I had to check my couch ticket to make sure. Somewhere along the way I misplaced the 16th and ended up a day ahead of myself. I was a bad girl yesterday and watched TV instead of journaling, but BBC2 was having a special night dedicated to Spike Milligan. I kept wondering who this fellow was until I realized why the name was so familiar when they showed clips of him on the Goon Show. A couple of times I wanted to shout, “I’ve head that episode!” but I don’t think much of anyone else in the youth hostel lounge would have appreciated it. It was cool to see people like John Cleese and Michael Palin doing impersonations of “Eckles.”

I woke up yesterday hungry but determined jot pay the 2 pounds something for breakfast at the hostel. This was just as well since by the time I got down stairs they were cleaning up. This was in spike of every watch in my full room going off at some point, only to have its slumbering wearer hit the snooze button on it so its alarm could reawake me in ten minutes. Ah, the curse of being a light sleeper. Ah, the blessing of drifting right off again. Finally, my alarm went off within the pocket of my day pack, and by the time I got to it, the alarm ended. By then there was only one other occupant in the room anyway, still struggling with her own battles of consciousness at ten minute intervals.

Leaving my pack in the room, I started out on the twenty minute hike to the town centre, found the tourist information office, and inquired about a travel agent. The directions led me to the Saturday market. It was just like the flea market, with stands selling CD’s to used paperbacks to T-shirts to, just what I was looking for, fruit. I bought some bananas and oranges and a small baguette, congratulating myself on only spending 1.20 Pounds. Then I wandered around the mall next door, trying to find a travel agency and happily munching the loaf of bread. Eventually, I gave up and asked one of the Quakers vigiling for peace. He handed me a flyer explaining their silent vigil and pointed to an agency on the other side of the square. The people in that office told me to go to the agency around the corner, who told me to go downstairs, who told me to go to the bus station. Fortunately, Cambridge has YOU ARE HERE maps all over the place for disoriented tourists like me, so I didn’t have to rely on my typical tactic of setting off resolutely in what seems like a good direction ad walking until I realize it’s not. At last i got it all settled, arranging to spend the night with James and Mary Alice, discovering when Christ would be back, and booking a seat for London the next day. That taken care of, I headed back toward the Fitzwilliam Museum, purchasing a box of tea bags along the way. Funny how you can get 40 bags of the stuff for the price of a cup of it hot in some places.

The museum was magnificent, displaying a brunch of red and black Grecian urns, whole suits of armour, works of Old Masters, Titians, Rubens, and Rafaels. Tired, I found a bench in the small modern art gallery, staring at Dadaism and resting my feet. A woman entered with two young boys. “Wow!” exclaimed the younger, who couldn’t have been any older than 2 or 3. “What is that?” he inquired, approaching a stack of varying shapes of metal welded together. What is that? I echoed his question in my mind. I had no idea.

“It’s a sculpture,” the woman wisely replied.

Having exhausted the exhibits and my mind, I bought some post cards and stamps before the shop closed. Then I wandered about town a bit more, taking a photo in the rain to justify carrying my camera around with me. The market was shutting down, so I stopped at a grocer/newsagent and bought a p[otato. Then I ducked into another store that appeared to be closing and purchased a single packet of butter for 6p. I think the girl at the register was disgusted.

A Saturday evening, and I was back at the hostel by 6. Ah, well. I was hungry and tired. The potato was delicious after I stuck it into the microwave for 10 minutes and then stuck the butter inside. I drank a cup of water and then made myself a couple cups of tea. A guy from Australia tried to strike up conversation, but I’m afraid I wasn’t concentrating on tossing balls back. “Alabama? Isn’t that where Forrest Gump lives?” Good ol’ Winston Groom–he’s gone and put my state on the map of the world. Now instead of being known as a bunch of racists, we can be known for imbeciles. That and Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Paul came into the kitchen this morning as I was drinking my tea. I bade him a good rest of the journey before I left.