred or three hundred meters, and there were some odd right-corners over bridges and the like that again made me very glad I had my trail shoes on.
But the trees were green and the grass was green, and there was water in the creek.
I was thoroughly hating myself for agreeing to actually race a race by about the two-mile mark, but with my marathoner mentality, blasted myself for being such a wimp. How much longer could one mile be?
The freakishly rocky stretch to the finish threw all plans for a quick sprint clear out the window, and I settled for creaking by without falling flat on my face.
Sir Charlie was waiting for me at the finish, and it turns out he'd beaten me by something like three minutes, even though he's something like three times as old as I am. I'm still trying very hard not to be embarrassed about this.
Anyhow.
He introduced me to a few of his friends from his running club, and I've apparently now been invited out to practice with them.
What the heck.
But no, the story doesn't end here.
You see, we had to bike back to Pembroke.
I honestly believe I would have been at least a minute faster if I hadn't biked to Milton in the first place.
With no small amount of resignation, I climbed onto a bench and leapt onto Sir Charlie's bike, following him out the back of the park to the Cam. What followed was, hands down, the most painful forty-minute bike ride of my life. Not only were my legs too short for the pedals, but my general lack of length in the torso also meant I was bent nearly double to reach the handlebars. As a result, I found myself perched on the very pointy pointy end of the bike seat.
You can probably see where I'm going with this.
By the time we arrived back at Pembroke, my lady parts had passed beyond "why are we biking on a gravel path" to "flaming, flaming, ow. ow." to "life has no meaning," winding up somewhere between "euthanized" and "ground beef." Sir Charlie was a combination of bemused and exasperated, I think, when I conducted the last of many flying dismounts before him and declared I would not be able to walk straight for a week.
"See you Tuesday night?" he said.
"Mmrbflgh," I replied, stalking off back to King's and a hot shower.
 |
| Yay! 151st place! |
Today was one freaking weird day, and I mean that in the best way possible.
I'd left a window and curtains open last night because it was kind of stuffy, so I ended up grumpily rising with the sun at a bit after four. I went and met Sir Charlie at Pembroke a little before eight, and he commandeered a spanner from the porters in an attempt to lower the seat on his spare bike.
Let me say now that Sir Charlie isn't much shorter than Sir Andy, who I recently discovered is over a foot taller than yours truly.
Needless to say, Sir Charlie's efforts were in vain. Appreciated, but in vain. The top tube came up to about my waist, and we stood there for a moment, wondering how we were going to make this work.
"It's alright," I said to Sir Charlie, who looked from his bike to me and back again with increasing bewilderment, "I'll figure it out."
I rue the day.
It took me approximately two false starts to mount up and wobble away, down the left side of the cobblestone street with only the vaguest recollection of bike-riding to guide me. Every junction was an exercise in a flying dismount and painful re-mount, and every downward stroke a calf workout, the tips of my toes clinging to the pedal.
Somehow, we made it to Milton in one sweaty (on my part) piece, and we did a bit of warming up together, taking the first loop of the course at an easy jog as Sir Charlie indicated bridges and "twisty" turns that would be "slippy" because of the recent rain. We did our own pre-race drills, striding and leaping about like idiots across fields where there grew actual green grass. The weather was wonderful--about the mid-sixties--as we lined up at the start. I bid farewell to Sir Charlie, who elbowed his pointy way to the front, and then we were off.
It was a pretty crowded start, what with no seeding and no waves, just one huge mass of brightly-clothed humanity blasting off from an invisible line. I said to myself that I'd be glad with a sub-8:30 average, given my complete and utter lack of speed training since my last half, but I found myself clocking around 7:30 for the first mile, and all my pre-race "Please don't take this race seriously" and "Please treat this as a tempo workout" demands flew straight out the window.
Sir Charlie hadn't been lying when he'd said the course was "twisty." The longest straightaway we had probably wasn't much longer than two hundred or three hundred meters, and there were some odd right-corners over bridges and the like that again made me very glad I had my trail shoes on.
But the trees were green and the grass was green, and there was water in the creek.
I was thoroughly hating myself for agreeing to actually race a race by about the two-mile mark, but with my marathoner mentality, blasted myself for being such a wimp. How much longer could one mile be?
The freakishly rocky stretch to the finish threw all plans for a quick sprint clear out the window, and I settled for creaking by without falling flat on my face.
Sir Charlie was waiting for me at the finish, and it turns out he'd beaten me by something like three minutes, even though he's something like three times as old as I am. I'm still trying very hard not to be embarrassed about this.
Anyhow.
He introduced me to a few of his friends from his running club, and I've apparently now been invited out to practice with them.
What the heck.
But no, the story doesn't end here.
You see, we had to bike back to Pembroke.
I honestly believe I would have been at least a minute faster if I hadn't biked to Milton in the first place.
With no small amount of resignation, I climbed onto a bench and leapt onto Sir Charlie's bike, following him out the back of the park to the Cam. What followed was, hands down, the most painful forty-minute bike ride of my life. Not only were my legs too short for the pedals, but my general lack of length in the torso also meant I was bent nearly double to reach the handlebars. As a result, I found myself perched on the very pointy pointy end of the bike seat.
You can probably see where I'm going with this.
By the time we arrived back at Pembroke, my lady parts had passed beyond "why are we biking on a gravel path" to "flaming, flaming, ow. ow." to "life has no meaning," winding up somewhere between "euthanized" and "ground beef." Sir Charlie was a combination of bemused and exasperated, I think, when I conducted the last of many flying dismounts before him and declared I would not be able to walk straight for a week.
"See you Tuesday night?" he said.
"Mmrbflgh," I replied, stalking off back to King's and a hot shower.
Friday, July 29, 2016
Day 35: What Am I Doing
Well. I was just rudely awakened by the crashing opening bars of Elgar's Cello Concerto. If you've ever had trouble waking up in the mornings, I advise you to set the first fifteen seconds of the first movement as your alarm tone. You'll wake up imagining the world has already ended, and it's your first day in purgatory where all you will do is listen to horrifically depressing music whilst pondering the meaning of existence in a stuffy, windowless room.
Oh wait.
Never mind.
We had a wild football game last night over at the Pembroke Sports Ground. It had rained for much of the afternoon, leaving the grass slick and wet underfoot, and since we're all international students just squeaking by under the fifty-pound weight limit on our luggage, only about two of us had brought cleats. I was lucky enough to have my trail shoes, which have lugs about as deep as cleats, but even then, playing was like skating around on green ice, and there were Charlie Browns aplenty.
We actually met up with a cadre of English teachers from Japan who formed a team of their own against our side, a bunch of PKP kids largely from Egypt (with yours truly being the sole exception), so we were able to have a full-on, eleven-a-side football game, which was quite exciting although I literally did not understand a word of what was being shouted by either side.
I spent the second half in-goal, which was both somewhat nostalgia-inducing and fairly painful. I haven't practiced my dives in, oh, about a decade. Lovely.
This morning, I went for a jog with Sirs Andy and Charlie down to Grantchester (this will be the last time I write this sentence. Promise.) so a couple of girls could have a look around the Orchard. Tomorrow, I'll be cycling with Sir Charlie to Milton for their weekly parkrun, which should be interesting.
Interesting?
Let me rephrase that.
At eight o'clock tomorrow morning, I'll be meeting a kindly Scottish man with whom I've spent a grand total of perhaps ten minutes in conversation at the Pembroke plodge, cycling with him on his spare bike half an hour north to Milton, where I will participate in a trail race around several lakes and likely generally make a fool of myself.
Interesting.
Yes.
I certainly don't have two papers due next week.
Oh wait.
Never mind.
We had a wild football game last night over at the Pembroke Sports Ground. It had rained for much of the afternoon, leaving the grass slick and wet underfoot, and since we're all international students just squeaking by under the fifty-pound weight limit on our luggage, only about two of us had brought cleats. I was lucky enough to have my trail shoes, which have lugs about as deep as cleats, but even then, playing was like skating around on green ice, and there were Charlie Browns aplenty.
We actually met up with a cadre of English teachers from Japan who formed a team of their own against our side, a bunch of PKP kids largely from Egypt (with yours truly being the sole exception), so we were able to have a full-on, eleven-a-side football game, which was quite exciting although I literally did not understand a word of what was being shouted by either side.
I spent the second half in-goal, which was both somewhat nostalgia-inducing and fairly painful. I haven't practiced my dives in, oh, about a decade. Lovely.
This morning, I went for a jog with Sirs Andy and Charlie down to Grantchester (this will be the last time I write this sentence. Promise.) so a couple of girls could have a look around the Orchard. Tomorrow, I'll be cycling with Sir Charlie to Milton for their weekly parkrun, which should be interesting.
Interesting?
Let me rephrase that.
At eight o'clock tomorrow morning, I'll be meeting a kindly Scottish man with whom I've spent a grand total of perhaps ten minutes in conversation at the Pembroke plodge, cycling with him on his spare bike half an hour north to Milton, where I will participate in a trail race around several lakes and likely generally make a fool of myself.
Interesting.
Yes.
I certainly don't have two papers due next week.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Days 33 & 34
I spent a good ten minutes after the game last night chasing a moth out of my room using a combination of the internal frame of my hiking backpack and a balled-up pair of socks. I deserve a Golden Glove.
Anyhow.
Sir Andy brought his friend Sir Charlie along on our rainy run this morning. Sir Charlie is also teaching courses for PKP, so it was a little odd to be on first-name terms with an actual, proper lecturer. Apparently, that's how things work around here.
I can't complain.
We've been covering Bernard Williams's Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy in class, and with every lecture and every seminar, I can feel the mercury in my relative IQ thermometer slowly sinking because this dude was ridiculous. Just plain ridiculous.
As a result, we, in seminar today, spent approximately twenty minutes discussing the descriptive and evaluative components of the thick ethical concept of sluttiness. I kid you not.
Our term paper (thankfully, not on Williams) is due next week, and drafting is going slowly.
Clearly.
Anyhow.
Sir Andy brought his friend Sir Charlie along on our rainy run this morning. Sir Charlie is also teaching courses for PKP, so it was a little odd to be on first-name terms with an actual, proper lecturer. Apparently, that's how things work around here.
I can't complain.
We've been covering Bernard Williams's Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy in class, and with every lecture and every seminar, I can feel the mercury in my relative IQ thermometer slowly sinking because this dude was ridiculous. Just plain ridiculous.
As a result, we, in seminar today, spent approximately twenty minutes discussing the descriptive and evaluative components of the thick ethical concept of sluttiness. I kid you not.
Our term paper (thankfully, not on Williams) is due next week, and drafting is going slowly.
Clearly.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
Day 32: Footy
I went for a bit of climbing yesterday after giving in and going to see Star Trek at the ridiculously posh theater in the Grafton.
Today, I had my midterm for that philosophy class I alternately love and loathe.
Apparently, staples haven't been invented yet, so we were each handed this red stringie-thingie to hold our papers together.
And then I went to watch some football.
Although Aston Villa was recently relegated after an absolutely crap season, it was still very clear that they had, not so long ago, been in the Premier League. In other words, the U's had their nice British fannies handed to them on a platter three-nil.
Of course, I hadn't decided to go because I thought it would be a good game. I don't follow professional football; I just play. Watching all the dramatics on the field can tend to a farce.
But it was fun sitting in the crowd and listening to all these really blokey blokes shout obscenities around their drinks and meat pies (dear God, so many meat pies).
At the half, I went with Sir Andy to stand in the terrace where all the crazy people stand (you've got to be a few fries short of a Happy Meal if you pay actual money to stand for two hours in the prime location for the advent of Ball Meets Face). We (luckily?) found a spot right on the bottom level so I wouldn't have to peer around rather pissed (American translation: drunk) six-foot-tall blokey blokes rhythmically chanting "YOU DON' KNOW WOT YOH DOIN'!" at the refs for every penalty the U's were denied.
Clearly, Abbey Stadium is on the rather less posh side of Reality Checkpoint.
It was all good fun. Very good fun.
Today, I had my midterm for that philosophy class I alternately love and loathe.
Apparently, staples haven't been invented yet, so we were each handed this red stringie-thingie to hold our papers together.
And then I went to watch some football.
Although Aston Villa was recently relegated after an absolutely crap season, it was still very clear that they had, not so long ago, been in the Premier League. In other words, the U's had their nice British fannies handed to them on a platter three-nil.
Of course, I hadn't decided to go because I thought it would be a good game. I don't follow professional football; I just play. Watching all the dramatics on the field can tend to a farce.
But it was fun sitting in the crowd and listening to all these really blokey blokes shout obscenities around their drinks and meat pies (dear God, so many meat pies).
At the half, I went with Sir Andy to stand in the terrace where all the crazy people stand (you've got to be a few fries short of a Happy Meal if you pay actual money to stand for two hours in the prime location for the advent of Ball Meets Face). We (luckily?) found a spot right on the bottom level so I wouldn't have to peer around rather pissed (American translation: drunk) six-foot-tall blokey blokes rhythmically chanting "YOU DON' KNOW WOT YOH DOIN'!" at the refs for every penalty the U's were denied.
Clearly, Abbey Stadium is on the rather less posh side of Reality Checkpoint.
It was all good fun. Very good fun.
 |
| Featured: Sir Andy's photography skills Not Featured: Sir Andy |
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Day 30: Cricketing
I quite literally pulled a fast one this morning and wrote my supervision paper in only about four or five hours.
As it is the long weekend between terms, a good part of PKP is gone, having fled to the four corners of Europe (and beyond). I'd originally planned a trip to Snowdonia this weekend, but I was in danger of drowning in my classes and, honestly, the past two weekends have been wild enough, so I pushed everything back.
It was a good decision.
The weather has been brilliant the past few days--no rain, minimal clouds, just warm and humid enough for shorts and flip-flops.
And so it was off to (learn how to) play cricket.
This really just ended up being bonding time with Sir Andy, the poor, long-suffering man, as I struggled to persuade him that my decade-old baseball skills transferred to cricket. Both involve bats and hitting round things. Close enough. After we'd bowled to our hearts' content, we wandered over to the archery range to watch a bit of shooting, and I laid back in the grass and just watched the clouds drift lazily by.
There was so much contentment.
 |
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Day 29: Musing
I like it here.
I really do.
I've been here about a month, which I think is about enough opportunity for routine to snatch away the glamour of a new place, so I feel a bit better about making that judgement.
Looking up at Great St. Mary's the other day on my way to Sainsbury's, I'd never before felt like such a stranger in a strange land, but instead of having this perturb me as, I will admit, it had upon my arrival, I felt myself metaphorically snuggle down deeper into the folds of an unfamiliar ocean.
Most of it, I think, has to do with nothing more than a change in scenery.
I like it at UCLA.
I really do.
I'd been there for three years straight, never leaving Westwood for more than a couple of weeks on break, and I was so familiar with the campus, the "culture," the shortcuts that, by the end of the last school year, I was thoroughly sick of it. It's Southern California, where everybody is more or less laid back and more or less more interested in partying it up, having fun, and just making the grade than, you know, well, understanding the things we're supposed to be learning.
A lot happened at the end of last year, and I remember sitting alone in my empty apartment wondering what had possessed me to believe I could last another five years in graduate school. I was sick of school in its entirety, both being at school and doing school things--going to class, to lab, complaining about going to class and lab, etc. etc. ad nauseam.
Here, life is slower when I'm not sprinting across Parker's Piece to catch the 05:35 coach to London. But even when I am rushing to make the next train or bus or deadline, I don't feel the weight of responsibility and expectation nearly as much as I did in LA. Nobody here knows who I am or where I'm from, so I get to be anybody I want.
Perhaps surprisingly, I am almost exactly the same person I was back at UCLA, save the morning lie-ins on my off days and a thorough hatred of paper-writing.
I feel safe here.
Ensconced in my large, corner room on the fourth floor of a centuries-old building that was once home to Alan Freaking Turing, I listen to the punters chatter by on the Cam below as the evening breeze silently explodes the curtains into my face. There is something old and knowing about the dust in the corners and the curious little bugs that take up residence on my ceiling light, something restful.
It still doesn't feel real.
I really do.
I've been here about a month, which I think is about enough opportunity for routine to snatch away the glamour of a new place, so I feel a bit better about making that judgement.
Looking up at Great St. Mary's the other day on my way to Sainsbury's, I'd never before felt like such a stranger in a strange land, but instead of having this perturb me as, I will admit, it had upon my arrival, I felt myself metaphorically snuggle down deeper into the folds of an unfamiliar ocean.
Most of it, I think, has to do with nothing more than a change in scenery.
I like it at UCLA.
I really do.
I'd been there for three years straight, never leaving Westwood for more than a couple of weeks on break, and I was so familiar with the campus, the "culture," the shortcuts that, by the end of the last school year, I was thoroughly sick of it. It's Southern California, where everybody is more or less laid back and more or less more interested in partying it up, having fun, and just making the grade than, you know, well, understanding the things we're supposed to be learning.
A lot happened at the end of last year, and I remember sitting alone in my empty apartment wondering what had possessed me to believe I could last another five years in graduate school. I was sick of school in its entirety, both being at school and doing school things--going to class, to lab, complaining about going to class and lab, etc. etc. ad nauseam.
Here, life is slower when I'm not sprinting across Parker's Piece to catch the 05:35 coach to London. But even when I am rushing to make the next train or bus or deadline, I don't feel the weight of responsibility and expectation nearly as much as I did in LA. Nobody here knows who I am or where I'm from, so I get to be anybody I want.
Perhaps surprisingly, I am almost exactly the same person I was back at UCLA, save the morning lie-ins on my off days and a thorough hatred of paper-writing.
I feel safe here.
Ensconced in my large, corner room on the fourth floor of a centuries-old building that was once home to Alan Freaking Turing, I listen to the punters chatter by on the Cam below as the evening breeze silently explodes the curtains into my face. There is something old and knowing about the dust in the corners and the curious little bugs that take up residence on my ceiling light, something restful.
It still doesn't feel real.
Friday, July 22, 2016
Day 28: Going for the Punt
Well, I'm done with my Module One class.
That's all I'm going to say about that.
I spent the afternoon pounding out the rest of my topic synopsis for BruinMUN, alternating between typing furiously about the situation in the DPRK and screaming in horror at the sheer number of beheadings and throat-slittings and stabbings in the second cycle of The Hollow Crown. Holy toodlelikins. Benedict Cumberbatch is terrifying in this.
Auuuuuggh.
And then it was off.
To punting.
We collected St. Nick from the plodge and were off on our merry way.
It was brilliant weather for punting--clear and cool, but not cold.
The poor geese bobbled about as I prodded them (unintentionally) with the exorbitantly long punting pole.
All said, it was a wonderful evening.
That's all I'm going to say about that.
I spent the afternoon pounding out the rest of my topic synopsis for BruinMUN, alternating between typing furiously about the situation in the DPRK and screaming in horror at the sheer number of beheadings and throat-slittings and stabbings in the second cycle of The Hollow Crown. Holy toodlelikins. Benedict Cumberbatch is terrifying in this.
Auuuuuggh.
And then it was off.
To punting.
We collected St. Nick from the plodge and were off on our merry way.
 |
| Hello there, St. Nick. |
The poor geese bobbled about as I prodded them (unintentionally) with the exorbitantly long punting pole.
All said, it was a wonderful evening.
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Day 27
I went for a long run this morning out along the river through thickets and thickets of flies.
Predictably, I got lost. I feel like it's not even worth mentioning anymore at this point.
"How hard can it be to follow a freaking river?" you ask.
Oh, my friend.
It can be very difficult indeed if you find yourself on the wrong bank--the bank with trees instead of trails--and start taking detours through the little villages that dot the countryside.
And so that's how I wound up running through (you guessed it) farmers' fields. Again.
 |
| These wispy plant-crop-things were well over four feet tall. I'm not that short. |
I should probably consult Google Maps before I go running.
Yes.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Day 25
I dragged my sorry behind out of bed early this morning and oozed down to the library to start cramming ferociously for my final exam, which is this Friday.
You're a little behind, my friend, you say.
Indeed, I say, But only a little.
Summer has exploded upon the sleepy town of Cambridge, and it is currently a blasted eighty-one degrees outside. Now, that might not typically be an issue, but I do live on the fourth floor of a centuries-old building that was once inhabited by Alan Freaking Turing. Which means--it's really freaking hot up here. Predictably, there are heaters in every room but no fans because normal Cambridge students aren't around in the summer.
So it's just us. The miserable international students, sneezing and sweating away.
Holy madoodle. Housekeeping just came in and asked, "Would you like your room to be serviced today?"
Who are these people.
I had my (thankfully) final psychology lecture today and later in the afternoon turned in my final paper. Now, it's just cram time.
I went climbing again tonight, which was lovely. I'm sort of starting to get a feel for the really big moves of the routes around here. Tall people set big moves, apparently. The highlight of the night, however, was watching the intrepid Sir Andy attempt a 5 (V1) on a slight overhang. Oh, mama mia. It was like watching someone's grandfather try to shimmy up a tree.
You're a little behind, my friend, you say.
Indeed, I say, But only a little.
Summer has exploded upon the sleepy town of Cambridge, and it is currently a blasted eighty-one degrees outside. Now, that might not typically be an issue, but I do live on the fourth floor of a centuries-old building that was once inhabited by Alan Freaking Turing. Which means--it's really freaking hot up here. Predictably, there are heaters in every room but no fans because normal Cambridge students aren't around in the summer.
So it's just us. The miserable international students, sneezing and sweating away.
Holy madoodle. Housekeeping just came in and asked, "Would you like your room to be serviced today?"
Who are these people.
I had my (thankfully) final psychology lecture today and later in the afternoon turned in my final paper. Now, it's just cram time.
I went climbing again tonight, which was lovely. I'm sort of starting to get a feel for the really big moves of the routes around here. Tall people set big moves, apparently. The highlight of the night, however, was watching the intrepid Sir Andy attempt a 5 (V1) on a slight overhang. Oh, mama mia. It was like watching someone's grandfather try to shimmy up a tree.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Day 24: Nice, Leisurely
I went for a nice, leisurely jog this morning, during which the most noble and estimable Sir Andy dragged me across farmers' fields through God only knows what kinds of plants that reached above my shoulders. Then, somewhat predictably, Sir Andy got lost.
"No, no," he said, "I know where we are."
Yes, yes.
After being chased across a large field by two equally large dogs, we returned to King's in more or less one miraculous piece.
Following this, I had a nice, leisurely breakfast, followed by a nice, leisurely shower. Upon returning to my room, I checked the time, nearly suffered an aneurysm, then threw on some shorts and ran out the door in my flip-flops. I'd been due to hand in my first supervision paper at around 9:30 (because that's how things work around here--people still read things on paper), but somehow, I'd gotten lost in Nice, Hot Shower Land, and it was already a quarter to ten.
And so I bolted across King's in, I repeat, a button-down, basketball shorts, and flip-flops, hair still dripping wet, across the road to the music faculty library, where I jammed my paper into my supervisor's pigeonhole and prayed for the best.
Yes.
"No, no," he said, "I know where we are."
Yes, yes.
After being chased across a large field by two equally large dogs, we returned to King's in more or less one miraculous piece.
Following this, I had a nice, leisurely breakfast, followed by a nice, leisurely shower. Upon returning to my room, I checked the time, nearly suffered an aneurysm, then threw on some shorts and ran out the door in my flip-flops. I'd been due to hand in my first supervision paper at around 9:30 (because that's how things work around here--people still read things on paper), but somehow, I'd gotten lost in Nice, Hot Shower Land, and it was already a quarter to ten.
And so I bolted across King's in, I repeat, a button-down, basketball shorts, and flip-flops, hair still dripping wet, across the road to the music faculty library, where I jammed my paper into my supervisor's pigeonhole and prayed for the best.
Yes.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Day 23.5: A (Panicked) Interlude
As you may remember, I have two (three, in actuality, but the third's for MUN and I've motioned for a--wait for it--extension) papers due this week, and I've been proofreading my final paper for my nightmare of a psycholinguistics class. I am so proud of myself for making a fairly reasonable amount of sense in this discussion of material I do not understand in the slightest:
Developmental dyslexia is commonly characterized by difficulty reading and writing and is found in 5-10% of school-aged children internationally (CITATION). Given its prevalence, many efforts have been made to determine the etiology of dyslexia, with a consensus still to be reached (GIVE CITATIONS HERE). Arguments have been made that dyslexia arises primarily as the result of a dysfunction of the visual or auditory processing mechanisms, while others have instead supported models of phonological deficits.
The phonological-deficit hypothesis states that children with dyslexia have poor phonological representations, which affects processes at the phoneme level. An alternative hypothesis, the naming-deficit hypothesis, states that the abnormally slow rapid automatized naming (RAN) found in children with dyslexia indicates a deficit in the visual processing of familiar linguistic and non-linguistic stimuli presented in quick succession. However, still others believe that both these potential phonological and visual processing deficits are the result of either lower-level auditory deficits, visual deficits involved in the perception of motion, or a multimodal combination of these two, indicating overall deficits in processing dynamic stimuli.
The reasoning behind this last model is based on the importance of extracting quality phonemic representations from auditory input during the development of speech perception and production, along with reading acquisition. Analogous damage to the visual pathway could also result in later difficulty performing tasks such as the distinguishing of letter patterns, especially in reading. Reasoning behind RAN deficits has generated rather less of a consensus, with both low-level auditory and visual processing deficits suggested as causes. Here, the relationship between the auditory-temporal-phonological and the visual-temporal-orthographic processes has also divided opinions, with some both claiming and denying associations exist between the two. Taken individually, previous studies have indicated a relationship between visual processing and orthographic ability independent of phonological processing, though results in this area have yielded conflicting results.
et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam.
(But I'm just a little bit relieved.)
Developmental dyslexia is commonly characterized by difficulty reading and writing and is found in 5-10% of school-aged children internationally (CITATION). Given its prevalence, many efforts have been made to determine the etiology of dyslexia, with a consensus still to be reached (GIVE CITATIONS HERE). Arguments have been made that dyslexia arises primarily as the result of a dysfunction of the visual or auditory processing mechanisms, while others have instead supported models of phonological deficits.
The phonological-deficit hypothesis states that children with dyslexia have poor phonological representations, which affects processes at the phoneme level. An alternative hypothesis, the naming-deficit hypothesis, states that the abnormally slow rapid automatized naming (RAN) found in children with dyslexia indicates a deficit in the visual processing of familiar linguistic and non-linguistic stimuli presented in quick succession. However, still others believe that both these potential phonological and visual processing deficits are the result of either lower-level auditory deficits, visual deficits involved in the perception of motion, or a multimodal combination of these two, indicating overall deficits in processing dynamic stimuli.
The reasoning behind this last model is based on the importance of extracting quality phonemic representations from auditory input during the development of speech perception and production, along with reading acquisition. Analogous damage to the visual pathway could also result in later difficulty performing tasks such as the distinguishing of letter patterns, especially in reading. Reasoning behind RAN deficits has generated rather less of a consensus, with both low-level auditory and visual processing deficits suggested as causes. Here, the relationship between the auditory-temporal-phonological and the visual-temporal-orthographic processes has also divided opinions, with some both claiming and denying associations exist between the two. Taken individually, previous studies have indicated a relationship between visual processing and orthographic ability independent of phonological processing, though results in this area have yielded conflicting results.
et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam.
(But I'm just a little bit relieved.)
Day 23: Race for Life (Literally)
I have a race in two hours, and I'm literally falling asleep over my keyboard.
Today has all the indicators of being A Painful Day.
Let's go.
_______
I went.
If you ever want free entry to King's, just, you know, register for a charity race.
But holy crap was I not expecting the weather.
It was baking today.
At least, in comparison to misty, misty, rainy, rainy Cardiff.
I ended up dropping from the 10K to the 5K because 24 hours of non-stop travel really takes it out of you (plus the whole Eating While Travelling Is Such A Hassle thing). I just basically ended up blitzing the living daylights out of the first two miles, deciding I was having too much fun, then sitting back and cruising on in for an unprecedented fourth-place finish.
Today has all the indicators of being A Painful Day.
Let's go.
_______
I went.
If you ever want free entry to King's, just, you know, register for a charity race.
I've lost count of the number of bibs I've worn over the years.
But holy crap was I not expecting the weather.
It was baking today.
At least, in comparison to misty, misty, rainy, rainy Cardiff.
There were tons of people--a little under 5,000.
I ended up dropping from the 10K to the 5K because 24 hours of non-stop travel really takes it out of you (plus the whole Eating While Travelling Is Such A Hassle thing). I just basically ended up blitzing the living daylights out of the first two miles, deciding I was having too much fun, then sitting back and cruising on in for an unprecedented fourth-place finish.
I'm really going to feel this tomorrow.
So, logically, I went and played a little soccer (I just can't call it football. I'm sorry).
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Day 22: Cardiff
I got this email the night before I left for Cardiff.
It made me sad.
Sad that these alerts arrive with an air of weary resignation. Sad that I'd thought it necessary to subscribe to this service before I came abroad. Sad that I feel it is my obligation to be sad, not weary or resigned.
On that cheerful note.
This trip involved more time on a coach or bus than actual time in Cardiff.
I left King's just as the sun rose...
And all the street signs come in two languages.
There was stuff from just the past season too, and I died about a million little fan-fueled deaths.
Ogling (and frantic souvenir shopping) done, I caught the bus back to the city center (or "centre," as it's spelled 'round here).
Because this is Cardiff, of course there is a (reconstructed) 11th-century Norman castle smack in the middle of town.
Cardiff Castle hadn't really been high up on my List of Things to Do in Cardiff that, up until yesterday, had contained one item and one alone, but I had several hours to kill, so I wandered in and just kind of stood and stared a bit.
Having spent my childhood constructing trebuchets out of Tinkertoys and building Fortified Walls in Age of Empires, I thought I had a fairly reliable legit-ness radar when it came to castles and medieval things.
This was legit. Very legit.
From up on the battlements, I could see that this had actually been a proper castle with a keep surrounded by an actual moat and a wide, grassy area.
There was a reconstructed trebuchet standing off to the side, and I squealed internally at the sight of its massive counterweight.
I climbed into the keep, and every bit of my inner Medieval Times-loving self shrieked in wonder.
Arrow slit thingies for the garrison.
Steep, twisty stairwells.
(As mentioned previously) An actual moat.
From there, wonders never failed to cease.
I learned that during World War II, the people of Cardiff had tunneled beneath the walls to create air raid shelters, with barrage balloons anchored to the castle itself.
If I ever am lucky enough to have a library in my future supervillain lair, I want it to look a little like this:
I left Cardiff at seven in the evening, got held up in Newport for about a half hour by a screaming lady who tried to get on the bus with an invalid ticket, resulting in the appearance of several cops and a very grouchy coach driver. It was around eleven when I made it back to London, and I arrived in Cambridge at one-thirty Sunday morning to drunk people singing Journey in the pub.
It was oddly comforting.
It made me sad.
Sad that these alerts arrive with an air of weary resignation. Sad that I'd thought it necessary to subscribe to this service before I came abroad. Sad that I feel it is my obligation to be sad, not weary or resigned.
On that cheerful note.
This trip involved more time on a coach or bus than actual time in Cardiff.
I left King's just as the sun rose...
...Arrived in Victoria without too much of a delay...
...And transferred coaches to Cardiff.
Upon waking up from a slight doze, I realized we had, at some point, already crossed the border and arrived in Wales, where freaking forests grow right up against the motorway.
And all the street signs come in two languages.
Honestly, it's as if the Welsh language has a personal vendetta against vowels or something.
From the coach, I hopped on to a local bus, the Baycar, out to, well, the bay.
And.
Yes.
I took so many pictures in here. So many. You wouldn't believe.
It was well worth the six-hour journey, even though being around, alternately, ten-year-olds clutching action figures and middle-aged men clutching action figures made me feel a little... displaced.
 |
| IT'S THE FREAKING FACE OF BOE. THE ACTUAL FREAKING FACE OF BOE. |
Ogling (and frantic souvenir shopping) done, I caught the bus back to the city center (or "centre," as it's spelled 'round here).
 |
| I might have thrown up a little in my mouth trying to pronounce this in Welsh. |
Cardiff Castle hadn't really been high up on my List of Things to Do in Cardiff that, up until yesterday, had contained one item and one alone, but I had several hours to kill, so I wandered in and just kind of stood and stared a bit.
Having spent my childhood constructing trebuchets out of Tinkertoys and building Fortified Walls in Age of Empires, I thought I had a fairly reliable legit-ness radar when it came to castles and medieval things.
This was legit. Very legit.
From up on the battlements, I could see that this had actually been a proper castle with a keep surrounded by an actual moat and a wide, grassy area.
There was a reconstructed trebuchet standing off to the side, and I squealed internally at the sight of its massive counterweight.
I climbed into the keep, and every bit of my inner Medieval Times-loving self shrieked in wonder.
Arrow slit thingies for the garrison.
A round green place that had probably not been as well-ventilated several hundred years ago.
Steep, twisty stairwells.
(As mentioned previously) An actual moat.
From there, wonders never failed to cease.
I learned that during World War II, the people of Cardiff had tunneled beneath the walls to create air raid shelters, with barrage balloons anchored to the castle itself.
People in Cardiff hid from the Nazis in tunnels built on the remains of a 3rd-century Roman fort.
What even.
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| The actual remains of said 3rd-century Roman fort, now located opposite the gift shop. |
I visited the apartments, where Rich People lived.
If I ever am lucky enough to have a library in my future supervillain lair, I want it to look a little like this:
All around me were these strange, strange contradictions.
I left Cardiff at seven in the evening, got held up in Newport for about a half hour by a screaming lady who tried to get on the bus with an invalid ticket, resulting in the appearance of several cops and a very grouchy coach driver. It was around eleven when I made it back to London, and I arrived in Cambridge at one-thirty Sunday morning to drunk people singing Journey in the pub.
It was oddly comforting.
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