Brain cramps in Cambridge (it's a good thing!)

     Yes, it’s now a proven fact: One’s brain can burst.
     Mine did just that last week at the University of Cambridge.
     As it happened, I had a couple of weeks to kill between House Swap #2 (in Cornwall) and House Swap #3 (in Shropshire). Essentially I was going to be a homeless person until I could reasonably show up at my exchange house in Shrewsbury. What shall I do, where shall I go?? I had British friends I wanted to see in Newbury, Norfolk and Nottingham, but I couldn’t very well pile in on them for the whole time.
     Rather than looking at this gap as a problem, I decided to head back to Cambridge, where I had so happily attended a weekend seminar two years ago. The timing of the Institute for Continuing Education’s International Summer History Programme was perfect. After hocking a kidney to pay the tuition, I signed up.
     This time I stayed on the actual Cambridge campus. We Cambridge students don’t say we stay in dorms: It’s referred to as staying “in college.” Specifically, my “student accommodation” was at Selwyn College, where I slept and took my meals in the dining hall.
     Typical of all 30-odd colleges comprising the University of Cambridge, Selwyn College is a group of stately, vine-covered brick buildings forming grassy square called a quad on which no one steps. Ever. Except the fairies, who must perform their maintenance duties in the dead of night because the grass is kept perfect at all times – nary a weed or blade out of place.
     Behind the quad is an idyllic garden and a path leading to a cluster of classroom buildings that serve students enrolled at Selwyn and several other nearby colleges.
     The week I was there, about 100 people from virtually every corner of the world were enrolled in the history institute – some for credit, some (like me) for enrichment and for the fun of learning. We were young and old, from what seemed like every background imaginable, as culturally and racially diverse a group as I’ve ever been a part of.
     As soon as I met somebody new from a foreign country, the first thing out of their mouth was something like this: “Donald Trump is the scariest person who has ever lived! Tell me that Trump doesn’t have a chance of winning! What ARE you thinking about over there, letting him run for President? It’s a joke, right?” Or words to that effect. I’m telling you, the dude has serious credibility issues with people from Australia to Zimbabwe. They’re terrified of such a loose cannon having his hand on the trigger of the deadliest arsenal the world has ever known.
     I totally understand their anxiety.
     As a lifelong Democrat and proud Hillary supporter, I tried to allay their fears, but it wasn’t always easy, especially with Donald the Demagogue spewing his message of hatred and bigotry at the Republican convention during that same time.
     But back to my fabulous week at Cambridge. I had anticipated two lectures a day. In fact, I had FOUR, which meant I went from 9:15 a.m. to 9:15 p.m., with only a couple of hours down time in the afternoon – barely time to rest my aging, overloaded brain. I don’t know about you, but at this stage in my life, if something goes INTO my head, something else has to come OUT. As it was, with the extraordinary scholars I was hearing all day and night, my little gray cells were being scrambled all which-way!
     I’ve never thought of myself as the brightest bulb in the hall, but I’m not the dimmest, either. I can hold my own – barely – in most intellectual settings. I read books. I can usually keep up. Dumb, I’m not.
     But this week, ladies and gentlemen, was a righteous challenge! All I can say is that it was a damned good thing I wasn’t doing it for a grade. No papers to write, no exams to take: Whew!
     A sample of the lectures I got to hear, all presented by Cambridge faculty members who were experts in their field:

·         “Winston Churchill – Anti-Revolutionary?” by the Trustee of the Churchill Foundation. Lots of personal anecdotes about the great man and his viewpoints on a variety of topics, including his opposition to women’s suffrage (!).
·         “Breaking the Code: The Work at Bletchley Park” by a theoretical physicist and mathematician (and colleague of Dr. Stephen Hawking) who brought an actual Enigma machine for a demonstration of how the British intelligence service used their brains instead of bombs to help defeat the Nazis during WWII.
·         “From Boudica to Bond: The British Heroic Figure” by a social historian who traced the evolution of the concept of hero in British culture. Want to guess his top three? (3) James Bond; (2) Harry Potter; and (1) Doctor Who!

·         “Gorbachev to Putin” by a Russian scholar who has marched in Red Square.

      ·         “America in Vietnam: A Political Revolution” and its aftermath.

     And those were just the plenary sessions. My two in-depth courses met daily and were on the topics of the Victorians’ view of history and the British in America from Sir Walter Raleigh to 1776. (Or, as the instructor referred to it, “the crisis of the late 18^th Century.”)   
      Frankly, the class on the Victorian era was somewhat of a dud because I just couldn’t catch on to the professor’s plot. I'm sure he's a brilliant scholar and all, but either I was too stupid or he was too obtuse. I’m going with “obtuse.” I picked up a few stray, arcane threads here and there, but he just could never knit his thoughts into a scarf.
     On the other hand, the course on the British in America was exceptionally cool. After all, in school we Yanks learned American history from our viewpoint, right? WE won; WE wrote the history books. But here I had the unique opportunity of hearing American history from the perspective of a Brit. Or, rather, technically, from an Irishman who is now a Brit.
     He raised an interesting concept that was new to me and every other American in the class. Some scholars, he argued, believe that the war we Americans call the Revolution didn’t begin as a war for independence, but rather as a British civil war. Huh??! He said that independence was obviously a by-product of the conflict, but that most American colonials still tended to view themselves as British and were initially waging a civil war with their fellow Brits across the ocean because of Parliament’s refusal to grant them the rights they believed they deserved as British subjects.
     I’d love to hear what Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson and John Adams would have had to say about that. I didn’t dismiss this argument completely at first, because it was tasty food for thought, but now that I’ve chewed on it for a week, I’ve decided it’s hogwash.
     Anyway, by then my brain was so scrambled I couldn’t have argued that the earth was round.
     Though I went to bed mentally exhausted every night, however, I absolutely loved that lofty academic atmosphere. I’m so grateful for the privilege of experiencing it!  It might not have raised my IQ by a single point, but boy, did I feel smarter just being there.
     Now I’m wondering what useful factoids were squeezed out of my brain in order to absorb all that new learnin’. With any luck, it’ll be totally irrelevant stuff, like how to operate my kitchen appliances or the vacuum cleaner…

The Parables of the Ice Cream Cone and the Prime Minister

             Two parables today, one personal and one general.

The first lesson deals with my tendency to spoil myself. After all, why can’t I have it all, I ask? I’m worth it, right?

            But sometimes the Universe just has to jerk me back to reality. There are consequences to one’s indulgence. Last week brought a small but expensive illustration of that point.

Filled with gorgeous countryside and dramatic coastline, Cornwall is made for driving, sun or no sun. One afternoon last week I found myself at the seaside town of Perranporth, about 10 miles from where I’m staying in Truro. OK, it’s a bit on the cheap, touristy side, but there was a big parking lot right beside a wide sandy beach. Since there aren’t many beaches of this nature in Cornwall – accessible by car, rather than by hiking on foot – it was a popular place. I got the last spot in the privately-owned car park and fed 1.50 GBP into the machine, which I thought had bought me 90 minutes.

After lunch I sat in the tepid sun and watched the lobster-hued bathers shiver in the chilly breeze coming off the ocean. I’ll give it those Brits: They’re going to have their fun at the seashore even if the water is ice-cold and their teeth are chattering! By jiminy, it’s July and that means it’s summer and they’re going to swan about in bathing suits and shorts and sandals if it kills them!

I don’t have a watch, but I knew my hour and a half was about up. However, in the summertime spirit I decided I did have time for ice cream. Popped into the shop across the street, got my dollop of ice cream – which turned out to be only the size of a golf ball, or a tumor – and went back to my bench by the sea to enjoy it.

Here is the heart of my mistake.

Ten minutes later I headed to my car, which was only a few feet away from me, just as the attendant was pasting a ticket on my windshield. I was over my limit by TEN MINUTES.

And all because of that blasted, microscopic ice cream cone.

Want to know how much this blunder cost me – all because I didn’t have an extra pound coin to feed the meter? Sit down. SIXTY POUNDS. And if I fail to pay the fine within two weeks, the penalty increases to ONE HUNDRED POUNDS.

The only silver lining here is that the British pound is weaker against the American dollar now than it has been in many, many years. But still, by today’s conversion rate, 60 GBP equals $77.87.

What have I learned? Sometimes an ice cream cone is just ice cream, and sometimes it’s the biggest billboard the Universe can send that YOU DON’T NEED THAT ICE CREAM, FAT GIRL!!!

Thus endeth the first lesson.

                                                 # # #

The second lesson is entitled “How to Choose a New Leader in One Month or Less.” Americans, take note.

As most of you know, on June 23, a week after I arrived over here, the U.K. voted to leave the European Union, an action Prime Minister David Cameron and his Conservative Party opposed. The damnedest thing is, Cameron himself had called for the referendum, and then boom! The Great British people surprised him and voted to leave, and so he found himself sort of a lame duck without sufficient support in Parliament to continue in office. Like a proper British gentleman, he announced he'd resign.

Several candidates stepped forward to jockey for his job, but in extremely civilized fashion, as they tested the political waters, one by one they dropped out. In a mere two weeks that left only one standing – a woman, Theresa May, the current Home Secretary (the equivalent of our Homeland Security Secretary). Today's news reports say that Cameron will submit his formal resignation to Her Majesty tomorrow or Wednesday, and then it looks like the party’s election of May as Prime Minister could take place as early as this weekend!

These events are extraordinary on so many levels that I’m practically dizzy watching them. First of all, nobody has blinked once over the fact that Britain may have only its second female prime minister in history. Second, as a Conservative, Theresa May actually opposed “Brexit,” and yet as Prime Minister she’ll be tasked with negotiating the orderly exit of the U.K. from the European alliance.

And third, who can believe the refreshingly blinding speed with which this whole process is taking place?  

Of course, there are several snags on other parts of the political front. The leader of the Labor Party is stubbornly hanging on despite 98% of his constituents calling for his resignation, and the head of the Liberal Democrats just up and quit. Curiously, it’s hard to find anybody who now claims they supported Brexit, even though that side won.

So in reality, with the Prime Minister out and everybody else in power jumping overboard, the ship of state is pretty rudderless at the moment.

But at least they’re not embarking on a two-and-a-half-year campaign to select Cameron’s replacement like some democracies I could name.

Let’s review: In the U.S. we’ve been involved in our wretched Presidential campaign for what seems like two decades now, and still have another long, tedious three and half months to go. Show me one voter who isn’t exhausted and fed up by this malarkey. Is anybody even paying attention anymore? Who’s mind isn’t already made up?

And yet the Brits are accomplishing the same thing – the selection of a new leader, one of the biggest players on the world stage, a woman who'll wear the mantle of the likes of Winston Churchill  – in less than a month! The commentators were speculating that if it takes a day or so longer, it’s because Mrs. Cameron couldn’t pack fast enough…

Of Fats Waller and German engineering

     Arrived Thursday at House Swap #2 in Truro, the capital of Cornwall, which to my eye is one of the most beautiful, magical places on earth. Would that I had the writing gifts of a travel scribe like Bill Bryson to do it justice.

     This weekend I’ve been settling in and getting my bearings. The house itself is very nice indeed – even has a dishwasher, clothes dryer and Skye TV, which as we know are not standard over here. There have been the usual hiccups with plumbing one has learned to expect – let’s call them “Adventures in Toileting” – which I’ll mention later. But perhaps the most remarkable feature is the car I received as part of the exchange.

     When my exchange partner, Chris, asked a few months ago whether I was OK with driving a “performance car,” I must admit I didn’t know what he meant. Since my pedestrian Hondas have always served me in good stead, I haven’t seen any need to venture into anything more luxurious. Put key in, step on gas, go. So long as the thing has automatic transmission, wheels and air conditioning, that’s the extent of my driving requirements.

     Well, due to issues with Chris’s insurance, he couldn’t let me drive his modest Ford Focus, which would have been fine with me. Instead (beat me, whip me), I have to drive his wife’s practically new Audi convertible – the one that gives whole new meaning to the word “automobile.”

      I don’t mind saying that at first I was a little bit intimidated. I mean, here’s a serious piece of German engineering with SIX forward gears and more horses under the hood than I’ve ever handled. The dashboard would rival that of a Boeing jet. Even adjusting the seat is no small feat, especially for a hefty Brunhilda like me to feel comfortable and fully in control of all that horsepower.

      Finally squeezed into the cockpit, I had to face the clutch. Oh, dear. The clutch, brake and accelerator are about as close together as hangars on a sales rack at TJMaxx. Or imagine a fork, knife and spoon lined up next to a plate on your dining table. Then imagine pressing down the fork and knife at the same time – with your feet – without disturbing the spoon.

     Some of you might know the Fats Waller song from the Broadway show, “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” called “Your Feets Too Big.” Well, depending on her shoes (which are definitely giant-sized), Brunhilda’s feet are too big for this driving machine! If she punches in the clutch, her left foot tends to stomp on the brake at the same time. And her right foot seems to cover both the brake and the accelerator. This pedal ballet is not cool. Adjustment in footwear was required.

     OK, clad in different shoes, provided with a tutorial at the Audi dealer on the electronics, and with a firm resolve, Brunhilda was finally ready to tackle the highway. I had found my way to and from the grocery store and the movies OK. I had even located several of the six gears on those in-town journeys. But the real test was going to be on what the Brits call a “dual carriageway,” which to us is simply a four-lane road. Many stretches have no speed limit. Let’s see what these Germans call a “performance car.”

     I am not a weenie. I’ve got German immigrants’ blood in my veins. I can do this. I can do this.

     OMG, OMG, OMG! It took less than a mile before I found my American mojo. Just a wee tap on the gas pedal and WHOOSH! Off I tore like a hormone-crazed teenager!

     THIS is driving, folks! I was evermore sailing down the highway before I could even blink, and it felt like I was standing still. See a Mercedes coming up on my rear? Oh, no you don’t, buddy; eat my dust! Dale Jr., you have nothing on me, pal!

     It took me a few minutes to calm down and become a sane person again, and I reached my destination – a choral concert in Plymouth about 50 miles away – safely, at a reasonable speed and without incident. But boy, oh boy, that baby provides one sweet ride.

     And I have it for two whole weeks!

     Still waiting for the weather to cooperate so I can put the top down. I may wet my pants.