II. Rituals of the Institute 16 October 1992 Both morning coffee (10.30) and afternoon tea (at 16.30) are regular rituals at the Scott Polar Research Institute. The ship's bell from Scott's "Terra Nova" is rung vigorously to announce each, and almost everybody in the building comes down to the big room in the ground-floor museum to join in. It's not a big crowd; there are probably only about 25 or 30 staffers at SPRI, and on any given day perhaps half that many others (students, visiting scholars and other "polar personalities") passing through. The gatherings serve many purposes. Those of us with work space in the archives or the library itself -- almost half the people there, I'd estimate-are forbidden to have coffee or anything else at our desks, so the gatherings are a useful pause. In addition, the sessions provide the only chance of the day for people from various sections to mingle. Sea ice experts from the second floor get to chat with the cartography staff from upstairs. The professor from Nova Scotia who has stopped by for five days to do research on his study of NWT fur trappers gets a chance to speak with the Antarctic climatologist. In addition, people use these gatherings as an opportunity to celebrate birthdays or the publication of a thesis (the tradition here is that the celebrant brings the goodies) or just to make announcements. Yesterday one of the guys asked for the floor "to share some news of a family nature." The news was that his dad had just been awarded the Nobel Prize for chemistry. At lunch time the head librarian, the Russian language bibliographer and the head our master's program often take their instruments into the museum to practice playing Renaissance music. It's that kind of place. The library is steadily busy. There are probably eight or 10 Ph.D. scientists on staff and about that many doctoral candidates who are constantly engaged in research. There are eight in my program; we are known as "M-Phils," after the degree (Master of Philosophy) that we seek. We include a Canadian park ranger from Ellesmere Island, an English woman glaciologist, an Australian Antarctic scholar, an arctic botanist from Boston and four Alaskans. You know John Tichotsky, who taught us Russian. There are also two brothers from Ruby (one by way of Yale, the other a bush pilot with no BA degree) and me. So far we have been engaged only in seminars. These start on hard science and get softer -- that is, beginning with lectures and discussions of glacier physics, oceanography of polar seas, plate tectonics and the like and moving, by the end of the second term, to Native spirituality and art. It will be a useful grounding for a northern newspaper editor, I think. Starting next week, we'll also get assignments for research papers, six in all, of 2,000 words each not counting notes, references and bibliography. Peter Speak (the course director) has endeavored to build these up into very challenging assignments requiring a high level of research and writing; most of the people who have commented unofficially suggest it ain't that tough. They are graded by three "readers," two of whom are experts from outside our institute chosen for their expertise on the subject of each particular essay. We get a numerical, averaged score but are told only if we passed or failed. These essays combined count for 50 percent of our overall score toward the degree. Meanwhile, we also are working on (or at least toward) a thesis, which will be the exclusive focus of our effort in the final semester next spring. The idea is to select and then refine the idea this term, which culminates in a final seminar called "thesis forum" where the staff of the institute listen to our ideas and comment on and criticize them, both in terms of scholarship and practicality. Then in the second term we work on the thesis concurrently with another series of essays and lectures. The final semester is all thesis, culminating in a three-reader grade and then an oral defense, as well. The thesis is the other 50 percent of the degree requirement. You can't ace one and flunk the other; both essays and thesis must reflect passing marks. I think I'll be reasonably busy keeping up with all of that, but don't feel intimidated. So far my idea about doing a thesis focused on new communications technology in the north doesn't seem to excite my supervisor (Dr. Piers Vitebsky, a social anthropologist who specializes in Siberia) but we'll see. In the end, I'll find a topic they like, I imagine. Cambridge continues to fascinate. Some of the architecture and furnishings of the old colleges are simply splendid. One strip of downtown street known as "King's Parade" is said by many to be the finest street in England. I ride my bike down it every morning on the way to the institute. Our college, Churchill, is known (among other things) as the computer nerd school; I swear I didn't know that when I picked it. I find the undergraduates insufferably self-absorbed and boorish but I don't have enough contact with them for it to matter much. I did go to a practice rugby game, and had a hard time keeping a straight face when someone in the crowd would yell "Carry on, lads!" Our "old school colors" are a kind of peach and tan-the color of the silks worn by Winston Churchill's jockey. The name of the informal grad student newsletter is "Leonard Spencer"-those being the two middle names of you-know-who. There is an amusing exhibition of letters on display in the Churchill archives with Winnie writing home from college asking mum for more money; "even £10 would be a great assistance..."