Marching to Grandchester

About a spit and a holler and a half from Cambridge is the village or hamlet or township or whatever of Grandchester. It’s advertised as a literary Byron/Brookes/Woolfe pilgrimage, but it’s really just a good stretch of the legs. Anyone who knows my sense of direction knows that I can get lost in an elevator. But last Sunday the junior members of Wolfson offered a guided walk. So, I naturally seized the opportunity to stray not far afield. To date, “my Cambridge” has been only about ten square blocks; this was an opportunity for an exponential expansion of my horizons.

The normal route to Grandchester is along the Cam. But we ventured to explore “the alternative path.” We got lost for a bit–and that was all the more joy. Andreas, our Greek guide, our Argos-du-jour, had satellite images and GPS schematics–how Cambridge! Nevertheless, we found ourselves in a field of “rape’ which to us colonists is known as “canola.” After a brief discussion regarding the road not to be taken–from which I recused myself–we headed straight to the tea. It was a splendid hike. And along the way I had a charming chat with Saman, a patently brilliant Iranian M.D. studying epidemiology at Cambridge.
If Saman represents all Iranians, as I apparently represent all Americans, what the hell’s the problem? I want this guy to meet my daughter.