Disoccidented

Alice: Please, which way shall I go? Cheshire Cat: It depends on where you want to go to. Alice: It doesn't matter... Cat: Then it makes no difference which way you go. Alice: ...as long as I get somewhere. Cat: You always get somewhere if you walk far enough.

I recite the dialogue for myself as I start walking from my hotel in Sao Paolo. It is far from my first visit to the Southern Hemisphere, but I always forget that the sun is in the wrong place. And I always misjudge the distance when using a map. As I walk, all the streets seem to go uphill, and all those hours on the treadmill are to no good. My clever husband always says that when you only have a few days in a big city, take a taxi between attractions. But I always persist in walking.

When I get somethere, having walked far enough, I get my reward: a market of the kind where you never buy anything but can browse for hours.

I taka a taxi back to the hotel.

Dendral delights

Kidnapped

My trip to Brazil is strictly speaking not a part of my transformation into a Cantabridgian, but it is my Awayweek from packing, so it counts. Due to an extensive missunderstanding with the travel agent I was booked on a flight from Heathrow to Lisbon at 6am which was obviously absurd. I searched for hotels at Heathrow that started from 200 pounds, but managed to find one for 40. The room was not much more than a prison cell, in size and decoration, but it was just for the night. I had to get up at 3.30 which proved unnecessary since the Portugal Airlines check-in didn't open until 5, and by the time the gate was suppoed to close half of the passengers hadn't checked in yet. At Lisbon airport I hade six hours to kill and contemplated seriously to take an hour treatment at the airport spa. The flight went smoothly - well, as smoothly as a transatlantic flight can go, and I was looking forward to a good night's sleep at yet another reasonably priced aiport hotel - three cheers for the Internet! As I came out to the arrival hall, there was a man holding a board with my name on. Since my name isn't pecisely John Smith I was pretty sure it was my name, and after a transatlantic flight your brain doesn't always work properly, so I didn't think about who would send a car for me, just appreciated the service. Yet after a ten-minute drive a got worried. The driver didn't speak English, and all attempts to communicate were futile. I didn't feel too comfortable being driven in a car by a stranger at midnight in a large Brazilian city. Forty-five minutes later we came to a hotel downtown that didn't have any reservation for me, but atl least somebody spoke English at the reception and finelly disentagled me from the mistake, and the driver took me all the way back to the airport. It is still a mystery.

In the morning I flew to Rio and was delighted to fall into the arms of my friend André. For the next three days. someone else would take care of me.

I hate group discussions

Well, Awayday obviously means a day away from the office, instead getting together in some stimulating and distracting envoronment such as a colleague's garden, bringing a favourite dish for lunch. When my old department had better economy we went away for a couple of days to Florence or Amsterdam or Dublin. Now we only go away to a museum with a nice lunchroom. The agenda for awaydays is always the same: someone starts with a lamentation about current issues, then we are divided into groups and assigned a topic to discuss. I have a friend who has published a book titled I Hate Group Discussions. For me, however, the deliberations in John's garden are useful as I become involved in the problems and issues. I try to identify possible tensions and undercurrents. As as newcomer I am cautious. I imbibe the sense of community. I need to learn the jargon and the numerous acronyms, witout revealing my total ignorance. I make a mental note about the pronunciation of Michaelmas and tripos. I show off by volunteering to give an inaugural during Lent. Away from home on an awayday, I am becoming part of the gang.

Incidentally, for favourite dish I was bringing three cans of Swedish pickled herring. but the airpott securinty didn't let it pass. Fortunately, I could find substitutes at the Waitrose supermarket.

Déjà vu

Many years ago, when I first came to Cambridge for a conference, the organizer, Morag Styles, put me up for a night with some friends. I flew from California into Gatwick, endured a three-hour bus journey to Cambridge and was dead meat. My hostess met me at the bus station and drove me to the most charming country house I had seen, with a magnificent garden. I made a mental note of it being an all-time dream house. I was horrendously jet-lagged, but dragged myself to the dinner table with the hosts and and some friends of theirs. The conversation was extremely stimulating, so I was sorry I had to withdraw quite soon. In the morning, when I woke at five, as you di with jetlag,I took a walk by the river. In the little house at the bottom of the garden where I slept there was a remarkable collection of egg cups. I made a mental note to send the hostess an egg cup if I happened to find an unusual one. Then the hostess drove me to Homerton College where I stayed at the dorms for the rest of the conference. I exchanged a couple of Christmas cards with my hosts, and then we lost touch.

During my recent visits to Cambridge I had been trying to find out who these wonderful people were. Morag had no memory of them (I don't blame her, she was busy with the conference). My only clue was "by the river". She wondered whether it was a B&B, but I told her the people had treated me as a friend and colleague. She wondered whether they were old or young, and I couldn't remember.

Yesterday we went to a business meeting, called enigmatically Awayday (away from what?), at the house of a colleague, John Gray, one of those many who had interviewed me earlier this spring. I had heard that he lived in an nearby village, the famous Grantchester, with The Rupert Brooks pub I have mentioned.

The moment I entered the garden, I recognized it immegiately: the lush garden, the gravel path, the sun deck, the sliding glass doors, and the little house at the bottom of the garden.

During lunch, I told John that I had stayed with him many years ago. "No, you didn't", he said confidently. "You had a collection of egg cups", I ventured. He gave me a weird look. "You couldn't possibly know about the egg cups unless you have indeed stayed in this house", he admitted.

And yes, the river Granta, which is River Cam's proper name, was just around the corner

Last visit

There was this man who met two other men who told him: "You have neen chosen for an experiment. You can visit heaven and hell and advance and choose which you prefer". They took him to heaven, and it was all angels in white robes playing harp and singing. Hell was full of wine, food and women. "I hope you understand, the man said. " choose hell". He lived a long life, and when he died he was carried off to hell, which was all flames and bad smell and devils with hot iron rods. "Oh no, the man shouted. This is a mistake, this is not what I have chosen'. "No mistake, one of teh devils replied. Last time you were a visitor, now you are going to live here".

Thiis is the last time I am a visitor in Cambridge.

Cambridge revisited

As I take a taxi from the train station in Cambridge to the friend with whom I am staying I feel that I've come home. I know what streets we are going on, I recongize the street crossings and the roundabouts. I am overjoyed by the sight of the parks. I am even looking forward to the meeting this afternoon.