Clouds and Cambridge, Good morning Britain

The goodbyes were long and heartfelt, the hugs were painfully firm, and my last two nights in Lawrence were filled with revelry, debauchery, and nose-breaking (sorry, Schnack). I awoke on Sunday morning with far too little sleep, and finished packing my last few things in my car. Two long hugs later, I was on my way to Kansas City. Shortly after that, I was at the airport, in the terminal, on the plane, and flying.

Stop in Chicago, have a piece of greasy pizza in the airport. Waste time on facebook and chat with a lovely girl from San Francisco. The intercom squawks and speedy British words assault my ears: “LadiesandGentleman wearenow ready tobegin boarding Unitedflight 205 toLondon…”

I glance out the window just in time to see the East coast…. Goodbye America.

Fitful sleep, even with Benadryl. Bad movies and decent chicken permit me some shut-eye, but not nearly as much as I hoped for. The sun rose and Ireland stretched before my wings. I’d always heard descriptions of the Emerald Isle’s lush hue, but to me it looked like just another land mass. Lovely, to be sure, but no greener than any other place with trees, rivers, and grass.

When we touched down, my foot rebelled against the rest of my body in a wave of tingly that always makes me want to surgically remove it for just a second. Also, I’ve never figured out why people are so damn anxious to get their luggage before everyone else. We’d been in the air for 8 hours, surely the guy next to me could wait 20 more seconds before barging across the aisle, shoving his pot-belly in my face and grunting while nearly concussing the short woman next to him with a massive carry-on. Pardon my unpleasantness; I was a little grumpy.

Heathrow Airport is an immense structure that has more white and yellow color than any other building I’ve been in. Mustard-colored signs helpfully point the “way out”, “toilets”, and “luggage carriage” for all eyes to see. My entire material life is in two large suitcases and a backpack. What a strange thought.

We’d touched down at about 7AM local time, and I had a busy day ahead of me. I was to take a coach (bus=intracity travel, coach=intercity excursions) to Cambridge, check in at King’s College, retrieve my keys, find my house, drop everything off, figure out the bus system, and take one to meet my lab and start the process of being a graduate student.

The coach dropped me off at a large park in the middle of town, and I started walking…

….and promptly looked the wrong way while crossing the street, nearly ending my education before ever starting. The driver of would-be killer compact car yelled something that may have vaguely resembled “Prick!!!!”, but there was really no way to tell. It could have been anything from “Pretzel!!!” to “Creek!!” Seriously, no way to tell.

In population, Cambridge is about the same size as Lawrence, KS, but has a much larger center of the city. I guess the founders didn’t have the foresight to structure their roads with any kind of coherency (damn those Dark Ages), because the winding paths, narrow sidewalks, and incomprehensible directional signs baffled me. Despite the peril, I managed to make it to King’s.

The College system at Cambridge is quite unique. When the university was founded in 12 hundred something, it was made up of autonomous organizations that were trying to escape the banality, hostility, and general unpleasantness of Oxford (which I can assure you still persists to this day ☺). Each college had its own criteria for student education, it’s own living and dining facilities, and its own staff and faculty. The “University” was just a reference to the physical proximity of these institutions.

As time progressed, the infrastructural requirements of scientific research forced the colleges to collaborate, and eventually this gave birth to the modern “University of Cambridge”. Courses here are jointly administered by the University and the colleges, usually with large lectures done through the Uni, and small discussions done within the college structure. It’s kind of a mess, but the English are very protective of their traditions (and rightfully so) so they hesitate to streamline anything. It’s all very charming, really. The colleges usually have about 400-1000 students each.

King’s college is one of the oldest, largest, and most prestigious of the colleges. My basis for picking it was its cool-looking chapel and a history of radical politics, according to Wikipedia. Walking down the narrow Benet St., I passed the famous Eagle pub (which I will be detailing in a later post) and turned the corner onto King’s Parade.

Whoa.



Heaven’s own light seemed to shine down on the entry gate, which I faced, and the Chapel just to its right. Tall, tan, and beautiful, the place nearly gleamed with history and regal power. Included among its alumni were John Meynard Keynes (second most famous economist behind Adam Smith), Alan Turing (the most brilliant scientist no one’s ever heard of), Salman Rushdie (award-winning writer), and Robert Walpole (first Prime Minister of Great Britain).

Brown stone and marble statues exquisitely complemented the green grass of the courtyard. I walked through the entrance arch to (one of) my academic home(s). The porters were pleasant, gave me my keys, called me a taxi, and wished me a good morning. Think Alfred the Butler from the Batman movies and you’ll have a pretty good idea of how these guys were.

I wanted to stay and gaze, but duty called. I stepped in the taxi and told the driver “Romsey Terrace”. He had no clue where it was. 2 minutes of discussion later, he finally figured out where I wanted to go, and left King’s behind us.

I live in a flat (British for apartment: usually multi-storied and narrow) with two girls: Bridget and Chloe. Bridget is Australian and Chloe is English/French, and they have both been incredibly nice to me. I’ve been offered food and wine many many times, which of course made them my immediate best friends. My room is about half the size of a closet, but it’s got a good view of the courtyard and a comfy bed.

The location is incredible. Romsey Terrace (my home street) is just off of Mill Road, which is filled with diverse restaurants, supermarkets, and weird stores (one acupuncture clinic claims to cure anxiety, depression, syphilis, yes that’s right, syphilis, and irritable bowel syndrome, among others). The thoroughfare is a lively place with late-night kebab shops, plentiful pubs, and tons and tons of cyclists. I didn’t know this when I arrived, of course. Having a place to put my bags down was good enough for the moment.

After a two-minute catnap (which was probably closer to an hour) I forced myself up and stepped outside, ready to meet the place where cancer and I were to battle. En Garde!!!!!!!

Next up: sciency stuff and pretty pictures