Going Home to Jesus

            by Mari Monosoff-Richards

 

The nunnery of St Mary and St Radegund in Cambridge, England is rumored to have been closed in 1496 because there were only two remaining nuns: one was knocked up and the other was drunk. The nunnery was turned into “The College of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Saint John the Evangelist and the glorious Virgin Saint Radegund, near Cambridge” and became part of Cambridge University. Due to its ridiculously long name, the school is generally called Jesus College. Over the summer I spent a month there, enrolled in one class about religion and another about neuroscience. When not in classes, I spent most of my time exploring British culture.

* * *

Arriving exhausted after a long flight, a misunderstanding at immigrations, and a 2 hour bus ride, I finally got to walk through the crested gates of Jesus College. I felt guilty dragging my loaded suitcase across the carefully manicured front green.

The students on the same bus as I was, all assembled under an archway that looked through to a quad as pristine as the front lawn. The front desk had been moved out to greet us. I was shocked to find that I would be living in a castle, complete with red brick, stained glass, turrets, a chapel, and a moat.

“Mari Richards?” A British accent startled me from my admiration.

“Here!” I managed to lug my suitcase to the desk where the administrators were handing out room keys.

An elegant young man with dark black hair, bright blue eyes, and what I learned to be characteristically English cheek bones, addressed me. “You will be staying in N 3. Here’s your key. There will be a welcoming cocktail party at five in the orchard. Please don’t be tardy.”

Dragging my suitcase, I set off to find N 3 but had little luck. I wandered through courtyard after courtyard but could not locate N. I asked a staff member if she knew where it was and she pointed to the left and told me to look for a spiraling staircase. Up a spiraling staircase?! My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I really was living in a castle!

The map I was following had all seven of the campus buildings labeled on it. The dorms were lettered, but I wasn’t in one of the “conventional” dorms, organized by floor. My room was in one of the original buildings where rooms were tucked away off of staircases. “Over to the left and up a spiraling staircase” became extremely vague. I couldn’t find N anywhere. The ivy covered brick buildings all blended together and the courtyards were impossible to tell apart. I began to recognize the statues and count how many times I had passed them but still couldn’t manage to get my bearings. After ten minutes of wandering, my heavy suitcase trailing behind, and slowly becoming frantic that I would be late to the welcoming ceremony, I saw a blonde man confidently strutting across a crisp lawn. I figured that he must know the location of my room.

“Hey!” I yelled. The blonde didn’t turn around. I had nothing to lose. “YO BLONDIE!” It did the trick. The guy didn’t look too happy about the nickname, probably because of years of torment over his predominant feature, but he stopped. “I’m sorry; I can’t seem to find my room. Can you please help me? You look like you know your way around,” I said. He sauntered towards me. Relieved, I extended my hand and introduced myself. “I’m Mari. Berkeley, California.”

“Hey! Another Californian! I’m Ted. Long Beach. Where ya off to?” His smile hinted that he had forgive the nickname. Ted grabbed my bag and quickly brought me into a quad I was positive I had seen before, but then again all the grass and brick buildings looked similar. Three flights up the spiraling staircase N- thank god I wasn’t carrying my bag- I unlocked room three.

* * *

Waiting for the dining hall to open that night, I examined the activities board. Another group of girls stood beside me.

“I can’t decide if I want to go see Midsummer or to the espionage lecture,” a busty, natural-platinum-blonde in the group said with a blustery voice.

“I was just trying to decide myself! Mari. Berkeley, California.” It quickly had become habit to introduce myself with name and home town whenever I met someone (several times I introduced myself to people I had already met and felt rather stupid). I decided, “I think I’m going to Midsummer. How about you?”

“It’s always fun to see another version of Midsummer, and Shakespeare’s my homeboy, so Midsummer it is. Devlin. Cincinnati, Ohio.” The blonde introduced herself.

“I’m Caroline. We’re practically neighbors! I’m from Mill Valley. Can I join your Midsummer outing?” asked a fair, redheaded girl.

“Yes! By the way, I’m coming. Nikki. Amityville, New York.” A short, upfront, Asian girl said. I was a bit startled by how bossy she sounded, but as soon as she smiled I could tell we would get along.

            The other girls in the group were introduced. Their names joined the rest swimming through my head, entering the pool where the other 200 names of my recent acquaintances had belly-flopped. The dining hall opened and we settled ourselves with food. Dinner, a British feast of some topping on baked potato and dessert soaked in cream, lasted 2 hours as we got to know each other. We all found it funny that we were staying at Jesus College and always joked about it whenever possible. It quickly became clear that we were going to be friends, and after dinner we headed over to Devlin’s room. I stepped out onto her third story balcony and a wave of Madonna, in her rendition of Evita, came over me. I burst out singing.

“Don’t cry for me Argentina! The truth is I never-”

“Left you. All through my wild days, my mad existence, I kept my promise. Don’t keep your distance.” Three of my new friends joined me. That cemented it: I was keeping them.

* * *

            The next day the girls and I decided to go on a ghost tour of Cambridge to try and figured it would help us to get to know our way around the town. We met at “The Horse,” an old statue which stood in the center of yet another immaculate lawn, given to the college by a famous sculptor. After only 24 hours, we already knew that we were not allowed to touch The Horse or even to step onto the green. We had been warned that a fine of 15,000 pounds would be given to anyone who damaged the fragile piece of art. The Horse was similar to Newton’s Apple Tree, another popular tourist spot. For students of Cambridge University, damage to either could result in expulsion. These restrictions stirred longings to break the rules and touch The Horse.

            Walking into Horse Court to meet the girls, I immediately found myself joining the forty other students who stood silently gaping. Three Asian tourists were standing on the green, taking pictures petting The Horse. One of them had the bright idea to get the other two to pose, sitting astride The Horse. I was riveted to the ground, unable not to watch what would happen next. A porter raced out of the gatehouse yelling British obscenities. The poor tourists quickly jumped off The Horse and ran out of the Jesus Gates, afraid of the bright red man who was barreling towards them. No harm had been done, but everyone who witnessed the event repeated the story to those who had missed the spectacle. It was almost impossible to tell the whole story because the image of the poor tourists running wildly out of the gate was so funny.

            From Horse Court we gleefully departed on our ghost tour. It soon became dark, and we lost our sense of direction. We wandered through the snaking streets listening to our guide tell bone chilling stories of murders and suicides that left the victims to haunt the people of Cambridge. Down a small dark ally, next to the river Cam was a bar that had previously been an opium den. A man had tied a noose around his neck and jumped through that open window, hanging for three days before he was found. You can still smell the scent of opium hanging in the air. My friends and I began to stick closer together. In one of Cambridge’s many churches, all the grave stones had been removed because too many of the dead occupants had managed to escape their graves. A dark figure was said to haunt after night fall and try to lure victims into the empty graves where he would burry them alive. The guide had a radio voice that left no room for doubt that he was telling the truth.

As I walked under an arch way I became nauseous. We stopped a ways from the arch and turned to look at it. The guide proceeded to tell us that numerous exorcisms have been performed to try and rid the arch of a daemon that posses it. Many people get a bad feeling about the arch and the extremely affected can become sick. Sometimes you can even see it lurking near the top. That was it; I was ready to go home. I tightly clung to my friends, relieved as we walked away and headed towards the safety of Jesus.

* * *

            Back on campus, my friends relayed several of the stories to people hadn’t come on the trip. Sitting outside in the dark was too scary. The guide had mentioned ghosts at Jesus College but never specified where they were or when they came out. We decided to go to Caroline’s room to hang out until curfew. After settling in her room and relaxing a little, someone pounded on the door. I jumped up to open it but no one was there. Several minutes later screaming echoed through the stairwell, followed by more pounding. No one was outside. Freaking out again, I realized I wasn’t going to be able to sleep. I convinced my friends to gather their blankets and have a sleepover in my room. I probably didn’t get more sleep than I would have alone, but we stayed up most the night playing different games and getting to know each other even better. My room became the gathering site for all of our future sleepovers as well as the primping parlor before dances. It was established as our home-base.

* * *

Four days into my stay in England, I couldn’t take it any longer: I needed to go dancing. A love of dancing had persuaded me to do some research before my trip and the results showed several dance clubs around Jesus College. The rules are different in the UK and minors are let in to clubs. I planned to take full advantage.

            Dancing isn’t as fun alone, so I approached Caroline, who I knew was a dancer. She was thrilled with my idea. We invited a few of our other friends who reluctantly decided to join us.

            The only flaw to our plan was that we really didn’t know where we were going. The cobblestone streets of Cambridge were still baffling and the night clubs weren’t well advertised in daylight. Although it was a potentially stupid idea (the staff didn’t like us to be in bars) Caroline and I decided to ask the younger members of the Jesus staff if they knew any of the hotspots in town.

            “Ballare,” Claire, one of the activities directors, immediately replied. “You’re in luck! Tonight is international student night and your entrance is cheap!”

            “I might stop by later,” said Rurik, the other activities director, with whom everyone was smitten. “The club’s always packed out because it’s the nicest around.”

            “Don’t get into too much trouble!” Claire said with a knowing smile, handing Caroline the directions.

            Getting lost on our way to Ballare, as we had known we would, my posse met a group of German guys our age, also looking for a good club to go to. Their attempts to flirt with us in broken English quickly had us laughing. Even before finding the club, we could tell it was going to be an exciting night.

* * *

            I heard the muffled music through the heavy doors as we paid and checked our coats. Caroline and I walked through the door the bouncer opened for us. Too excited to wait for the others, we entered.

            “Saturday night, I feel the air is getting hot, like you baby.” The song’s dance beat hit us at the same time as a blast of hot air. The bass line reverberated through my chest, and my heart hurried to catch it with the wave of adrenaline that pumped into my blood. Swirling, colored lights dazzled me. A swarming mass of people moved on the enormous dance floor. A large group of Asian students crammed into one corner of the floor, awkwardly swaying side to side, looking like they had been forced into the club. A few guys from Saudi Arabia were break dancing in the center of the floor. It truly was an international night. Cream colored lounge chairs surrounded the winding edge of the dance floor, several people spilling out of each. The bars were long and stained silver. Alcohol bottles glittered in many colors as the revolving lights reflected off of them. Scarlet red walls made the club feel hip.

            “Oh my god!” I tried to say. My excitement was obvious to Caroline even though my words were swallowed by the booming music.

            “WHAT?” She yelled.

            I shook my head, not wanting to compete with the speakers. Grabbing her hand, I pulled Caroline onto the dance floor. We squeezed ourselves into the center of the packed floor and began to dance. Our other friends, without as much excitement, managed to find us through the crowd. Our energy rubbed off and soon they were grooving.

            Song after song played. The only way I could tell time was by how sore my feet were. Everyone was sticky, and clothes fused tight to bodies with a mixture of their sweat and the sweat of everyone around them. The revulsion of the feeling quickly passed as I got swept away dancing.

            Dancing with a group of guys from Spain, Caroline and I startled them by singing along to a Spanish song. They started to speak to us in rapid Spanish and were confused when we didn’t understand. We both knew the song from our favorite radio station at home, La Kalle. Singing in the shower had apparently helped my accent. Although disappointed that we didn’t speak Spanish, they had no problem inviting us back to their house for an after party.

The guys were used to getting their way. What had been fun flirting, took a turn. When we declined their invitation, they tried sweet talking us, hugging us, kissing us, grabbing our hands, and practically picking up and dragging us in the direction of their house. I finally learned why I had been warned so many times about pushy European men. We were each separated with a different partner. They wouldn’t let us get back together.

My companion’s breath was hot on my neck. I was scared and claustrophobic. We were no longer in sight of the club and going in the opposite direction of the college. Becoming frantic that we were going to get into “too much trouble,” I yelled. We made a break and started running back into town, through the winding streets. They chased us but soon stopped, leaving us alone and lost. My girls and I had luckily managed to stay together and we were able to find our way home to Jesus.

Panting as we ran to check in with few minutes to spare before curfew, we laughed. We had made it. No one was hurt and we had found a great club.

“Had a good time girls?” Claire asked slyly.

“Yes!” We grinned widely at each other. Despite our misadventure, it was clear that we would be going back again.

At last in my room, I happily pried my feet out of my heels and took a nice long shower. Cozy and clean in bed, I quickly succumbed to exhaustion.

* * *

            Sundays were spent on the banks of the river Cam, watching punts pass by. After six days of long classes, lots of homework, many lectures, and late nights, Sundays were our time to relax. Each week, a picnic was brought along so that we could eat while enjoying the sun and the amazing view. We recounted various our adventures, talked about our different classes: neuroscience, photography, architecture, espionage, philosophy, zoology, and sang our favorite songs. My posse of girls claimed a willow tree as our own, and staked it out each Sunday afternoon.

At the river, we dipped our feet in the clear water and watched the mishaps of punting. It’s possible to rent a punt and attempt to navigate the slowly moving river on your own, but most people choose to take a tour and have someone else perform the strenuous labor. My girls and I quickly came to the consensus that going on a tour was much smarter than attempting to punt yourself. It was obviously clear who had decided to try punting for themselves. The pole, which is used to propel the punt forward, is fairly easy to get stuck in the mud at the bottom of the river. Many people make the mistake of holding onto the pole instead of staying on the boat, and proceed to slide down the pole into the water. Other punters got their poles jammed while going under bridges. In both cases, the punt continued forward, leaving the steering device behind.

Several of the adventurous groups who had decided to try their hand at punting made an impression on us. One group had given their punt a makeover and attached pirate regalia. They purposefully crashed into other punts and hopped on board. The startled expressions of their victims were wonderful and the startled exclamations, priceless. Several of the surprised punts decided to take revenge. Some punters just managed to topple the pirates into the water, usually ending in the water themselves, but one victorious group stole the punting pole from the pirates. The pirates were infuriated and war was waged. The battle raged on, splashing slowly down the winding river until they were out of sight.

Another group that made a lasting impression on us consisted of three young men with newspaper hats.

“We like your hats!” I hollered out.

“We like your legs!” One of the men responded without missing a beat. My friends and I paused for a moment, startled by the bold statement. We then burst into hysterics. We had become accustomed to the cheeky Englishmen.

As our last Sunday progressed, the hired punters who had befriended us came over to us to say good bye. We listened to snippets of their tours as they passed back and forth; the same pieces that we had heard each pervious Sunday. They teasingly quizzed us about the facts of Saint John’s College, where we had settled. For the last time we heard that Prince Charles’ bodyguard scored higher on the final exam than the prince did and that the original, hand-drawn copy of Winnie the Pooh was held in the library we were sitting behind. Everyone had their favorite punter, and many of the punters chose one of us as their favorite. We took turns jumping off the bank onto the punts to take pictures with our punters. It was wonderful to relax along the river, but as our food and drink supply ran low, it was time to leave for the last time.

“Let’s go back to Jesus.” Cambridge had become our playground, but Jesus would always be home.