Getting There

Everyone has a fear.

No Chuck Norris jokes, please.

Mine? Being wrong.

We are bred to be content riding the rails that have been traveled time and time again to minimize the likelihood.

But completely stigmatizing the wrong, and being completely unprepared to deal with it, may lead to greater uncertainty, much less, originality.

Hierarchically, our purpose is to come out as university professors. It wasn't until the summer of 2010 that I realized that a thousand mile journey may yield a wrong so right...

6.27.10

At first, I was intimidated of the unknown. Unfriendly airport people. TSA almost snatching my cookies. Being wary that some freak can look at my junk.

But the familiar bag of Sour Patch Kids helped take my mind off that.

I started fiddling, and it lasted all the way through the flight. I didn't sleep and Jennifer Aniston didn't even look pretty in The Bounty Hunter. It was a ten hour flight, and channel surfing only got me through three hours.

The remaining seven hours consisted of restless shifting in the seats (apparently I sat next to a fellow Bruin alum Dr. Parry Barbara) airplane meals, and squeamishness.

But the daylight of the London afternoon could not have been more pleasant. Until I was greeted by guards totting AK's. My first notion? These British folks are insecure.

Otherwise, the immigration/customs part exchange in the airport was relatively straightforward. I was able to get my luggage and get through customs within a matter of 20 minutes. The difficult part was rushing to the National Express line to buy a ticket for the 3:10 bus to Cambridge. I missed it by 5 minutes. Still a feat I told myself, for being able to rush from the plane to the ticketing booth within half an hour.

But first the night before. It was perhaps the best night I have had with board games. A game of the monotonous Apples to Apples finally gave way to a raucous game of Scattergories. Before that? Banana cream pie, and watching Jodi and Melissa play video games.

It’s one that I won’t likely forget considering the fact that the following day I was sending back farewell text messages. Bittersweet.

USA lost the other day 2-1, to Ghana on a heartbreaking 93^rd minute goal and today, the Englishmen lost at the hands of the Germans 4-1, and I could see the looks on the faces of the fans as they left the pubs when I was making my way from Heathrow to Cambridge.

But on the way there, I couldn’t help but notice a girl glancing back. But

when we finally arrived, around 6:50, she turned out to be looking for King’s College as well. And the adventure began after a 2 and a half hour bus ride. I've never been so exhausted sitting. It was a laboring experience walking back and forth on the same cobblestone street. I was frustrated that the map had two features: the City Centere and King's College.

We eventually approached a shirtless man with tattoos, and upon telling him of our need to get to King’s College, he seemed humbled, and even called us scholars.

But the locals were unable to help us much, which was astounding considering the esteem the University is usually held at, and after walking back and forth on what turns out to be Emmanuel Road, we finally took a taxi to King’s College. It was all but 5 pounds, and we split the fee.

He dropped us off, and as I unloaded all of our baggage, my jaw dropped. I was to study here.

By the time we stepped into the dining hall, it was nearing 8 o’clock and the program directors Carlos and Greg were about to make announcements after a quick dinner. (I also managed to sneak a few glasses of wine). I was to stay at King’s College, just a few flights up above Keynes’ Building, which turned about to be a bar.

I walked up the stairs and was eager to wash my face. It was then that I realized that there was one faucet for hot water and one for cold water. No mix and matching here I guess.

It was a rather rude awakening. But one, like the journey in itself, sought to break the rhythm.