“As Cambridge
filled up with friends it acquired a magic quality. Body and spirit, reason and
emotion, work and play, architecture and scenery, laughter and seriousness,
life and art—these parts which are elsewhere contrasted were there fused into
one.”
-E. M. Forster
It was at first intimidating—sitting at a table filled
with peers from Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Berkley. Within the last week, I
have met students in every discipline: philosophy, finance, economics,
mathematics, humanities, political science, neuroscience, engineering… and from
many places in the world: Hong Kong, Egypt, Namibia, England, and cities from
all across the good old US of A.
At the long tables in the dining hall, over a fantastic
meal, (tonight: a quiche made with goat cheese, leeks, and onions), we discuss
ideas, theories, papers, and opinions. Every conversation is invigorating and
intelligent. Every day, I learn something new.
But it didn’t take long for the intimidation to wear off,
and to realize that college is college—whether it’s at BYU or Cambridge or
Harvard or Yale. At the tail end of a Gothic Architecture lecture, (I did not
initially intend for that to rhyme), a boy named Charles asked, “What is it
like to go to BYU?” Brooke and I looked at each other, and said, “Honestly, it’s
a lot like going here. Only, minus the drinking.”
Every formal hall is preceded by drinks on the lawn.
While the other students drink wine, we drink orange juice. At dinner—you guessed
it! Wine again. Guest lecturer? Wine. Clubbing? Wine. Any other excuse you
could possibly imagine, which I have not listed here? Wine! I have to admit, I’ve
never had so much orange juice in all my life. Honestly, I don’t know how they
manage. As I’m typing this at 1am, a group of boys is singing as they pass
beneath my window—on their way home from the pub, I assume. If only drunkenness
inspired perfect pitch! Alas, I am left with their a-tonal rendition of a song
that, I’m sure, must have had a melody once. But in that state, it’s no-where
to be found.
Despite our BYU sobriety, we’ve had our fair share of fun.
Only last night, Thom punched a hole through Sydney’s
window! Let me explain. It was not an entirely intentional offense; he only
wanted to make her jump from her desk, where she was typing away on her laptop
in such a very focused manner. Unfortunately, the glass here is rather old. (I
guess you could say that, couldn’t you? Since we’re staying at a college that
was founded in 1347AD.) At any rate, the glass could not quite withstand his enthusiasm.
After FHE, we played the Ebonics version of Bananagrams,
including words like “dis-n-dat,” “forreeeal,” “po-po,” “fosho,” and “rdiclus”.
One student of the college was too appalled by our rule-breaking to continue
playing—perhaps he simply couldn’t think of words like “sup” instead of “perpendicular”.
It takes a real champ to be successful at Ebonic-Bananagrams. And Austin nearly
cried, he was laughing so hard. And it was sure a nice break for my brain,
which at that point in the day was becoming a pile of mush.
There was a rather epic and fantastically sweaty mess of
a dance-party in Edinburgh: the traditional Scottish Kayleigh (complete with
Scottish band in kilts and beards, playing the drums, a fiddle, and an accordion).
And after that adventure, Averill, Sydney, Annie, and I put our feet in the
bathtub and talked for two hours about old loves and new loves and lost loves
and unrequited loves and loves we didn’t want to requite. It was a regular
sleepover—except for the sleeping part, when we disbanded and slept in our
beds.
Somehow we jammed ten people into Garrett’s bedroom,
(twice), in order to watch Gifted Hands
and then The Man Who Knew Too Little.
With the contribution of Matt’s pillows and blankets, an extra chair, and a
highly developed tier system—we fit. Though, my feet were awfully close to
Austin’s face, and I’m pretty sure the people at the periphery had a hard time
seeing the 13” laptop screen that was propped up on the writing desk. Nobody
complained. It was cold outside. And it was a surprisingly good time.
Kelsey and I
dance-partied on the bus-ride back from Scotland—which was complicated by the
fact that we were sitting down, and by the tendency for the shared headphones
to fall out of one or the other or both of our ears when we banged our heads up
and down.
And we had a leisurely and entirely metaphorical
discussion at a Market Vendor’s table about cheeseburgers. It turns out, they’ve
got an awful lot in common with boys, and relationships in general. We
discussed how hungry she was for that burger—how long she waited to find the
perfect one… How deliciously good it looked! How perfect and succulent and hers
for the taking! But then, how overwhelming it became when she got halfway
through. It got a little too heavy, you know? It was just a little too much to handle, all at once. But could you really put
it aside? Wait until later? Wrap it up, place it in the freezer, and hope it
survives? It would never be the same cheeseburger again! Oh, the anxiety, the
pressure, the agonizing feeling that you need to finish it! That you need to
stick with it till the end! … Ah, yes. You see, this is the trouble with
cheeseburgers.
I think that has been my
favorite thing of all. Talking. Just sitting and talking: in the café; on the
street; in the garden; over breakfast; on the floor of an apartment hallway
until 1:30am…
I guess my point is that, yes,
this may be Cambridge. But it is still college. And in the end, we’re still
kids.
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