Cambridge 1

June 19, 2010

Lucy Cavendish College, Cambridge. I’m fairly sure I have the same room I had ten years ago, though my recollection of that time is uncharacteristically thin. It seems more commodious to me now than it did then, as my standards plummet and my level of gratitude ascends. The flight from Charlotte was crowded and uncomfortable, the personnel at Gatwick apparently deliberately unhelpful, the weather lousy. A deer in a meadow was my first sight in the bus. I watched rolling wet fields full of beautiful horses and magpies between here and Gatwick– which is a lot more rural than I thought. I almost never take the window seat, but this time I did, and saw the sun come up in a sea of rose and gold, miles above the real sea, and then Cornwall grow dark green out of the waters.

Jeff is on crutches and has an alarming gash on his head, but is otherwise hale and even buoyed by the elation of survival. We ate together in the Castle, a homey pub with good food.

Walking tour of the town in a driving rain, informative, though I did hear one of the students say, “All this was in the book.” It made me happy at least that she had read the book. Many anecdotes of scientists; scientists are not as amusing anecdotally as poets. Exam results were posted on the Senate House today, and there was much dolorous or elated perusal.

Finished The Riding Funhouse and rushed chapters to agents by email. I had two positive responses within twenty four hours, which was shocking. I was unable to respond in any way beyond, “Thank you, see you later, my plane leaves in an hour.” I have to wait for Monday to get the password for WiFi to see what the nest installment of this drama will be. My dreams in sleep on the plane included fantasies of reading tours and absurdly large advances.

Evening. My room was so cold that when I woke from a nap, I began shivering with chills. The chills reacted with my dehydrated travel state, and muscle spasm agonized my entire torso. The only cure is water, but when I turned on my faucet the water was dull red with rust until I’d let it run for a while. Ouch. Flow. Ouch. Flow. There is a temperature regulator in the room, but I have it cranked to Hell Fire, so I think it’s a placebo. Have not taken off my raincoat since then. And to think that a day ago I was embraced orchid-like by the southern hothouse.

Me: Can I get WiFi in my room?
Porter: Of course, all the rooms are equipped with WiFi.
Me: It doesn’t seem to be working.
Porter: You need the password,
Me: Can I have the password?
Porter: Of course you can!
Me: Great! What is it?
Porter: There’s the thing. We don’t know the password.
Me: WHAT?
Porter: The people who know the password won’t be here till Monday morning, You’re welcome to use the computer here (gesturing to the one with 15 people in line to use it.)
The secret, plainly, is to keep answering “yes” until your questioner realizes on his own that the answer is “no.”

Though my legs were in agony, I was lonely and unhappy in my room, so I made one last sortie onto the streets of Cambridge. It was the right idea. Bought vodka, and though I’m not drinking it, I know I can. Cambridge is like no other place I’ve been. The conversations you can understand at all are about ethics and music and string theory. Two women with memorable bosoms at the Castle, whom you would mark down as good ol’ gals in any bar in Asheville, were talking about French literature. Largely in French.