New Digs and New Ties

Here are some shots of my new place at Wolfson, "W 206." Roberta had warned me that the shower would have no curtain, and the water indeed showers everywhere in the bathroom. The students here refer to it as a "porn shower." Well, that’s promising, but I know Tricia would simply prefer a tub.
And I just bought two not-so-old school ties. I think I need a "boater" to go with the white one. If I sport a teddy bear, shoot me at the border.

From Bloomsbury to Cambridge in Bloom

After all the fun of weeding the yard and then doing taxes during my visit home for Spring Break, I have sadly just returned to Cambridge. In truth, I had a wonderful homecoming to Arkansas and a too brief visit with my family in N.J. too. If Tricia weren’t coming to stay with me in Cambridge in thirteen days for the rest of this last term, I’d be most sad–not oh to be in England sad, but ah to be away from Fayetteville sad.
So I came back a couple of days before Easter Term itself begins on St. George’s Day (better known as my sister Diane’s birthday) in order to attend the London Chaucer [drink now] Conference at the Senate House of the University of London. This year’s theme was "Chaucer [drink now] and Time." I myself did a twenty minute paper on Chaucer’s [drink now] prosody. Not only was I quite afraid of putting the entire audience to sleep, but I dreaded nodding off myself while reading because I was still so jet-lagged. However, my own gig went well enough. The whole conference was, not surprisingly, first rate. I sucked up. . .I mean, I networked with a number of major scholars in my field who, as instructed by Chaucer’s [drink now] House of Fame, remain the most humble, generous and yet spectacular brains in English.
I stayed at a lovely bathroom-down-the-hall hotel–the Penn Club <http://www.pennclub.co.uk%3e./>. It was only £55 for a single–which is still not cheap because the dollar is dying here. Excellent coffee if you like American (not "Americano") brew.
I trained from London to Cambridge on Saturday. Wolfson seemed abandoned. . ."seems," nay ‘twas. But everybody is returning today, Sunday. I also learned that the head porter David had a heart attack just as he was preparing to vacation in Egypt. He’s well on the mend, I hear, which is so wonderful. But how does this place work without him? Stay tuned for future notes from Chaosville.
I’ve been moved to a new room in W-block. "Luxury!"–well, sort of. Everything is new and clean and works–which America does better. This room lacks the leaky, creaky charm of the Penguin Palace; however, it does have a double bed.
For me, the most astonishing feature of my return to England has been seeing and smelling the sheer beauty of the season. Spring was going quite well in Arkansas; our red azaleas were especially spectacular and the dogwoods too. . .but then that hard frost hit. Even our boxwoods croaked. But here it’s hayfever heaven.
I wish I knew the names of flowers. For me, most of them remain nouns in poems with handy footnotes. But I do know two. Right in front of the Porter’s Lodge at Wolfson is a splendiferous, oh so Arkansas-like Redbud. Here it’s called a "Judas tree" because the flowers appear before the leaves, and that phenomenon betrays God, I guess. Does every Southerner know this already? And, if so, why do you keep such secrets from us damn Yankees?
Of course, the other name I know is the "daisy"– the "eye of the day," Chaucer’s [drink now] favorite flower.
Well, it’s time to get all my ducks in a row.

Who will mourn for Adidas?

At times, this Lent Term seemed interminable. Then, it terminated too soon. In the last two weeks, I’ve seen: a lunar eclipse; the earliest print editions of Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde; the "Flood Tablet" (Gilgamesh) at the British Library; and Frank Kermode.
I’ve gotten a good deal of writing done (and so I have a good deal more rewriting to do). And I am so ready to go home for a few weeks. I catch a 2:30 a.m. bus to Gatwick then an 8:30 flight to Houston then XNA.
In sorting through what to take and what to leave, I realize that my walking shoes have done their time. I bought them originally to go to Rome. I just threw them away. I weep now. I wonder how many miles they’ve actually endured:
Farewell foot-homes / faithful toe-companions.
Her sind shoen laene/ and socks. . .
forget about it.

The Lent Bumps

Today, I went to cheer for the three Wolfson crews. The "Bumps" are a competition of eights. The object is to catch–that is, literally bump–the boat if front of you, and not get bumped by the boat behind. The Wolfson Women "rowed over"–which is good, they neither bumped up nor were bumped down. Both the First and Second Men bumped up–which is better; they caught the crews in front of them and were crowned with garlands. . .really, they beached their boats and put a bunch of weeds in their hair. Huzzah, Wolfson!
I’d been told that the boats can crash into each other, flip over in the wind, catapult Greek Fire at one another, and so on. No such theatre, but there was a soupcon of danger for the spectators. The crews’ coaches and supporters flashed by on bikes with utter disregard for pedestrians. And the mention of feet calls forth my only complaint. I was somewhat misled as to how far away from Wolfson the races occur. I believe I walked three hours and twenty minutes to watch about twenty seconds of racing. All in all, I probably got more exercise than the competitors. Nevertheless, it was really quite a spectacle to witness. And this is only a warm-up for the May Bumps (which, in ever enigmatic Cambridgese, are scheduled for mid-June). I have been advised to: a) hire a taxi, and b) bring a bottle of crisp white wine.

Keeping Up with Terry Jones

Terry Jones had invited us to join him and Anna for lunch in London on Saturday. We had other plans. . .No! Of course, we jumped at the opportunity. We trained "up" to London early in the morning--that is, "early" as defined by Robbie which means "lauds" to me.
We thought that we might have time to go for a ride on the Eye before lunch, but that was a complete mistake. Even though it was a rather blustery morning, the streets were packed with tourists. We took a few snaps, and then tried to take the underground to Highgate, but the Northern Line–as Terry had warned us–was not operating past Kensington: "Curse You, Blair/Bush." See oral formulae still exist in English.
So, we climbed into a cab, and drove to a most beautiful part of London that I never knew existed. We met Anna for the first time and she’s lovely and smart and sweet and very tolerant of perfect strangers. We also met Nancy, their puppy Jack Russell Terrier who just loves being a dog. Terry claims to be allergic, but he obviously loves to play every bit as much as Nancy. Terry made us espresso and tea and then we headed across the heath (not to be confused with a fen though every bit as muddy on this day). Anna, Roberta and Rob wore Wellies, but Terry and I ventured forth with just dress shoes–not recommended. We both managed to avoid the every amusing face-plant, however. . . barely.
We went to the Spaniard Inn where Keats was reportedly inspired to write "Ode to a Nightingale." We drank some ale and ate fish and chips and drank some more ale, and stout, and. . .now it gets a little vague. We headed back by a different, though equally beautiful and slippery path. Terry tried to talk Nancy into washing off the mud in a duck pond, but she was far too smart for that, knowing there was a perfectly good hot shower at home.
I thought it was time to go; I mean, I thought we had already imposed too much on Terry’s generosity. He insisted that we come in for more coffee and wine and singing-along to the best bits of some Fred Astaire movies. I should confess that I interpreted a quick "Would you care to?" as "insisting." Terry also explained the genius of Mae West with his ever unflagging enthusiasm.
Finally, we did have to depart to catch a late train back to Cambridge. It was a local with stops every five minutes, but I noticed that Rob and Roberta smiled all the way back as I’m sure did I.

The Bottle of Britain

On Friday, Robbie planned a trip to Duxford–about which I knew nothing. It’s a flatness about an hour by local bus from Cambridge. It had been an airfield during World Wars I and II, and now it is a war museum with bunches and bunches of planes. And Robbie (as he’ll be the first to tell ya) knows everything about this stuff.
So we walked around. . .a lot. . .and then some more.
Roberta stayed in Cambridge to shop.
I really did enjoy the day, but mainly because Robbie truly could explain everything.
However, I think my favorite single sighting was lunch.

Billingsley-Ely

Rob and Roberta came to the Cam just to visit me and play! The day they arrived from the States, I thought we should “take it easy.” But they rested only a little bit, and then we started walking. We ended up seeing most of the Old School sites as well as the City Centre. Roberta took account of all the shops; Robbie, of all the pubs.
It was Ash Wednesday, so after freshening up we attended evening services at King’s. I had planned to take about thirty minutes to get from Wolfson to King’s, which is normally about fifteen minutes extra. But Robbie doesn’t march double time. He promenades; no, he oozes along. Anyway, we arrived right on time though a painfully proper verger harumphed that we were “excessively tardy” as we entered.
The combined men’s and boy’s choir was singing. The introit was especially sublime; indeed, as the choir processed around the stalls, the acoustics of the chapel caused a celestial echo. Afterwards, we went to the Loch Fyne restaurant for a lovely fish dinner. . .true penance.
On Thursday, we headed to Ely. I thought we’d only be there for a couple of hours. But Roberta found all sorts of nooks and crannies I had missed. Sue, the docent at the cathedral, was especially sweet and deeply in love with her job. A quick lager down by the Greater Ouse (named after Robbie), and we headed back to Cambridge for Hall.
Formal Dinner with Rob and Roberta was the best yet even though we didn’t actually sit together. We were the guests of the English majors, and they adored the new Yanks. I warned Roberta about the never-ending wine; she’ll recover eventually. And Robbie actually wore a necktie!

Pure Dead Brilliant

Last Saturday I attended a symposium on "Textual Cultures" in Stirling, Scotland. I had been to Stirling Castle before, but only for a very brief visit while attending a conference at Glasgow. This was my first time both to see "the Uni" and to walk about the old town.

I tried to travel cheaply; the Scots would approve. So I booked a flight on Ryanair from Stansted to Glasgow. The website said the fare would be only one pence each way! But when I actually booked the flight it came to about sixty pounds with taxes and fees. The train through London would have taken eight hours with two connections and cost over a hundred pounds. My main mistake was flying to "Glasgow" which was really "Prestwick" which is really "MacTarmac" in the middle of County Nowhere by the Sea. So I still had to make two train connections, and the trip took about seven hours–mostly just waiting in the airport.
The conference itself was both fun and informative. The papers were all over the place from codicology to literacy, from legal restrictions on the sale of Satanic Verses in South Africa to. . .well my paper about a fifteenth-century poem by King James I of Scotland. . .which I gave in Scotland. . . and, ai, I do know the Scottish slang for "chutzpah," but it’s far too filthy to write in a blog that my mother may read.

Stirling itself is right on a fault line that marks the start of the Highlands. Controlling this pass across the Forth is "the key to the kingdom." The old rock itself is quite intoxicating to watch on a crisp bright day such as we had. The colors on the hills and the cloud shadows are hypnotic. OK, maybe it was the whisky too. Above us was the Wallace monument, below us the bridge and town. The campus buildings are all 60's-70's–love it/hate it–surrounding a small loch. Almost all the sites are connected by one long hallway, a pre-global warming design. The people are all very friendly albeit in a brusque and easily amused way. I’m embarrassed to say that I did find "Lallands" very difficult to understand sometimes. For example, I’m pretty sure that the homily given at St. Aloysius in Glasgow on Sunday was about "repentance" and not about "rape and tuppence."

Well, well, well.

Well, like I said, I really don’t have much to report this term. I’m spending way too much time on footnotes and a bibliography. I have gone to several lectures, mainly just to get out of my room. The sun is low. It’s hardly winter, just a nasty Fall. I overheard some students refer to this time of year as “suicidal term.”So, when another walk-about was announced for last Sunday I was ready to leave on Friday. Our destination was to be Nine Wells, the source of Cambridge’s potable water in days of yore.
It was quite long walk and muddy, and the scenery was rather non-descript and muddy; we crossed chartered fields and railroad tracks and mud.
But the company and conversation were wonderful. None of the locals really knows much about Nine Wells. They think it’s sort of yonder, like the Gog and Magog hills which are “not far” but not clearly “there” either.
I had dreams of trekking upstream to the haunted fountainhead of some Brythonic mere.
Not so much.
We realized we had arrived at Nine Wells only when we found the small sign. Our ultimate destination was quite literally a whole in the ground. . .and muddy.

Hardly the “fontanone del Gianicolo.”

The sun came out on the way back. Lunch was simple and convivial. And then back to my still flowing flood of footnotes.

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.

Winter Break

OK, so I just wanted Tricia to come snuggle on the cheap in Cambridge. But, oh no, Little Miss Bonne Vivante has to plan a rendezvous in Paris. And of course she was right--for a while. Our week in this little dump of an hôtel near Gare Montparnasse was wonderful. The neighborhood was quite nice, but one block over was a “theatre district” which looked a tad red-lightish–not that I was looking (if Tricia was looking, that is).Anyway, I got to visit St. Denis and Chartres, where we met up with Rachel for a great day. Tricia got to choose all the other, mostly modern sights which included the Rodin museum, the Parc de la Vilette, and McDonalds’ Playland also known as the Centre Pompidou. And everything was wonderful, the sites, the food, the people, and then it all got better cause we headed south to Rome.
We did a couple of touristy things, saw the Ara Pacis, visited the Baths of Caracalla.
Tricia went on a skirt safari, buying random small game along the way. But mostly our visit was just a homecoming. Our apartment (actually the second of two) was a nightmare, no flushing toilet, no hot water, no oven, and no way to get the agency to care. . .ma bei! Having dinner with Davide and Diane, seeing Emilio and Carolina’s new baby, chatting with Barbara and Kikka and Megan and Mary Margaret and the students still at the Study Center, but mostly just hanging with Samia and Michaele and Kwame–I want to weep for joy. . .allora, a harbinger to crying in pain.

Tricia threw a party on our next to last night in Rome. It was so much fun it was hard to say “good night” to anyone. The few hearty young who were still around at midnight invited us to go to Primo’s for a nightcap. It was only two blocks from our apartment, but–as in “The Convergence of the Twain”–there was an indifferent cobblestone with Tricia’s name on it. She simply but thoroughly tripped. . .and, we discovered in the morning, had broken both her wrists.

I could recall how concerned and helpful Samia and Barbara and Kikka were about getting us to the soccorso pronto. I recall how expert and kind and, of course, casual the Italian medical care was. I could recall how someone asked if Tricia was my daughter. . .again. I could recall how Tricia was put in full casts that made her look like a plaster Popeyette. I could recall how we had to fly straight home where I needed to do everything--dont' ask!--for Tricia for three weeks. But I’d rather hit the delete key.

Tricia’s wrists were extremely well set and are healing perfectly. Her casts were shortened below the elbow about a week before I was due to return to Cambridge, and she instantly became able to care for herself almost completely. In choosing her new casts, she opted for the simple black Audrey Hepburn look. And so the break is over. Tricia’s back in school; the casts come off in another week. I’m back in my lonely cell. Scribble, scribble, for better or for worse.