Ali Binazir

Here’s a little something I wrote about Cambridge when I first got there. May you find it enlightening and amusing.

“A late welcome from the banks (and BoGs) of the Cam”

It is a Sunday morning here in Cambridge, with an absurdly forceful wind
whipping through town, ripping off tree branches, launching horizontal
raindrops at pedestrians at relativistic speeds and making cyclists ride at
oblique angles just to maintain balance. It’s been nearly three weeks
since I arrived here, having left on a Sunday afternoon to arrive at the
Monday morning opening ceremonies of my course with 150lb of luggage in
tow. Just days before, I had been told by the course assistant director
that ‘There’s no reason for you to show up before October 5′, only to be
informed the next day that orientation begins October 7. As it turns out
there were many reasons to be present before the 5th — somewhat symbolic
of the slapdash nature of this course, as it is the first time it’s being
done. More on that later.

It is just after brunch at the Caius College (pronounced ‘keys’) dining hall,
which comprised two fried eggs, a croissant, a bowl of yoghurt, a glass of
Minute Maid orange juice, canned pear tomatoes and beans, and a raft of
bacon and sausage and hash browns which I dodged — all notable because
they form the essence of the Full English Breakfast experience. I’m
sitting here in the computer room, in the basement of the Caius College
Library, right next to the Senate House. The latter is a rectangular
building in the grand neoclassical style, where the Praelectors of the
various colleges lead their graduating gowned flocks to receive their degrees,
each college marching in the order of their founding (Caius is fourth,
after Peterhouse, Clare College and Pembroke College). But, pray tell, where is the
Senate House — or, more specifically, what street is it on? The answer
can initiate you into the some of the folly and madness that is Cambridge
(and, ultimately, England).
You see, the Senate House is technically on King’s Parade (not King’s
Parade Street — just King’s Parade), on what I think of as the main
Cambridge U drag. Except that the northern edge of it starts being called
Trinity St. But the southern edge tends toward Trumpington St. What you
start to notice is that over the course of 500 yards, this street changes
names 4 times: St John’s St, Trinity St, King’s Parade, Trumpington St,
Trumpington Rd (see
 http://www.cam.ac.uk/map/v3/drawmap.cgi?…), and it’s
not the only street that does this. So, even armed with an address such as
‘6 Trumpington St’, you can have a hell of a time finding a place, because
you are never really sure which street you’re standing on unless you
already know the town well. Add to that the capricious nature of numbering
houses (sometimes alternating even and odd on opposite street sides,
sometimes not) and the sporadic presence of street signs, and every new
address becomes a new adventure.
But these names are old, old, and going against 750 years of history
around these parts remains a losing proposition. And, until the 19th
century, the Colleges had hegemony over the town, to the extent of setting
prices for such things as bread and ale. So the little stretch of street
in front of Trinity College will be called Trinity Street, and 50 meters
up, in front of St John’s College it’s St John’s St, hallelujah and amen.
And to put in perspective how old Cambridge is, just think of this: when
Sir Isaac Newton, the Lucasian Professor of Mathematicks, was writing his
Principia Mathematica, Cambridge was already older than Harvard is now.
Got it? Good.

“Keep that bike off the pavement, mate”

In the battle against archaic addressing, your best weapon (save
memorizing — oops, I mean memorising — the damn map) is speed. And that
is achieved through the humble bicycle. Even beyond the spire- and
cornice-lined streets, it’s the preponderance of bicycles that struck me
most upon first arriving here. Every bicycle rack, street sign, and
building wall is festooned with metal and rubber, spoke and mudguard, three
or four deep. There being at least three times as many cycles here as
there are things to fasten them to, most of the two-wheeled conveyances are
freestanding, leaning against a wall (which, by the way, would NEVER happen
in Boston — the bikes would simply vanish). Almost all streets are marked with cycle paths, even one-way
ones having a little bike lane going the opposite way. And, at the top of
every hour, as lectures let out, a stream of pedalers floods every street
even more than before. Students, professors, fellows, rich people, poor
people — everyone cycles. Those who have children of their own wear
helmets; the rest (85+%) meander blissfully bareheaded. In sheer volume,
Amsterdam ain’t got nothin’ on this town when it comes to bikes (NB: I
have since been to Amsterdam, and I sit corrected. Still — whole lotta
bikes.)
And so, wishing to be part of the wheeled and mobile masses, on my second
day here, I set out on a bike hunt. You will be shocked to find that I
bought the first bike that I found at the first bike shop that I visited
(those who know me well realize the improbability of such an event). There
it was: a Trek 700 hybrid, fully tricked out in the Cambridge Urban
Geriatric package — mud guards front and back, front and back lights
(required), rear rack (for passengers), chain guard (to save your trouser
cuffs — key!) and the all-important front basket. An older gentleman had
customized his bike for commuting, found that his knees couldn’t take the
strain, and returned it less than a week after its purchase. I immediately
recognized how much time and money I’d have to spend to get a bare-bones
bike to have all these accoutrements, and how I could never get them for a
mere