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.
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