July 2009 Archives

"You're a birdbrain, Katrianna!" Mikaela declared.

Katrianna spun around, gave her sister the eagle eye & replied, "Why, thank you!"

She then resumed her hour-long presentation on the intellectual superiority of the Corvidae family -- crows, magpies & jays. Quite obviously, she's raven mad (or is that crazy as a loon? Despite her seminars, I'm still not very ornitho-logical).

In the early mornings, Katrianna can often be found at a window, bird book in hand, pressing a button to serenade some passing songbird. The befuddled birds sit just outside the windowsill, heads pivoting this way and that to locate their new potential mate or - since we don't truly know what she's saying with these recorded messages - possibly their territorial rival.

Actually, most of the time, she prefers to talk to them herself, sans technological devices. She croons out the window repeatedly and then some crow will show up. They carry on and pass pleasantries, no doubt discussing the weather and/or preferred flight patterns.

Originally, of course, Katrianna didn't know how to cry fowl. Her multilingual efforts began one day when she and I were sitting in the car waiting for Chris & Mikaela who had gone into a ranger station to ask about - what else? - directions to find pairs of nesting raptors in the area. We were near a field, but there was no activity or movement indicating any "life." It was hot, dull, quiet, nothing to do, lethargy. Without warning, Katrianna bursts out at the top of her lungs with "Quack, quack, QUUUUUAAACKKK!" Before she can answer my "What in the world?" what do we hear - yep, a mallard duck calls back from out of nowhere, sounding like it's right beside the car. Katrianna answers, duck responds... I sank further down into the driver's seat, a lame duck.  

More recently, when she was replaying and memorizing the calls in her book, a raven appears - but, this time, Chris was there. He gets so excited, he can't even wait a decent, conversationally-polite interval for the bird to finish its call before he jostles her aside to push the button. He then keeps interrupting Katrianna's poor pal, who gets so frustrated and, quite sensibly, offended that he flies off in disgust. Undaunted, Chris grabs the book and runs to every open window to beckon his fine-feathered friends, madly pushing that call button incessantly and indiscriminately.

Eventually, bereft of her book, Katrianna loses interest and wanders off to find something else she can play with by herself. For the next ten minutes, her father continues unabated & oblivious. I suggest to him that it was originally sweet, even cute, to see him humoring Katrianna and bonding with his young daughter over bird calls, but that perhaps now he should get back to work and not exhaust the battery on her prized book any longer. Sullenly, he agrees.

Not 15 minutes later, I go upstairs to find him alone, back at the window, swiftly riffling through the bird descriptions and scanning the skies as he presses the now nearly muted - but still birdly audible - call buttons. We concur that Katrianna's book should probably be reserved for her and he should only "borrow" it when she knows about it, is present and is also participating. Got it, good thinking! OK, everyone gets back to school/work. Diligence and duty prevail.

Yet, less than thirty minutes pass before I hear in hushed tones, "Psst, hey, psst... Katrianna, c'mere!"  Katrianna gets up from what she's doing and follows her summons (with me not far behind). We find Chris, again clutching the bird book, motioning with his hand and whispering with all his persuasive, enthusiastic might, "C'mon, let's see if we can get them to answer. Aww, c'mon, it'll be - - Oh, hi, Cat!... Katrianna just wanted to call some birds here..."

In the meantime, Mikaela had read the book's introduction which warns against using the recordings in just this way, at least if the birds are endangered species. She begins lecturing her dad against "the evils of harming innocent endangered animals for sport!" Finally, facing his older daughter's threats to report him to the Audubon Society and/or Greenpeace, his younger daughter's sudden & inexplicable disinterest in birding, and his wife's ruffled feathers, for the third time Chris acquiesces. Reluctantly, he returns to his pressing, due-yesterday work project.

Ohhh, imagine the chaos and loss of productivity if we only had a birdbath!

 
On a lark, we made the birds as an art project when the girls were 5 & 8 years old and we were studying everything birdy for Science. It was very easy & fun. A light clay, such as Model Magic, works well, then acrylic paint & gardening or floral wire for legs. There is a lot of room for error & they still come out looking pretty life-like. We use them every year as Christmas and Easter tree ornaments. 

Fresh off the heels of a Bastille Day do-si-do, the next day was devoted to that even more universally understood, unquestionably patriotic and supremely worthwhile national pastime: waiting 7 to 10 hours queuing up in anxious anticipation of 7 to 10 minutes of spine-tingling, if blurred and/or obstructed, Le Tour de France excitement.

Mildly despondent over my girls' lack of athleticism or even feigned interest in traditional sports, I thought what better way to inspire them than for us to become part of the esprit de corps celebrating the quintessential triumph in the Wide World of Sports - man's conquering of mountains atop a bicyclette. It was disappointing that we wouldn't get to cheer on Lancelot "C'est moi" Armstrong and that the American presence, however loathed (or reluctantly lauded), was absent that year. But, at the same time, I was spared from having to explain those insidious daily headlines accusing LiveStrong of taking illegal supplements and, besides, my travel-size
75' x 125' Texas flag hadn't fit into my carry-on bag anyhow... So, early the next morning, we set off to find our place along the Stage 8 route between Le Grand-Bornand and Tignes.

After several false starts & time trials, we finally ended up at a sweet pâtisserie in the little town of Seez. No one was astir here, there were no signs of impending Le Tour like we'd passed in previous towns - RVs lining the sides of the road, women liberally sunning (all of) themselves in lounge chairs, Smart cars jamming into hardware store parking lots along the route, police cars circling in anticipation of the riots sure to erupt any second - all a vicious (bi)cycle that we were eager to avoid. At the bakery, in exchange for our convivially in treating ourselves to some tarts, the éclair-voyant women assured us that indeed the Tour was supposed to pass down Main Street (which doubled as the highway) and that they wouldn't mind if we parked our van there for the day (we try to avoid tortes - unless they are drizzled with chocolate - whenever possible... mostly, we stick to our just desserts).

Mere minutes later, we emerged to find numerous Tourists staking out spots alongside ours, their hatchbacks popped up, vast smorgasbords being assembled on car hoods. Tout de suite, two different groups offered to let us share their hastily constructed shade tarps and picnic bounty. Vraiment, we had found the festive spirit that had eluded us the day before - Tailgating!

Of course, we did what international protocol demands: We thought it quite odd, politely declined and hurried away. (Mais oui, it seems rude, but not only are we Texans, we're also vegetarians and we don't drink - Mon Dieu, we are a Frenchman's worst nightmare. In our experience, this is truly the least offensive way to proceed, lest one takes pleasure in being pummeled with a baguette. Ok, it's not fair to generalize - in Bavaria or Austria, make that a hearty German sausage instead.)

We spent the afternoon lingering - very uncharacteristically for us, common Americans who unabashedly eat & run - over a leisurely lunch in order to secure a table &, with it, a spot alongside the route. As expected, the meal served its purpose, keeping the girls occupied for quite some time as they debated the intricacies of how to fairly divvy up three forlorn whole olives wallowing in a scant amount of fromage on our "sans viande, s'il vous plaît" pizza. That fractious repast over, our attention turned to ordering another round of drinks and predicting just how long each beverage's single ice cube could valiantly resist melting. Would the sparkling Perrier's bubbly action increase or decrease the rate of dissolution in comparison to the Coca-Cola, which flatly refused its reputed effervescence?
 

Though these math & science lessons already exceeded what we normally consider a week's worth of homeschooling, we were in luck. Out of thin air, the Alpine sky opened up (actually, a random pre-peloton truck rumbled by) and tossed a newspaper for our complimentary perusal. So, we discussed European politics, scrutinized the latest in Parisian haute couture and practiced our flawless French (by translating the comics). Tireless (yep, still no sign of the bikes) overachievers, M&K then calculated the riders' cumulative elevation gains (pneu math) and began making up those time-honored word problems, such as "If Pepé Le Pew pedals east from Paris at 30 km per hour and Mickey Mouse comes cycling 'round the Space Mountain from the wild West (EuroDisney) at 70 km per hour, how long will it take..."

... Too easy, 0 seconds! For there he was, the leader of the Tour! Wait, it was hard to tell - was he a man or a mouse? But then, it was clear - to the Mickster go the spoils! Mickey was floating our way & tossing out coloring books. "Me! Me! Throw it to me, Mickey!" He whisk(er)ed right by us with nary a glance. Color me blue, what kind of Mickey Mouse outfit was this? M&K consoled themselves with the fact that, on principle, they never would have wanted a Mickey anything in the States and did their best to ignore the adults high-fiving across the street.


Although we knew about the peloton - the main group of riders, plus their entourage of cars loaded with extra bikes, news vans full of perilously clinging photographers & satellite vehicles transmitting intermittent tv signals - the caravan was a surprise. Long after the road was blocked off so team buses & logistical equipment could pass and the t-shirt vendors had come and gone, a grand procession of sponsors came parading through strewing free merchandise. Immediately, things took on a festive spirit, with folks vying to attract attention and catch prized items. Très gauche, but who wouldn't succumb to temptation with rewards so dear: sample size packages of laundry detergent, mini beer bottle key chains, sacks of pretzels, paper pizza fans, single-serving tea bags & Aquarel bottles thrown to replicate air-to-ground heat-seeking missiles. Granted, it's not as though they were as valuable as colored plastic beads... No, sorry, that's Mardi Gras - but it was much the same thing. Once, long ago in New Orleans, I found myself among the throngs jostling for those precious purple (or green or gold) pearls when, all of a sudden, I was grounded. I looked down to find a little boy with a pocketknife sawing at my shoelaces (intertwined with strings of beads) -- apparently, this was a much more lucrative approach for the under 4 feet tall set. Similarly, the Tour worked its magic - people jumping up & down, madly waving their arms about, generally behaving in ways for which they would necessarily need to repent. Oh là là, to live in the fast lane today, who would not willingly fast tomorrow?

With the capture of their first trinket, M&K were also hooked. Not long into their bountiful hunting, a driving Hotel Etap receptionist caught Katrianna's eye & a gentle, underhanded throw, along with an errant gust of wind, sent the gift skidding to her feet. Juggling other treasures, Katrianna failed to retrieve it immediately. Quel dommage, she who hesitates... With remarkable speed, a white-haired old man teetered over, deftly reached around her and grabbed the tantalizing gem! He quickly shuffled off to regain his original derrière position several yards away & carefully examined the hotel chain's logo emblazoned on its discounted key chain. Like taking Haribo bonbons from a baby, he slipped it into his pocket and then seemed content to let his wife collect the remaining loot. A difficult blow, Katrianna regained her composure after recognizing the bitter truth - this ain't no church-sponsored Easter egg hunt, this was the Big Leagues! Time to put away childish things & up her game. Had we not realized it before, we now fooly understood -- this was a world-class event.
 
Finally, the motorized recycling dumpster signaled the fin du fin de carnival. M&K happily bent over to admire their amassed good fortune when, to cap it off, the key chain culprit abruptly etapped Katrianna on the shoulder with the day's most esteemed giveaway - a polka-dotted cycling hat, the crème de la crème of Champion's (a grocery store chain)! Despite Katrianna's attempts at refusal, he insisted she accept his hat trick and left only after she'd finally granted him "Merci." Our hats off to him, he was rather a good chap-eau, after all.

And then, without further adieu, the real, live Tour de France raced by! In front of the first set of riders, we saw Michael Rasmussen, the man who would win the day's stage and, with that, don the yellow jersey for the remainder of the Tour. Amazingly, in this 15 minutes (make that seconds) of fame, we'd witnessed the most critical moment in the 2007 Tour de France! Le directeur sportif beaucoup modeste de Team Sarkar, I took a victory lap.

For the next 10 days, Rasmussen retained his lead & we reveled in the glory of being part of history every time updates came on the news. There was none of the chauvinistic divisiveness like when Lance was winning - in one afternoon, all nations had united in global camaraderie. Sports really were rewarding, the girls had to admit, as they played Crazy Eights with their Télé 7 card deck or passed many a pleasant hour deliberating the true identity of a bank's stuffed animal mascot dangling from yet another key chain: marmot, squirrel or chipmunk? The virtue of athletics was redeemed, though some of the lustre diminished slightly when the wheels literally fell off the little plastic axles on their little plastic Kleber car... (How deflating is that?)

We were even inspired to explore more destinations along Le Tour's hallowed ground, following in the bikers' stirrups. We visited the cycling-friendly towns of Le Bourg d'Oisans and Briançon. So encouraged were we by the red & white ALLEZ! messages spray painted on the roads, that it was almost possible to pretend we didn't see the cycling purists' cigarette butts or the many fans' scattered trash littering the Alps at every hairpin turn on the scenic Col de Galibier. Forevermore, we'd be able to watch future Tour coverage and fondly think back to these affirming experiences...

Then, four days from the favorite's ensured victory on the Champs-Élysées, we got one last French translation lesson. On its front page, the newspaper ran an unexpected obituary - the passing of Le Tourch -












Leaving behind grieving past winners (relatively speaking), the Tour de France died on Thursday, July 25, 2007,  'at the age of 104, after a long illness.' 













Rasmussen was kicked off his team and removed from the Tour due to drug allegations.
[Alberto Contador, now Lance's 2009 nemesis - and teammate - would go on to win.]

Duped again, we sure felt like dopes.

On July 4, 2007, we were in transit. Much to M&K's disappointment, we had to skip going on our annual patriotic picnic hike, listening to the symphony play John Philip Sousa tunes & watching fireworks from our usual, strategically-placed-blanket spot.
 
Not to worry. I assured the kids that missing the Fourth would soon seem less pitiable on July 14 when we would get to participate in France's Bastille Day activities and merriment. Every French teacher I'd ever had drilled it into our heads (it was perfectly tense) how superior and spectacular Bastille Day was in comparison to America's festivities. So, I suggested we rest up and Basteel ourselves for a rousing celebration de la Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité! (ou la Mort?)

It started off well enough with a hike through the mountains to the gnomadic alpine village of Valmorel for Corte D'Or ice creams. Its single strolling lane was lined with plenty of shops selling mementos decorated with Mickey Mouse or Hello Kitty, which was okay - we immediately understood that all trinkets are suitably French because, after all, they are called "souvenirs." Plus, the town square's morning program was full of endemic celebrations that likely could not be replicated anywhere else, such as displays of Balkan folk dancing against the idyllic backdrop of the French Alps.

But that's not all. There was also the nearby, larger town of Moûtiers which drew us with a promised "fête formidable with dancing in the streets, bien sûr." Turned out that its bustling avenues reminded us most of those found in Western ghost towns, as we aimlessly wandered across eerily quaint but abandoned bridges (bedecked with cascading flower baskets on the outside, and graffiti & litter - and, ever so momentarily, us - on the inside).

Eventually, we did find some townsfolk when we wandered into the seemingly empty Cathédrale Saint-Pierre of the Archdiocese of Chambéry. Yet, to our dismay, the devoutly dapper were not seated in attendance on the beautiful, heavy wooden pews fronting the gilded main altar or absorbing the delicate, multi-colored light filtering in through the church's windows. No, they were not in the side chapel either. Instead, Mass was taking place in what appeared to be a lean-to church annex - a low ceiling, windowless, wholly unadorned small room with folding chairs (similar to the set up in some start-up, strip center American churches). It was not due to heating or air conditioning concerns or for any other reason apparent to us, who sat in the airy main chapel in our blue jeans contentedly contemplating our faith... as well as the big, meaning-of-life questions that can only occur in the midst of centuries of organized religion's showy splendor, to which we concluded: 
Hey, if you're going to go to all the trouble of exacting tithes and exploiting medieval serf labor, you might as well get your money's worth - go ahead & live it up, take the plastic off the cathedral seat cushions & enjoy going gothic in the main chapel! Really, even many villages' "small" cathedrals are often awesome in the true (meaning, not George W's) sense of that word: the interior columns and arches are designed to make one automatically turn eyes upward to God, to put one's puniness in proper perspective & thereby inspire Heavenly thoughts, and, perhaps most importantly upon stained glass-reflection, to cause the humbled pilgrim to lay back in wonder just far enough so all the loose change spills from his pockets onto the floor (cha-ching! gotta fill those coffers somehow).
 
Undeterred, we set our sights on a night of feu d'artifice back at Valmorel's ski resort, its influx of party-seekers seeming to confirm it was "the spot" for a national bang-up gala. In reality, theirs was a modest fireworks display (some might term it a blasted bomb, pyrotechnically speaking). But Mikaela caught the spirit of the evening anyway & lit it up all the more by accompanying each explosion with graphic historical accounts of how the bourgeois' good intentions went somewhat astray. (Now isn't that just like homeschoolers? They really know how to completely ruin all the fun in a good, old-fashioned revolution!) 

Our revelry continued well into the enwee hours. In front of the fountain, a rock band played American covers and Katrianna verified its Americana authenticity by clapping her hands (over her ears & adamantly refusing to remove them - something she automatically does for similar music in the States). Finally, just as we were about to declare our Independence and go home, the dancing in the streets indeed began (actually, to be honest, it was square dancing) - of course, we joined in, all the while telling ourselves we think we can-can.

Overall, Bastille Day was an enlightening change of pace from our typical July 4ths in the U.S. We were happy to partake in all of the new cultural experiences France had to offer on this special occasion, despite the fact that there were none of the traditional amusements we'd originally expected - like frolicking games of Pin the Head on the Aristocrat (much anticipated by Mikaela), Storm the Prison & Free our Comrades sack races, or the undeniably thrilling, though life-threatening, Running of the Boules (probably for the best, as everyone knows boules fighting is justifiably frowned upon by PETA). Well, we globeschoolers continue to live & learn. Anyhow, as I recall (with a knitted brow, Madame?),
it was the best of times.

"Ummm... excuse me, but could you tell me where Isaac Newton's clapping hallway is?"

Katrianna stood on tiptoe to peer into the ticket booth at Trinity College's Great Gate.

"His what?"

Katrianna tried again. More than anything else at Cambridge, she wanted to see the hall where Newton tested his speed of sound hypothesis by clapping his hands and listening for the echo. Earlier that day, when driving to the university, our family voted on which college to visit based on limited time & expense. Katrianna convinced the rest of us that Trinity's Isaac Newton trumped all other notorious cards who'd attended our second choice, nearby King's College (we could save face(s) for another trip).   

She dejectedly walked back through the heavy wooden doors to report, "He said Newton didn't do the clapping experiment. It's just another tourist trap!"



Impossible! Could Rick Steves be wrong? All four of us simultaneously looked up to check the sky - nope, still intact. Katrianna pulled out her well-worn pocket travel log and made a tally mark - "That's #42, Mom."

Alas, once again, we would have to hold our applause. We consoled ourselves on the outside of Trinity's ivory towers (which looked a lot like exterior brick walls) by taking a photo of Newton's dorm window which faced the street and looked down upon a small apple tree.
 
"If I may, do you know who is up there above the gate?" asked a man who suddenly stood beside us, apparently taking it upon himself to point us in the right direction. (Verily, it was the same gentleman whose truth telling had taken its toll on Katrianna minutes before.)

Mikaela giggled self-consciously and Katrianna held her breath. "Ah ha," he thought, "I've got them!" But just as he was about to explain, Mikaela realized that his was not a rhetorical question and exclaimed, "Sure, doesn't everybody? That's Henry the Eighth!"

"And he had six wives!" jumped in Katrianna, who was busily leaping from cobblestone to cobblestone in a game of imaginary hopscotch.

The gatekeeper looked up to Henry and then back down at the girls with a quizzical expression. 

"Your turn?" Katrianna asked. Mikaela gave the nod. They took their positions - face to face, two feet apart. Mikaela cleared her throat. Katrianna attentively bounced in place. Their Henry VIII call and response commenced:

"Catherine of Aragon --"           "Divorced!"
"Anne Boleyn --"                       "Beheaded!"
"Jane Seymour -- "                   "Died of her own accord!"
"Anne of Cleves -- "                  "Divorced!"
"Catherine Howard -- "             "Beheaded!"
"Catherine Parr -- "                  "Survived!"

"Crikey, that's more than most English schoolchildren know!" He scratched his thinning silver crown and reconsidered, "I've been working here for over 30 years - that's more than most people at Cambridge know!"

He told us about the students' annual prank of stealing Henry's scepter and replacing it with either a chair leg or a broom handle. Indicating the globe held in the king's left hand, he next queried, "Do you know what an orb is?"

Evidently, unbeknownst to him, this was a multiple choice question, for Katrianna started, "O swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb..." And Mikaela finished, "Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere."

The poor fellow hadn't realized his miss fortune. M&K had spent months reciting that "orb" line from Romeo and Juliet's balcony scene and Mikaela had grown especially fond of the Twelfth Night quote after seeing it engraved on a statue of Shakespeare's jester in Stratford-upon-Avon. From then on, she seemed to find it applicable to any and all situations in Europe, even without such fortuitous prompting.

Additionally, M&K ran through their sing song rendition of Henry's greatest hits (on his wives) on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis  - it was part of their top 40 repertoire at the time. Besides DK or Michelin travel guides, we'd brought along only 4 books for this entire European trip (we'd agreed to "go light" & the limit was one book per carry on bag). The kids had never experienced such a dearth of literature and so had devoted themselves to memorizing the minutiae of The Complete Illustrated Guide to the Kings & Queens of Britain. (By chance, we'd found it on Border's 60% off clearance shelf just before our trip and, unlike the Don't Know Much about the Kings and Queens of England series or similar children's books that were considered "age appropriate," M&K were fascinated by its 250+ pages of stories and argued over whose turn it was to reread the best parts aloud as we drove around Great Britain.)    

[As far as learning English history for the even younger set, we liked an 1897 edition of Short Stories from English History by Albert F Blaisdell, a book passed down to us from Grandma's collection.]

Luckily, our self-appointed phantom of the tollbooth discerned (or forgave?) the jovial spirit of the girls' copious (or would that be quote-idian?) exuberance and graciously suggested, "Jolly good, now why don't you take a tour? You do have time to look around?"
 
It was getting late and most of the colleges were closing to visitors soon. "Well," I answered, "we just have this afternoon... And we'd hoped to see Newton's hall, but now that we learned the truth about that - thank you, by the way - we're pretty happy to see his tree here..."

His eyebrows went up (proof he adhered to a naturally principled philosophiæ). I calculated (though it seemed an infinitesimal differential), "Or a descendant of his tree?" He nodded, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

"We're thinking we'll go ahead to King's College." I'd unwittingly touched a nerve.

"King's College? Why there's so much to see right here! Come with me!" Immediately, he waved his arm and the gates to higher learning open sesamed.

We entered Trinity's vast courtyard together, but soon after our spontaneous guide noticed a bevy of VIPs congregating at the entrance. He quickly imparted instructions for us to stand in a very particular spot and he'd return for our answer to "What is significant here?" No doubt pleased by our puzzlement, he cried as he sped away (in much the same fashion as Alice's rabbit hurrying off for his very important date), "It's to do with the clock! Go, watch the clock!"

So, we compliantly bided our time in front of King Edward's Tower, taking care to steal only furtive glances at this side of Newton's paradise, aka an inside job view of Sir Isaac's dorm room. But our satisfaction was short-lived as we realized, in watchful ignorance, that we had no idea what he was talking about.


Was there a ghost of a chance that Hamlet's father was still lurking about up there? No, that was not to be, I was quite off the Den mark - he'd be over at King's College. Ah ha, the clock struck the hour! Surely now we'd learn for whom the bell tolls. From their tower roosts, disturbed doves fluttered about cooing secret messages to us, but regrettably their pidgin English was merely indecipherable squab(ble)s... Then, from the adjacent college, another tower's clock chimed out of sync - was that it, were we caught up in the chronic[ker] showmanship of rival superiority? Or, a once-in-a-sentry breach in the time peace? Whatever was the Greenwich meaning of this? I admit, I was getting ticked.

"Having a good time, all tickety-boo?" Our seer, mortarly bored of regents perhaps, had enthusiastically returned to us at last! However, his new hints were to no avail and finally he just told us that this was the clock featured in Chariots of Fire - the "stopwatch" timing Lord Burghley's famous run about the perimeter of the Great Court during its 12 noontime strikes. We never would have recalled that detail on our own, mostly due to the fact that the girls had not seen the movie and their parents had watched it in 1981. He'd done it! We were speechless. He then took pity on us and revealed that the scene's filming had actually taken place at Eaton College, not Cambridge, and that the Harold Abrahams character is erroneously portrayed as fleet footing it when historically Lord Burghley was the only runner to successfully beat the clock (yet not in 1919, preceding the '24 Olympics, but in 1927).

He escorted us to the chapel, lingered over a few more questions and then allowed us to tour the rest of the grounds on our own. It felt as though we had the place all to ourselves (well, with the exception of the omnipresence of our ol' pal, Newt, Sir Francis Bacon, Ernest Rutherford, Charles Babbage, Niels Bohr, John Dryden, Lord Byron, Alfred Lord Tennyson, A.A. "Pooh" Milne & William Makepeace Thackeray) and we were suitably charmed by its vanity fair. When we met up again with our host, he had one final question for Mikaela: "So, do you think you'd like to study here at Cambridge?"

Wishing not to offend him, a wise Mikaela summoned all of her tact, saw fit to spare him of her "homecolleging" plans and simply reverted to a schoolgirl giggle by way of response. "Indeed," he proffered, "we should have given you a degree already!"

The rest of our gloaming Cambridge evening was filled strolling along the River Cam like typical tourists and unintentionally finding ourselves trespassing through college yards and campus grounds (to which we were politely told by the guards to go back the way we came, essentially permitting us to freely explore many of the colleges' "backyards" and hangout spots at our leisure). There were more repeatedly surprising and remarkable conversations, as well: the first was struck up by a friendly biology professor & her teaching assistant; later, graduate exchange students wanted to compare impressions of England's attractions (and dwell on the weather's detractions); and finally, the local grocery store's chatty & inquisitive checkers were keen to hear all about our "brilliant" adventures throughout Britain, although they were incredulous that "there was anything interesting to do here in Cambridge?"



At the end of the day, it was clear to us that America's Southern hospitality and manners have some serious competition from the Brits' warmth and easygoing gentility. Not only that, but despite Mikaela's uni-lateral acceptance deferral, I readily consider this the kids' first college scholarship offer (at least in terms of its third degree potential?). Of course, it seems a mite presumptuous, but after all we obviously have very powerful connections with those in charge of Cambridge U's highly selective admissions process.

[Editorial note: We know, it's Oxford with the Rhodes Scholars program, but Cambridge has the Golden (Bill) Gates.]