there and back again


Sunday night blues.
July 13, 2008, 4:29 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: ,

Please note that although I’m going to be whining about various aspects of life in Cambridge, I am fully aware that my woes could be avoided by not being so fucking lazy.  It’s okay, guys.  I’m not oblivious, I just like complaining.  Let’s continue.

So.  Life in Cambridge.  Most of the time it’s pretty great.  I go to class and dinner in a beautiful neo-Gothic building; across the lawn is the Chapel which dates to the 1400s.  My Bloomsbury professor lives in the apartment that also housed John Maynard Keynes; I’ve got a friend living across the street from Darwin’s old dorm room.  I haven’t yet had a drink in the pub where Crick and Watson took drinking breaks into between discovering the structure of DNA and not giving fair credit to Rosalind Franklin (I kid, I kid.) but it’s only a matter of time!  And money.  I’m basically surrounded by history and freak out approximately every two days to discover yet another plaque commemorating yet another epic moment in history that occurred right next to my grocery store.  It’s generally really awesome. 

Except on the weekend.  Because on the weekend, all the tourists arrive.  They walk in the streets or stand (totally immobile!) on the sidewalks.  They congregate in huge numbers outside the gatehouse at King’s and make the porters really grumpy and mean.  They don’t understand the deal with the grass—  

And here I’ll even pause a moment and commiserate.  I don’t understand the whole grass thing either.  You can’t walk on any of the grass in college.  You can’t stand on it, you can’t touch it, you can’t sit on it.  If you are a senior fellow of the College (A fellow is a faculty member who is a member of the governing body of the College; what a “senior” fellow is I may never know.) you may walk sedately across the grass.  If you are accompanied by a senior fellow of the College you may walk across the grass provided you look suitably awed.  I think it’s stupid, fellow plebeians.  The grass looks beautiful.  But you can’t walk on it.  There are signs informing you of this rule.  They tell you in six different languages.  Unless you only speak Spanish, you’re going to get yelled at.  And so while I always cringe to hear yet another person being ordered off the grass, my sympathy is short lived.  It’s unfair and makes me want to start a revolution of some sort, but to that guy looking all wide-eyed with your camera and map—don’t act all surprised when you get yelled at.  You should have read the sign, dude.   

For reals, yo.  Don’t touch it.

But yes.  Truly tourists are a lower form of life.  Like the pigeon and the rat, the tourist gets in my way, does not apologize for inconveniencing and terrorizing me, and appears in such large numbers that I often cringe in fear in my room, afraid to leave and brave the crowds.  But I had to today because I missed lunch.  Because I was sleeping.  I know.  I am lazy as fuck but I still get to hate tourists.  And now I’m hungry because I ate lunch at a weird hour but dinner is over and I can’t get Indian take away because it’s Sunday night and everything is closed.  I blame you, tourists.  Surely the good business owners of Cambridge could be convinced to stay open just a little later on Sunday nights if you, stupid tourists, didn’t make us all so damn tired during the day. 

And now it’s really time to do a little homework.

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