London-is-really-35-miles-away Luton

Cambridge was absolutely awesome. The taxi driver who drove me from the Cambridge train station to King's College Porter Lodge asked if I was visiting to consider studying there. I said, "No, I'm just visiting a friend. I think I'll go to grad school in the States." But I would consider changing my mind after experiencing a few days in the life of a Cambridge student. (Unfortunately, this experience didn't include anything from the academic realm - I arrived too late for lectures on Thursday, Rachel didn't have any on Friday (I wonder where she learned that scheduling tactic) and I left early Monday morning.)

Getting to Cambridge was extraordinarily difficult. We took the rental car back to the dorm around 5am; it didn't have to be returned until 1pm... a deadline that would come in handy later. I unpacked and went to sleep around 6am. I didn't wake up until 10:15; I'd wanted to start doing laundry around 8:30. I pulled on some shorts, threw my laundry in my suitcase and started as many loads as possible.

While my clothes were spinning, I went back to the dorm and started packing my backpack with other essentials: laptop, umbrella, miscellaneous cords and chargers, my trusty Economist. My laundry didn't finish until 12:15pm; I'd had to dry it three times because of the lousy dryers. Everything else was packed, so I hastily folded what I needed and left the rest strewn on my bed. I put my clothes in my big blue marshmallow suitcase and technological essentials in my backpack, then snagged the tram west to the bus station.

I had planned to take a bus to the airport (35 minutes away), but while I asked the bus station cashier where the bus was, he called a colleague and proceeded to chat with the person for five minutes - a huge delay, because my plane's departure was 3:00pm, and flight check-in would close, promptly, at 2:30pm. As he babbled away, the one bus that had appeared to be going to the airport left. The cashier finished his conversation, simply looked at me and said, "Taxi" and pointed at the line of taxis outside. I resisted the urge to strangle him and after frantically searching for another bus, approached a cabbie to ask what the fare would be: 68 euros ($80 USD), he told me. I didn't have that much cash, so I tried to use the only ATM at the station - but it would only accept French cards equipped with a little microchip. Most of my money was in my US Visa account, and I couldn't remember my PIN code for my French account!

Completely desperate, I began to contemplate taking the evil bus station operator hostage with a baguette and commandeering one of the nice Mercedes taxis to the airport. However, just as I was going into la boulangerie to buy a stiff loaf from last week, Isabelle called - she and Rachel had just finished returning the Hertz car and were at the train station! Overjoyed, I quickly met them and explained my plight. Isabelle didn't have her bankcards with her but Rachel instantly offered me 100 euros from her account. Eternally grateful, I hugged them and sprinted to the nearest cab, first confirming the price - now 65 euros. Only briefly tempted to see if I could lower the price further, I threw my bags in the back and said, Allons-y!

I arrived at 2:10 and swiftly made my way through check-in and security (talk about redundancy; no less than five different checkpoints inspected my passport). I slept on the uneventful plane ride, only waking up to fill out an immigration landing card - and staying awake while 45-mph winds jostled the plane on its descent. Undaunted by the less-than-pleasant greeting from the English weather, I took a bus from London Luton Airport (what a stretch - "London" Luton is 35 miles northwest of central London) to the Luton train station, where I bought a ticket to King's Cross Thameslink station. I timed it perfectly and only had to wait a couple minutes before that train arrived. I lugged my huge suitcase aboard just before the doors closed. An hour later, I arrived at King's Cross Thameslink station. I bought a ticket there to Cambridge, but had to go to a different station, King's Cross, to take the right train. Rachel had reminded me to take a picture of a certain platform and I took this picture with 2.5 minutes before my train left:


I hopped aboard and eagerly looked for an open seat, but the train was jam-packed. Simply happy to be going the right direction, I perched myself on my suitcase and leisurely read the Economist. 52 long minutes later, I arrived at Cambridge Station! I exited and found the taxi stand. While waiting, I experienced my first taste of the British fixation with lines ("queues"). No less than three people asked me, "Is this the front or back of the queue?" I replied that it didn't matter to me, and they happily shuffled into line behind me. My Thai taxi driver was pleasant but not particularly adept at navigating small, dark streets.

Breathing a sigh of relief as I left her vehicle, I met Rachel at the King's College Porter Lodge at 6:25pm. We went to the last part of her King's Voices choral practice - and I received my first impression of the tremendous talent at Cambridge. There was no hesitation between the choir director's commands and the group's singing; they instantly responded to his commands and spontaneously adapted to different requirements. I politely declined his invitation to join in the singing, remembering that apart from my best-selling "Broadway: Super Shower Soundtracks" performance, I hadn't formally sung since 8th grade.

Practice finished at 7pm and we went to her graduate student housing building. The English term for it is a "hostel," but it's a far cry from the youth hostels in Prague or Geneva. Her room was quite expansive and there was more than enough space for the oversized spare mattress (a pleasant change from my French dorm mattress, about half the size) that we dragged out from a storage closet. However, there was little time to inspect the bedding - we had to change and dress-up for "Curry and Clubbing" night with her women's soccer team and the Christ's College men's Rugby Club ("CCRC" was chanted so many times that evening, it's forever imprinted on my memory). I imagine that 500 pounds sterling ($880 USD) is also forever imprinted on two rugby players who had to pay the sum after damaging a sink and mirror in the Indian restaurant we ate at. The English are currently engaged in a nation-wide debate over the harmful effects of the country's infatuation with intoxication - and I think I'm now qualified to testify as an expert witness. The rest of the evening was fun and full of interesting people only slightly tainted by snobbishness. On Friday, we went sightseeing - pictures coming soon!