Day 6: Because, Well, Yes

Today was Orientation Day: Part 2, also known as Get All the PKP Kids Out Of Kings for Open Day. 

Open Day here is the equivalent of something like Bruin Day when all the prospective undergrads flood the campus and generally make nuisances of themselves.

And so we were packed off to a day of "orientation," which consisted of roughly six hours of "Don't Plagiarise" and "Learn How to Speed Read Somehow Because Yes."

In other news, they also recycle chewing gum.

I also met my supervisor for my independent supervision today and nearly peed my pants because, well, yes.

Tomorrow, I'm off to London.

Day 5: Grantchester and Clothing Without Legs

After dozing back off to sleep at around four, which apparently is when the sun starts creeping over the horizon around here, I snorted elegantly awake at half-past five, stumbled into my running gear, and set off for Grantchester Meadows.

It did not disappoint.

Grantchester Meadows, unsurprisingly, is located in Grantchester, a little village (literally a village, not a town) located about two miles south of Cambridge in the shire county (not joking here either) of Cambridgeshire.

As a not-so-secret fan of all things British and a rather more secretive fan of the TV series Grantchester, I decided to lump my need for rural running in with my desire to take a peek around.

I made it to the meadows in short order--the path begins a little over a mile from King's--and daintily stepped through into what, to me, was open country.

At six in the morning, there really was no one around save a herd of dozing cattle.

I made it into Grantchester itself, had a look about The Orchard, then turned about and tramped back through the meadows.

I decided it would be a great idea to run beside the Cam, and, failing to see a path that would take me closer, bushwhacked it through waist-high plants of indeterminate origin. It was great, of course, to slip through the mud and slick grass.

Then I got back and discovered that I had broken out in hives for probably the first time in my life.

Lovely.

Our first formal hall is tonight, so this will make for interesting conversation.
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Upon squelching back from class in the afternoon through frigid wind and more frigid wind, I stumbled across a rally just outside the chapel. With my friend from Berkeley, who apparently can't get enough of protesting back home, I went to nose around a little and listened for a bit to a man proclaiming his support for Jeremy Corbyn, who is on the outs with seemingly the majority of political leaders, not necessarily those restricted to the UK.

"Vote Remain! Vote Remain!" the crowd chanted, as if there had never been a referendum.

I edged away.

It was time to put on a dress. And heels. I think the last time I wore those two in conjunction would have been for high school graduation, which hadn't involved rain, wind, and fifty-degree weather.

My across-the-hall-mate and I staggered down to the dining hall (or Dining Hall, whatever) together and stared at the menu under the disapproving gaze of old white dudes in tights, wondering if we'd stepped across the Channel and wound up in come foreign country instead.

Yes. Dinner was freaking weird.

It was almost like Hogwarts, except there was no Vegas-esque morphing weather ceiling and no Dumbledore to give a welcome-to-term speech. There was just a lot of weird food.

At King's, they apparently lop all your grapes in half.

Surprisingly, the company made the night more bearable since I traditionally prefer to run kicking and screaming from large social gatherings involving clothing without legs. 

Day 4

It's a quarter after one on Wednesday morning, and you guessed it, I'm still wildly jet-lagged.

Tuesday was the first day of classes, and I have to admit it was rather anticlimactic.

It was such a lovely morning--clear blue skies that I'm beginning to realize are a rarity here--that I decided to go for a walk before class with the local waterfowl.

Honestly, though, it's still strange to me that places like these even exist.

My philosophy professor showed up to lecture in a three-piece suit with a massive handkerchief exploding from his breast pocket. We talked some out in the hall about my research, and he surprised me by mentioning that he, too, had dabbled in musical relations, but with philosophy and not psychology. This, in turn, led to a discussion of Elgar's Cello Concerto, during which I, predictably, asked if he'd studied differences between individual performances and he replied that no, he'd focused less on the performance aspect and more on the composer's use of the score as a means of communication.

Interesting.

My psycholinguistics professor, on the other hand, was disappointingly American and fairly conventional. I can't complain about conventional, but I was looking through my scheduled readings, and as this is a four-week course, I get the feeling that I'll be unwillingly burning the midnight oil for weeks to come.

After class, the sun had belatedly decided to go on holiday (as they say here), and, of course, one can't simply have cloudy days in Cambridge. With clouds come rain.

I recalled my earlier conversation with the housekeeper:

"It looks like it'll be a scorcher today," she said.

"Is it?" I replied, wondering if I'd ever before worn jeans and a down jacket during the month of June, "That'll be nice."

In my dreams.

By Californian standards, this rain rated as a six or seven on a ten-point scale of raininess, but by Cambridge standards, I'm pretty sure it was a fairly standard two or three.

Anyhow, I'd decided to trek to Maplin (the closest American equivalent I can think of is a Radio Shack or a very small Best Buy) to pick up an ethernet cable because the wi-fi in centuries-old Bodley's Court (which was once inhabited by Alan freaking Turing) is absolute crap. After scrounging around and eavesdropping on the employees alternately cursing Nigel Farage and Boris Johnson (Cambridge, in contrast to much of England, had steadfastly voted Remain), I popped next door to Sainsbury's to pick up some more food.

The news stands told all.

Pile on a humiliating loss to Cinderella-Iceland in the Euros (with Wales still in it), and I think it's safe to say that the UK hasn't had the best of weeks.

It's a little difficult to get a handle on the political climate here specifically in Cambridge, what with all the tourists and the foreign everything-ness and the fact that I, like a newborn babe, have yet to sleep through the night, but there is an air of what I can only describe as uncertainty hovering over this university town. There haven't been any demonstrations that I've heard of (I can imagine if this were a campus like Berkeley, the story would be quite different), and hordes of people still showed up for evensong at 5:30 in the centuries-old chapel (which was not once inhabited by Alan freaking Turing) so the world still, however precariously, wobbles round.

I'm heading to London on Friday, though, and that will be a different matter entirely.

Day 3

I woke up around midnight this morning because jet lag, but I forced myself to lie in bed for as long as I could take it. I lasted about two hours then got up and started reading my psychology textbook.

Yes.

I went back to sleep a bit before four and grouchily awoke when my alarm went off at six. It was time for my first run in Cambridge.

I went out through the back gate of King's through a bit of misty, half-hearted rain.

I wound up somewhere with a lot of green stuff (and cows, not kidding) and plodded around a bit, crossing and re-crossing the river because I told myself I was going for the mileage but really, it's because I was lost.

Nothing new there.

After a quick shower, now that I've finally figured out that the British inexplicably lack the capability to issue warm water from a single faucet, I headed over to Sainsbury's, ostensibly to pick up some toothpaste and a burner phone.

Instead, I found myself staring at the rows of what should have been familiar cereals.

It was the same but not the same.

Thus far, that seems to be the feeling I get here in England. Sameness but not-sameness.

There are toilets, both in the sense that toilet = restroom and toilet = toilet.

But of course the tank is mounted on the freaking wall, and you flush by literally yanking a chain.

Granted, I am staying in a centuries-old building once inhabited by Alan Turing, but is it really that difficult to install light switches in the restroom instead of--you guessed it--more bobbing chains that increase my fear of being stabbed in the shower by one Norman Bates tenfold?

Speaking of light switches, up is now off, and down is now on.

There are also switches for every single outlet, though that's rather more understandable. Especially since this is a centuries-old building once inhabited by Alan Freaking Turing.

I have a closet in my room designed for the express purpose of housing a sink with two faucets, one for hot water and one for cold water. Turning the left one clockwise and the right one counter-clockwise produces water. Think about it for a second, and you'll understand why I struggle so with these things.

Don't even mention the mutant shower faucet.

Then there are the doors.

To get out of my room, one must turn and pull the little half-knobby thing while simultaneously turning and pulling the bottom handle, which is also a rather horrific affair whilst in the process of ferrying dishes to the gyp room, which for some reason, is what these aliens call an ovenless kitchen the size of a handicapped restroom stall.

Then there are the people outside my window right now very politely playing croquet whilst punters drift lazily by on the Cam.

Sometimes--oftentimes--the crosswalks aren't marked, so crossing a (thankfully single-lane, one-way) street is a bit like playing first-person Frogger without the benefit of an overhead view. Not to mention that everyone here drives on the wrong side of the street (when there's enough room between centuries-old buildings for multiple lanes, that is). Even the runners and the morning walkers with their obnoxiously friendly dogs run on the wrong side of the footpath.

It's like I've dropped into this freakish alternate universe where people say "Pardon?" and "Hiya!" and cyclists actually use hand signals because it's like the freaking Tour de France around here by seven in the morning.

Christmas lights are called fairy lights.

The staircases in the King's library are not connected. 

This library is always open twenty-four hours a day.

Day-month-year, followed by degrees in Celsius, moola in pounds, and weight in stone.

"A wide selection of alcoholic beverages" routinely served at school functions.

The grass mowed in perfectly parallel rows and the signs in six languages shouting "PLEASE KEEP OFF THE GRASS."

It should feel pretentious and a little ridiculous, and it does, but only to me, it seems. All the normal British people just potter steadily around their ridiculously deep gutters wielding satchels and cycling helmets (not bicycling helmets, just cycling helmets, if you please) looking artfully disheveled in a very scholarly fashion.

Why do I like it here so much?

Day 2

Today was a day of flying.

I was delayed out of LAX (surprise) because they had a last-minute gate change and ended up busing us all to a different terminal.

The flight itself was unremarkable. I sat with a friendly Italian couple and watched clouds for a bit.

When the pilot announced our final descent into Heathrow, I have to admit I was glued to the window.

I landed at around 12:30 local time and 4:30 LA time, and I really felt it as I staggered through immigration and customs, circling the Central Bus Station about half a million times before realizing that mass transportation in the UK is infinitely more efficient than mass transportation in LA, with announcements for every departure piped through the PA.

I made it to Cambridge after a half-conscious coach (aka bus) ride on the National Express through many, many very green rolling hills. Our Scottish bus driver shouted Scottish-ishly at us as he heaved about a thousand pounds' (hah) worth of luggage from the cabin and shooed us on our way. Walking into King's for the first time was indescribable.

In other words, I'm about to fall asleep, so maybe I'll write more about it tomorrow.

But then.


I was pottering around the college after unloading all my junk in my room at Bodley's (fourth floor, no elevator, but corner room) when I saw people gathered along the banks of the Cam, which winds through campus.

A bunch of dudes in tuxes them stepped into wide punts that were lashed together and launched into what I consider quintessential British Songishness--lots of stuff in Latin, something choral written by Henry the something-eth hundreds of years ago.

A few minutes later, it started raining.

Umbrellas popped up everywhere because this is England and an umbrella is practically part of one's wardrobe.

I've got to pay a visit to Sainsbury's tomorrow, as I've forgotten to pack toothpaste.

Day 1

Off the UK on me one.

I guess it's time for me to figure out Blogger again. 

In the meantime, here's Howie again: