Leaving Do #1

"Oxford is older, but Cambridge is better."

My flatmate is a Cambridge Alum, so her bias was understandable. I'd been telling her that I wanted to go, and she'd been telling me I had to go since I moved into my humble flat. But the weekends passed, and passed and I kept choosing European destinations over English ones. So when I woke up this past Sunday morning and saw the sun shining (ish) I knew it was my last chance. So I bolted to King Cross, and 50 minutes later I was finally in Cambridgeshire.

I arrived just in time to join the walking tour of King's College and Queens' College, led by Rosie - a sweet and rather hilarious middle-aged woman who grew up in the area, attended Cambridge in the 70s, and now gives guided tours on the wee-kends purely for her own enjoyment.

Her quick and witty banter made the tour a complete success. I am going to miss how effortlessly hilarious the English are. Their humor is so subtle that it seems almost unplanned or completely accidental. It is often that they are just talking and the mere way they string their words together ends up a strand of comedic genius. By simply describing the way the college square was planned so that the elder could see all the comings and goings of the boys at the school and catch them if they were up to no good. She said,

"If they were caught, they would of course be beaten. Everyone got beaten in those days. You actually had to prove you could beat a boy well and hard before you got your papers to become a teacher. So they'd pay someone 6 pence to be volunteer for the test beating prior to giving the teaching certificate."

Cambridge was founded in 1209. A few years after Oxford - so some (and by some I mean people who went to Cambridge) say all the things wrong with Oxford were sorted out with Cambridge.

And I believe it - it is truly beautiful place. I had the bright idea whilst visiting of applying there to get my masters degree in writing. Can you imagine being Cambridge educated? I feel a snuff above having just visited - I can't imagine what a Cambridge diploma would do to one's ego. You can potentially live in a dorm that Charles Darwin lived in for ape's sake!

Being a lover of architecture, and also of churches - stepping into the Chapel at King's College blew me away, in every way and beyond. It's one of the few examples of a fan vault in England. And since the chapel was finished by Henry VIII there are rare viewable "H&As" carved into the architrave from the time when Anne still had her head intact and was in the king's favor.

But Queens' College was almost more terrific - since there is a point where one can stand in the square and look at a building from the 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries simply by turning their head a few different directions. A true history of the college visible in one twirl.

A majority of Queens is properly medieval. The outside still gabled and looking from the time of Farthingales. The students put on a Shakespeare play every spring in the little square because it is such a perfect setting for such an event. Our guide said,

"It's just as nice as one can imagine - except of course if it's raining because then everyone gets wet. We don't let trifling things like rain stop us afterall." 

Nev-vah.

We had to be very quite in Queen's, since it's so small and most of the windows we were chattering on under house students.

"Heaven forebid there's some lad thinking up the next great idea of the universe - and he loses it because of my shouting," said Rosie.

My lovely tour took us past the punting - and I promptly regretted not going for a punt tour - since the lads navigating the things were shockingly attractive in their Jack Wills button downs and chino trouser shorts.

My flatmate had suggested a cozy lunch spot just down the road from King's called Fitzbillies. I went because of the name and the promise of a proper scone - but when I arrived I found everyone indulging in these instead.... 

That - is called a Chelsea Bun. 

The Chelsea bun is a type of currant bun that was first created in the 18th century at the Bun House in Chelsea. The bun is made of a rich yeast dough flavoured with lemon peel, cinnamon or a sweet spice mixture, spread with a mixture of currants, brown sugar, and butter, and after it is cooked -  glazed with cold water and sugar while still hot so the water evaporates and leaves a sticky sugar glaze, making the bun much sweeter.

And I think we all we all know that when it comes to things like doughy buns - the sweeter, the better. 

It may look like a cinnamon roll but it does not taste like one. It is chewier and raisin-y, and oh so finger-licky and sticky. How have I lived in Chelsea for nearly a year and am just now trying a Chelsea Bun? It's shameful, really. 

So in a sugared-bun-daze, I sat there sipping my Camomile tea and reading "A Casual Vacancy" - which yes, would have been a more appropriate read for an afternoon in Oxford, but I'd been already.

The scathing New York Time's review is a bit harsh if you ask me (100 pages in). While it's certainly no Harry Potter - I find her ability to tell a story unlike no one else present in this piece of very-adult fiction. I'm only bothered by what I feel is an attempt to break so far from the magical, fairy tale, kid friendly world of Hogwarts, that Pagford - the setting of her new novel - is a bit too ordinary, and the plot a bit too adult. This is definitely not a book for your little Gryffindor enthusiast. It's full of drugs, bad words, and inappropriate thoughts and actions for anyone aged below 18. 

But I'm routing for her - and the glass is always half-full for me. So on I read. 

Once back in London, I curled up on our worn, tufted red-leather couches in our common room with my four of my flatmates for what may be the last time, as we enjoyed a delicious take-away "flat-family" dinner together and watched Downton Abbey. It was my first leaving-do - and it nearly brought me to tears when one of them said, "I literally don't know what we're going to do....no one can replace you."

I didn't need my hot water bottle after that comment  because I was so warm and fuzzy inside. 

I love my little flat family. We're the perfect mix of personalities for a killer sitcom honestly.

There's Suze, with her wildly curly ginger hair. She is the responsible, motherly one of us all who literally lives in the cupboard under the stairs like Harry Potter. She sorts the bills and the arranges the cleaner and lets us in we've locked ourselves out. There's Marta, who talks like Penelope Cruise and yells in Spanish on Skype to her boyfriend Jose, in a way that I never know if it is a good or bad. She is also OCD with cleaning; the type who mops the floor prior to the cleaner coming later that day and puts stray dishes we've all left out in the washer once we've gone to bed. I shutter to think how the flat would look without her. Jacqueline is the wild one. The one who may or may not bring be sleeping in her bed that night, who throws her cigarette butts all over the garden and goes into my closet whilst I'm on holiday to borrow clothes without asking. But she's the best to have a laugh with and stay up late watching reruns of The OC with while we sob. And dear Lousie, who is so petit she looks like she could break. She's a civil servant who's shy, quiet, and sweeter than a Chelsea Bun. She makes soup from scratch and irons her little suits for work at Westminster every evening.

And then there's me: the token American with mermaid hair who after 1 year still does not know how to work the Skye box or lock the back door. The one who is always off to the gym, repeating everything they say with a crap British accent, and telling everyone about wonderful places in London and in England they've never bothered visiting. 

Yes, I suppose I will be hard to replace. But not as much as them. 

I grew up in a house as one of five. So it's no surprise I found such comfort in being one of five yet again in life. But my siblings all left home slowly over the years until I was the last one to remain - and this time it's the opposite. I'm the one leaving - and as the day draws nearer I'm finding it increasingly more difficult to do. 

 I know there will be several days where at 5pm New York time, while I'm eagerly waiting for the next thirty minutes to pass so I can leave the office that I'll stop and think of my little flat in Chelsea. 

And I'll wonder....its 10pm there. Is Louise sipping tea from her pale blue cup with the matching teapot next to her, half filled. Has Suze gotten Mori for dinner yet again tonight, and will Marta be putting away the soy sauce left on the coffee table; what weird English TV drama is softly playing in the background while Jacqueline recites her latest crazy story....

And I'll miss my little flat, and my little flat family, and my life in London - terribly.