Given a Choice Between Buses and Magic Carpets, I'd Choose the Bus

I've been meaning to write for a long time about my trip to England. I'm not sure exactly what sparked the inspiration, but here is part 1 of what I assume will be at least 3 on my adventures in Cambridge. I went there with small group (11 women, 1 man, and our teacher) for 4 weeks for a study abroad program in August 2010. We lived in the Homerton dorm, about two miles from downtown Cambridge. This is what I remember:

Classes started at 9 or 10 in the morning, depending on whether or not we went sightseeing the night before. If I didn't wake up in enough time to grab free breakfast in the commons, I would take the bus to the Pitt building (where we conducted our studies), and before going to class I'd wait for the bakery across the street to open so I could grab an apple turnover. When class was over (at noon or 3pm, depending on whether we were watching a movie that afternoon), I’d ride the city bus the two miles back to my dorm in order to drop off my books and grab my purse. From there, I'd take the bus back into downtown and spend the afternoon in the marketplace.

I didn't mind backtracking to the dorm just to drop off my books; I was a big fan of riding the bus for a number of reasons: it made a bunch of fun clicking noises, it was always transporting interesting characters (which I will expand upon), and it was a marvel to watch the driver navigate the narrow, crowded streets. But mostly it was because it was a double-decker, and if you sat on the second floor in the very front, you could watch the bus "eat" and then "throw up" the car immediately in front of the bus as it went in and out of the view of the front windshield. Some of my best memories from England are on the second floor of those buses, sitting up at the front, joking and laughing about the events of the day, pausing momentarily to make puking noises when the car in front of us would drive away.

The most unforgettable memory I have of those buses took place on an afternoon in early August. We were off to Grantchester to enjoy tea in the Orchard, and most of the girls in our group decided to sit on the second level. In the back of the bus sat an unfortunate duo of white gangsters who were quiet at first, but only because they were searching for the next horrible song they wanted to blast from their MP3 player.

Their music was very hardcore, and it that made us tsk in protest. Just as we were about to pass the point of politely asking them to "turn that shit off or we will throw you off this bus," the mood changed very drastically. The girls and I found ourselves looking at each other, completely perplexed. And then we started giggling. The boys were not only listening, but singing along to "Beautiful Soul" by Jesse McCartney.


For their backwards hats, "wifebeater" tanktops, dolla bill bling, and pants near to their knees, it just didn't seem quite the right fit for them. But that didn't stop us all from having a singalong. The boys serenaded us, and we pretended to swoon. When we got off the bus, they blew us kisses. We blew them back.