Cambridge 9

June 27, 2010

Our charges had an exciting night last night after the American defeat. Sarah, leading the girls footloose and inebriate on the streets of Cambridge, solicited a midnight punting jaunt from some professional punters. I hope the girls know how long they will cherish that experience, whatever becomes of the boy after. A young man was standing alone at the bar last night. I perceived he was American, and drew him into our group. His name is Adrian, and he is here because the Cornell track team is making a tour of England. He runs the steeplechase. Now the girls declare there was never anything like him (Kasey is seriously hooked), and he thinks I’m altogether remarkable, and nothing like his professors at Cornell. His dad grew up in Akron, and I knew all the places he spoke of in Ithaca. Small world and all that. After such a night, only Bethany arose and accompanied me to Eucharist at St. John’s this brilliant morning, where they sang the Mozart “Ave Verum Corpus” and the Hayden Little Organ Mass. . . which they played. . . on a little organ. The singing was surprisingly imperfect. However, I am one of perhaps a minority who prefers St. John’s to Kings’ (the choir, not the building), for the greater richness and humanity of its tone.

I didn’t make it to the dance. It was too far to walk, nor was I even certain that the placed I mapped was the place Steve meant. Other new friends have conversations over cups of tea--

England showed itself off worse than we in its game with Germany today, which we watched with a throng of Brits at the County Arms, where the bartenders love us for bringing crowds.

Evening drink at an Italian open-air place on the edge of the Market. Thought long and hard about what I had to think on. I had wanted to go to a play reading, but was told it was sold out. I didn’t believe it, but I stalked on, disappointed, muttering. I don’t deal very well with “no,” except in those rare situations in which I am convinced it is the real and final answer. Motorcyclists roared through the streets in a gesture, I think, of defiance of the university, now that that overwhelming institution is dispersed for the summer. Am I having “fun” here? I’m not sure I am, though everything we do is improving, exciting, memorable. I feel I’m not really doing what I’m MEANT to be doing, though working on the Byron play might address that. I’m not enjoying myself as much as I’m sure I will in retrospect. No problem students– well, maybe one, but he is from another school, and wanders off alone to get, I’m afraid, too drunk and too mouthy. I did not make a rule about going out alone, but now I wish I had. Everyone else commits their indiscretions, at least, in goodly company. Now that I think of it, that “problem” student is exactly like me. Except I trusted myself to go unscathed.

Spanish students (come to learn English) play soccer on the LC lawn, probably the roughest usage it’s ever had. There are clear stars. The ones who are not stars but who yet make a daring play are given rounds of applause.