Cambridge

July 16, 2011

Last evening was saved for me by a merry night at the Pickerel, with Steve first, and then a throng of my remaining students. It took all melancholy from the hour, and though I was finally driven away by their cigarettes– I thought cigarettes were declining among the informed– I returned to this mildly hated room and slept a shadowless sleep. It will do no good to get to London too early, so I must find something to fill the time between my early rising and a reasonable departure. For a few hours yesterday, warming sun speared through the clouds, but the clouds are back, and sightseeing–even moving about-- will be problematic.

Steve is probably mad. If so, he is one whom circumstance has maddened, and who copes with sublime gentleness.

Informed at the Pickerel that they had begun to call us “Papa and Mama”– me the papa and Rob the mama. It made sense, for we were parents in a way, whenever we were allowed. S summarized the difference in our styles by recollecting the day B thought she had lost her passport. Rob said, “We will go back to London tomorrow and inform the embassy and get the ball rolling right now so everything will be all right by the time you leave.” I said, “It’s in your suitcase. Go back through it and look in all the places you’ve already looked.” Turns out I was right, but the point was the matter of style.