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© 2017 The Bristol Suspensions

Bad art, good bants

Thursday, September 7, 2017

[Today's blog post is written by Charlie and Raf! Charlie's commentary is in regular font and Raf's is in italics.]

 

Charlie:
6:35 I wake up abruptly to find myself glued to a bare airbed. I daintily peel my buttocks off its sticky surface, curse the Gods of Jetlag, and stagger into the lounge to find a graveyard of unconscious Suspensions strewn around the room. It takes a full two hours for my aca-comrades to rouse themselves from their broken, uncomfortable slumbers, but we eventually muster the energy to hurl a handful of Captain Crunch into our mouths and head out to enjoy the sunshine.

 

Raf: I woke from my suboptimal sleep as the middle person of three of us squeezed onto a double bed. Having realised that there were thunderstorms forecast for the day, Rach and I proceeded to look up free, indoor activities in Boston- these included obscurities such as rock climbing, glass craft classes, the museum of bad art (watch this space on that one) and more. Unfortunately there was no free yoga in the park as I had been hoping.


11.02 There is no sunshine to be found, but instead we are greeted with the familiar forecast of rain. We drift through the Harvard campus as our aca-heroes and heroines rejoice over the college's rich history. I feign interest in the JFK memorial library and wonder what the fuss of Harvard is all about, and then it hits me: THIS IS WHERE 'LEGALLY BLONDE: THE MUSICAL' IS SET. This is my destiny. This is it. I have unknowingly made a life-changing pilgrimage to the setting of my religion; tacky pseudo-feminist musical theatre. I feel the spirit of Elle Woods enter my soul, and I am once again content.

 

 

12.14 If the last supper had taken place in America, I swear Jesus's body would not have been made of bread but instead burritos. There is mexican food everywhere, and as a wide-eyed naive vegan in a meat-centric country, I am delighted. My spirits are high, and as chilli coarses through my veins, I feel invincible against any touristy venture that a member of the group suggests. 'Hey guys, there's a place called The Museum of Bad Art only a 25-minute walk away!' Raf exclaims. Readers, do not be fooled by my farcical surname; I am not a walker. I detest walking. However, a 25-minute walk is worth a cool museum visit, right?

 

13.42 25 minutes of walking have passed, and the museum is nowhere to be seen. A sweat breaks out over Raf's brow as she realises that she has severely underestimated the walk, but we keep morale high by stopping off at an American super market. Like a battalion of ants swarming a carcus, we migrate to the candy section and feast on our Type 2 diabetes-inducing prey.

 

14.43 A further 35 minutes of walking later, and we have finally reached our destination. We drop to our knees and weep with joy; in spite of the trek being twice as long as anticipated, we have finally made it. 

 

14.44 We spot a sign on the museum door: CLOSED.

 

14.45 Yep. It's actually closed. The museum is closed. Raf shrinks into her shell like a naughty tortoise as she realises that she has led a herd of impatient Suspensions on a 1 hour walk to a dead end, in spite of the fact we spent $12 each on a train pass for the day.

 

 

 

15.20 We have retreated back home to find about 10 Suspensions crammed onto the sofa, screaming at what has now become the new Suspensions obsession: MTV's 'Catfish'. We crack open a few cold ones in order to quench the nerves of meeting a new a cappella group, Distilled Harmony, as a group that good must be intimidating and mean.

 

Raf: After a cheap Mexican for lunch, I convinced some people to come with me to the museum of bad art (MOBA), which sounded like a laugh and was free. Google had told me in the morning that it was only 27mins walk from Harvard, so I thought we might as well have a wholesome walk and take in the area rather than going on the metro. We set off walking and passed a couple of attractions, including Harvard Law School, Cambridge Common and some nice looking traditional houses. A personal highlight was finding a supermarket where real food was not extortionately priced, so I indulged in all the fresh fruit, hummus and nice bagels. It’s frankly homicide that a single banana costs $1 at the corner stores in town, while a fast food meal is like $3. The downside was that this walk was turning out to take a little longer than promised and I started to feel the pressure as the leader of this venture. We arrived, after 50mins of walking, to find that the museum was shut. It’s in the basement of a theatre and only actually open when films were showing, which was not a thing on a Wednesday afternoon. In conclusion, I’d basically made a load of people walk unnecessarily for absolutely nothing. Things were worsened when they realised that we could have used our travelcards to get there in 10mins. I personally thought that it was a nice walk around an interesting area, but others perhaps did not agree. A couple of us went for a bit of a wander to see the Museum of Fine Art (not the Museum of Bad Art thank god), Northeastern uni, Fenway Park stadium and Berklee college of music.

 

[Note from Dan: Meanwhile, me, El, Rach and Yassie had left the rest of the group before the whole Museum-of-Bad-Art-gate because we really wanted to go to McDonald's. When in America, right?

After a McDonald's that was like three times cheaper than any other meal that I've ever had ever, we went on a trip to a vegan pizza place, Dunkin' Donuts and then Sephora, before heading home.

Much enjoyment and many feelings of schadenfreude were had upon hearing the story of Museum-of-Bad-Art-gate.]

 

 

20.05 IT BECOMES APPARENT THAT DISTILLED HARMONY ARE THE NICEST PEOPLE EVER AND THAT WE MUST MARRY THEM ALL. We squeeze into their apartment and after a bit of Dutch courage, decide to sing to each other. I was not prepared for how ridiculously good this group would be, and I look around the room to see a dentist's dream: a room full of Suspensions with their mouths wide open in shock. We pick our jaws up off the floor and sing back to them, and the night spirals into a tennis match in which the ball has been replaced by the phrase 'OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU GUYS YOU'RE DO GOOD AAHSMbfhgDD:''&', and I am Roger frickin Federer. I declare my love to each and every member, and we part ways to catch the last train home.

 

The Benedict Piers Rowan Harwood Flag Count: 253

 

 

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