I had been sitting in the Pembroke library for around three hours, firstly finishing an assignment and then switching back and forth between listening to Bruckner symphonies and reading George Eliot’s Middlemarch. Eventually I decided to temporarily quit on the overly long late-19th century works and go for a walk. After vacillating for a bit while walking across the library courtyard, turning around in circles several times under the warm, cloudy sky, I finally decided that sitting in my room until dinnertime was not going to be conducive to short term and long term happiness.
Before I departed for destinations farther than one block, I ducked into Fitzbillies, a snug little coffee shop on the corner across Pembroke College. The floors and tables were light-colored wood, the walls a soft, welcoming white. The counter area was cozy enough to be considered crowded by the presence of three or four customers. I ordered an iced coffee, which came out on the counter in a clear plastic cup, the type more frequently seen on the side of water coolers. In my attempt to get a cap on, I overestimated the sturdiness of thin plastic, and the cup, heretofore brimming with cold, dark liquid, kind of collapsed in on itself: a quarter of the cup’s content geysered out onto the counter, floor, hand, and sleeve. My face must have spelled 40% surprise and 60% embarrassment, accompanied by an expectation of a typically British expression of contempt from the barista. I quickly picked up some napkins to begin covering the spill, supplementing my attempt to cover up the evidence of my accident with a few awkward sorry’s.
It was to my great benefit and relief that the barista was not at all contemptuous (to my knowledge) and immediately offered to make me a new drink. At the same time another employee came over with paper towels and pointed me towards the bathroom (or simply “toilet,” as they are popularly referred to as on the other side of the pond) in case I needed it, which I politely declined, instead content to stand there and do my best to help the cleaning process. As the barista brought out the second attempt at my iced coffee, she put on the cap beforehand—though she also struggled with it for a few good seconds, which offered me some consolation and solidarity that partially dispelled of my personal ineptitude.
With a drink firmly in hand, I walked up Trumpington Street towards King’s College. The entire way there was saturated with people, uniformed bunches of schoolchildren, over-eager tourists, annoyed locals, occasional duos and triplets with familiar PKP lanyards. I turned into King’s College, its gate guarded by a man and a woman dressed in white shirt and black vest, turning away any adventurous tourists who might have wanted a peek into the grandiose courtyard that I had just now entered. The grass shone with immaculate green, clean-cut like a fairway. To my right stood the King’s College Chapel, its row of flying buttresses lining the north side of the courtyard. I walked further inwards to a second courtyard, this one formed by the front of the chapel, an even more expansive field of short grass, and the River Cam. It was towards the river that I came to: a quaint arch bridge that stood, half covered by the shade of nearby trees, its masoned stones providing a landmark for the boats that drifted by. I stood on the bridge, leaning forward on the side watching the crowded waterway: relaxed couples being ferried by young lanky British men who punted with ease, and bemused families watching members struggle with the long, metal pole that was supposed to propel and steer them along the river.
The sun had come a little bit out now, making the chapel in the distance shine. Boats continued to pass below at a leisurely pace, and a slight breeze came through just then. I heard the faint rustle of leaves mixed in with indistinct chatter, and then I caught the smell of coffee from my jacket sleeve. I smiled at this play of light hearted fortune, the quick shifts between embarrassments and moments capable of sweeping any embarrassment aside. I finished the iced coffee on the bridge, that cup which had brought me the allotted excitement for the day. After taking one more good survey of the view that my place had gifted me, I began walking back.
The sun had come a little bit out now, making the chapel in the distance shine. Boats continued to pass below at a leisurely pace, and a slight breeze came through just then. I heard the faint rustle of leaves mixed in with indistinct chatter, and then I caught the smell of coffee from my jacket sleeve. I smiled at this play of light hearted fortune, the quick shifts between embarrassments and moments capable of sweeping any embarrassment aside. I finished the iced coffee on the bridge, that cup which had brought me the allotted excitement for the day. After taking one more good survey of the view that my place had gifted me, I began walking back.
