My Ideal Writing Self

Fiona Sampson asked a small group of us yesterday to write about our ideal writing selves, whatever that may mean to us. I guess many writers have this fantasy where we live in the mountains, away from responsibilities and distractions and write for hours on end until our manuscript emerges, perfect. The writer also emerges, probably smelling gross. I've often thought about this idea, and decided to post my thoughts on it.

The thing is, I already am my true writing self. That person--she is me. I work when I can because life requires a lot of attention. I'm a linguist, a barbershop quartet singer, a best friend, a sister and a daughter. I don't have time to write for eight hours a day, and I wouldn't even if I had it. I love writing, though. Rae Taylor, Diesel Soaring, Carolina Marlborough, Gideon Strong, Satoru--these characters have secrets worth uncovering. But even at the most writerly, the most focused on my pen, I remain a linguist, a singer, a daughter, friend and sister. These do not change. How could they?

So I'll make myself some tea, bring my laptop to the group table in the dorm (or window ledge at the cafe or my lap on a train) and write. Because I love it. Because Diesel needs to get over the addiction, because Gideon has to fall in love, Rae must become and overcome her secret past, and Satoru--like all villains--must meet his end.

The ideal persona is the one you put on everyday and make.

Let Me In!

Over the past four weeks, I've studied linguistics of all kinds at the University of Michigan for the Linguistic Society of America's Summer Institute. I think perhaps most people would be bored by my discoveries, but they amount to an exciting conclusion. In graduate school, I want to pursue one of two paths in linguistics:

The first is ASL sociolinguistics. Sociolinguistics studies how variation in lexicon, pronunciation, and other linguistic features helps create and constantly renegotiate our personas in different social situations. For example, think of the words you use and how you speak in public at a presentation or with your romantic partner. Why do these different social situations present such different manners of speaking? What are we trying to communicate about ourselves? So I want to do the same thing many linguists do with English or other languages, and apply that to ASL. For example, how do Deaf speakers identify themselves as "Deaf from New York" or "Deaf and gay" in their speech?

Believe it or not, this is Michigan. Not England. 

The second interest I discovered at the Institute is forensic linguistics. I want to specialize in speaker identification and linguistic profiling. I have some ideas about how to conduct research in this field that I don't think anyone else has considered, so I hope to explore that quite a bit more.

In any case, the point is that I had a wonderful time at the Institute. I met some wonderful, intelligent, quirky people who never once asked me how many languages I speak as a linguist. They taught me new ASL signs, gave me insights to the Russian queer community, and taught me about speaker identification in calls of distress. They all deserve to become prominent in their fields.

What talk of Michigan is complete without some graffiti?

Like all good things, however, the Institute ended. I got a ride to the airport, obnoxiously large orange suitcase in hand. I had a layover in Chicago, and then off to London!

Or so I thought.

Once I got to Chicago, I was informed that my next flight was cancelled due to mechanical issues. On the bright side, they paid for my food that evening, a cab, my hotel room that night, the next morning's cab, and food while I waited for the rebooked flight. The down side is that I didn't get to go to London a day early like I'd wanted.

They eventually let me into the country, though. That's gotta count for something.

 

Returning to England felt like coming back to my room after being in college for a few months. Most of the things I remember are in their proper place--King's College, Benet's Ice Cream, my old flat on Thompson's Lane--and others have changed. A woman I used to chat with at the Market wasn't there when I visited, and some other buildings are now under construction. But it's so similar to my memories that I'm shocked. I remember where most of my favorite clubs and restaurants are.

The lovely King's College facade, forever one of my favorite landmarks to photograph in Cambridge.

On the other hand, this program differs from PKP in many other ways. First of all, we only have about 25 people this year. We come from all over: Malaysia, France, Norway, and Australia at least (though of course Americans remain the majority). So far, they seem like talented, thoughtful individuals with great writing potential. We have guest lectures by prominent editors, biographers, and others twice a week. We meet for supervisions to workshop our work biweekly as well. We have key themed lectures as well, from the program coordinators Richard Beard and Fiona Sampson. So far, the lectures have given me valuable insights on my writing.

My lovely room! It's large, just like last year :)

A picture of The Anchor bar on the Cam, taken from La Granta bar. You can't see the mosquitoes, but they were all over.

The Art of Asking

Amanda Palmer came out with a video this week on TedTalks on the art of letting people pay for her music instead of finding ways to make them. Her talk reminds us that throughout history, musicians have mostly been local artists, not celebrities we watch and adore from afar. 'Passing the hat' to make money didn't amount to begging back then, and she argues that it doesn't now. While her music passes as an odd mix between punk and avant-garde, her fans call almost every continent home. She often travels with the band and couch-surfs when touring. She says that it lets her fans have a connection with her she wouldn't otherwise get.

And her fans pay for her music even though they don't have to.

Her Kickstarter project received over $1.2 million in donations. She learned how to pass the hat and make connections with those who love her music. You hardly see her begging for money. More than that, her product didn't lose any value from this venture.

Of course, artists fear loss of value more than death. Palmer asks us to consider what this might mean for our own craft. Chuck Windig spoke about this TedTalk and its ramifications for authors on his (very funny and irreverent) blog. He asked if trust could pay his bills, or feed his family. As artists, we all need to ask the same questions. Does it really matter how much of a connection craft has with people if the creator can't pay rent?

Neil Gaiman also discussed what it means to be an artist in today's world in his commencement speech to the University of the Arts. Just twenty minutes long, this speech inspired thousands of artists, writers, filmmakers, and bloggers to follow their passions. I think back on his words often, especially when I need the reminder to "make good art." I don't know whether Gaiman made any money from this talk (although I hear they're going to make his speech into a book). The impact that he made spans far greater than a paycheck.

Is that point to inspire others, then, or to make money? If we had to choose, which one is more important? And how do we live these decisions?

So what does that mean for me, as a writer? Does it mean I blog for free and post up my novels? I don't know. But making good art and letting people pay for it because it's good sounds like a higher value of exchange than mass-producing something quick-n-dirty and forcing money into my wallet.

  

It Is Never The End

I cannot say that I am overly fond of goodbyes. It is more important, I think, to remember what was good, what made us laugh, what took us by surprise, than to dug ourselves in the realization that those times are gone.

That is not to say I'm not sad. It isn't everyday that you meet people like those who have grown dear to my heart over this short period of time. And it is enough of a burden on me just now that I'd rather not write about all my feelings just yet. I can, however, provide some pictures:

The back gate entrance to Trinity College. It is lovely.

King's College entrance at sunset

There are no words. Just a sigh of contentment.

A library - lovely books and that great musty page smell

My creative writing class! In the middle are Anne Rooney and Brian Keaney, two very lovely and helpful authors. I will not soon forget this class.

Mulberries we found while walking back from Grantchester! That's right - all the ripe ones were picked.

Bidding farewell to Cambridge is like hugging a new friend for the last time. You know you'd like to see it again, but you can't guarantee anything. No matter, though. The memories stay, the connection has been felt. We might be going our separate ways, but it means so little in the grand scheme of things. The world is small, and I will see you again.

Porter's Prophesy: A Poem by a Colleague

This weekend, we had a talent show. There were many fun, entertaining, and frankly surprising performances. I heard some people sing that I didn't expect to; there was harmonica beatboxing, stand-up comedy, and line-dancing. It was an altogether fun night. But one of the performers did a great job of summarizing what this program has been like for us. He's posted his slam poetry on his website, so please go visit it and read more of his stuff.

The background to this poem is that Cameron spoke to a few of the porters during his time here, and they said that they can generally tell within a week who's going to be successful at Cambridge and who isn't, so this is called Porter's Prophesy:

I enter the lodge head down, the porter looks up…frowns.

No need to say, I’m totally nude but for a towel anyway.

I can hear him rant,  ‘Prior, proper, preparation

prevents poor performance,’ but I can’t help but wonder,

beyond this blunder, Can he fortell or spell out my time

here, in Cambridgeshire?

–

‘Porter Prophet, Prophesy

oh please, on one of your rings of keys

you can appease, abate, my curiosity of late

to see what I’ll undertake and what’s at stake

these next eight weeks…

–

You have hundreds of keys, thousands, galore!

Can’t one unlock a crystal ball? That’s all

I ask – from your aged eye, can you spy

what is in store for me?’

–

He leans in close. Was I too verbose?

Look’s like he’ll beat me

with brass knuckles

and chuckle as I buckle. But wait–

He strokes his white whiskers…

‘I see…I see, a crown. Yes. A King.

A Pembroke King you shall be,

from module one to module three.

In college shall feel like royalty.

You have flown from afar.

and some customs you’ll find bazaar

on your cultural radar.

–

Baked beans for breakfast,

punting, here, is done on a punt

not on a football green–

in fact, football is soccer,

and don’t make a scene

getting run over on the wrong side of the road;

or a common mocker-ry

of the great English tradition of afternoon tea:

thou shalt remember: ‘Jab after cream.’

–

I see you spinning fast with a Scottish lass

twirlin’ fast in a keeley dance.

Are you wet from the sweat or the rain?

Unclear… and yet, I see,  I see

you will come to call Cambridge ‘Home.’

Yes, returning from highland heights,  and castle sights,

both fog, and bog, and green feilds with a lonely lamb

back home to the gentle river cam.’

–

He grows silent, my towel’s still wet and damp

Is that it!? A cultural summer camp?!?!

So I implore, ‘But Mister, what more’s in store?’

Again he strokes his white whiskers–’I see…I see–

–

Music will litter the streets with their beggin’ beats

and a home strung songs will carry you along

past Great St. Mary’s and the Market Square’s berries

and fruit stands. Oh how long can you stand

the spinoffs of ‘keep calm and carry on.’

On to your classes; don’t mind the masses

of tourists; every day you will hear a ‘tchau mi amici,’

‘Je t’aime,’ ‘felicitations amigo’  or ‘mutter mit arbieter,’

if not a  Chinese kid asking, ‘Take my photo please’

–

Remember, thou shalt honour your PKP parents,

don’t peg grinning Greg and carful Carlos

with his mutton chops – they call all the shots.

with the PA too, they know their job,

but Beware! Beware the mob!

Woe! Woe be unto you,

if you get stuck in that stretching queue,

at the CUS cafe, almost e-ver-y day

before and after lunch you want to punch the guy

that took your last grilled panini of the day–

probably from BYU anyway,

or Hong Kongo, or Cal-i-for-nia-ah.

–

Remember remember this hidden treasure/greatest pleasure

will endure as the cure for your thirst,

and I dirst not speak too loud for it’s frailty,

the secret is: Commensality

–

I think, That’s a fancy word but I have never heard

that term before or what it’s used for.

The Porter Prophet fortells and dispells my doubts:

‘It means to converse over a meal,

like: breakfast or supper, or upper-class

formal halls: with suits,

and bowties, and gowns and wine

you’ll think you’ve reached cloud nine to dine

and find new fast friends

that last long beyond the programme ends.

–

What’s more, I see I see…

Thou shalt respect those dastardly dons

even when their reading lists go on, and on.

Love words. love books, love the 24 hour libraries too.

Read ‘em, learn ‘em, love em all,

Thou shalt not forget that corpus clock

that ticks and tocks, hiccups, and locks

and eats every minute away of every day

Don’t let it rob a moment of  your 56 days

–

Love the classes and the grasses,

even if you cant walk on them.

Keep these words in faith without a lie,

and I can clearly prophesy:

that your heart will flicker hot with fire

whenever you remember Cambridgeshire

Telescopes and Henry V

At about eight o'clock, Cambridge awakens to the sound of bells from churches which ring from across over thirty colleges. You can hardly escape it--and if you can, the glare of sunshine in your bedroom takes care of the rest of your chances of sleep. People begin to appear along the lonely streets, sweepers shuffling along the edges of the road. A lone runner passes, iPod plugged in. People begin to gather round the cafes, where the smell of caffeine and cocoa beans float in between the snatches of pasties at the marketplace. They don't say much, just move around each other, sluggish and quiet. A wind passes, sending morning chills through them. Footsteps, and a young man sniffs as he walks by. If people do talk, they gather in couples to do it, prearranged paths. So when I say "we woke up early to go to London," I mean that the city actively conspired to bring us to consciousness. The bus ride would take about two hours.

The best way to do it is in chronological order, but know that there is so much I just can't cover.

The bus dropped us off at the British Museum, a name which I have been told is simply code for "stuff the British stole." And certainly, for being a "British" museum, there were few to no British artifacts. We saw some from China, Japan, Korea, Thailand--Buddhas, statues to gods and spirits, guardians to temples that stared accusingly at me, teeth bared. We saw Egyptian mummies and their coffins, decorated and adorned. While this was fascinating, it was a temporary sensation. We had other things to do. My companions and I left quickly, headed for 221B Baker Street. 

A fire spirit

A painting of Venice by a Japanese artist - I love the style put in a European location

Tokyo burning in a great fire, with a spirit watching from above.

I took many pictures of the interior of the Sherlock Holmes Museum. The 1800s are fascinating. And who knows, I may need the information later, if I decide to give into the historical fiction push I've been feeling recently. The technology emerging at this era very quickly changed how we view the world, ourselves, and of course, the "not-ourselves," the Other. 

221B is a bit of a townhouse, all stacked up on itself with small rooms but many floors. Everything creaks and alerts you to the presence of the others milling about. Despite the fact that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are completely fictional characters, you do get the sense that someone could have lived in this flat. Watson had a room very much filled with the tools of his trade, and Sherlock's was... well, it was Sherlock's. Varied interests, messes everywhere. In the different rooms, they had allusions to different cases. I couldn't tell you which is my favorite, but a few of the top five or so were put together with artifacts, wax figures, and in one case, the head of a dog mounted on the wall.

Sherlock's book on beekeeping

The living space for the 221B boys

The victim of the Redheaded League, copying words from the dictionary in his finest handwriting.

We walked to Hyde Park, and Speaker's Corner. On Sundays, you can come and speak about whatever you want. Certain speakers had crowds of spectators and participants, and others none at all. There weren't any that particularly interested me, but that wasn't the point. The point was to stand in a crowd, and feel the blood rushing through their veins, to hear the intake of their breath. To be alive in a crowd of the living.

We sat at the edge of a river in the middle of the park, watching the geese and the swans. We shared knowledge and asked questions.The sun beat down on us gently, so we could watch the paddle boats on the water, and hear children feeding the birds, dogs occasionally chasing after them into the river.  I realized that the friends I've made on this program are people I want to keep, knowing full well it will be difficult as soon as we aren't in the same time zone. 

Next came the Science Museum. There was so much to see. On the first floor, steam-powered engines. Gift shop. Cafe. We saw an exhibit on what the internet sounds like. Words popped up on a series of small screens arranged in a square. The room was dark, and there were five speakers in front of and behind us, so every sound came from a certain angle. It had different movements, like a symphony. A program searched for "I like ____." It displayed the search results on the screen, and a computer program spoke the words out loud. It was beautiful and fascinating. The words were from live feeds, Facebook and such. 

Later, we saw the history of timepieces. There were such interesting ways of keeping track of our day. It began with sundials, progressing to hourglasses, and eventually compasses and pocketwatches, which were so expensive and difficult to produce that only the very well-to-do kept one in their vest pocket. But later on, I saw more modern Grandfather Clocks, wristwatches, and even a microwave. 

Time and the stars as interconnected.

Wall of telescopes

Display of hourglasses.

Ivory compass.

We saw energy, made gas, witnessed a hologram that would have made Houdini proud. There was a brief history of medicine. In the gift shop, I saw the name of a man we've read in my In Sickness and In Health class, Bynam. 

We left. Took the tube to the Globe. I thought of Kevin, a young man I met on my first day in London, who walked me past the Tate Modern and the Globe. Henry V was on that night. We stood for the whole show, and did so without lights or sound equipment. Period costumes and bodies reciting memorized falsities on a stage. They sang for us, more than once. I was surprised by complex harmonies and "Hey Ho, Nobody Home." The "once more into the breach dear friends" piece made me cry. Jamie Parker (who played the King) was as talented as he was lovely to look at. He brought the stage to a dead quiet when he spoke of St. Crispin. The play was funny, too. It made me think of a wars fought by the common man for the petty wishes of the mighty. It made me think of linguistic barriers, of leeks worn on hats, of gloves and challenges. Band of brothers. It was a great play, with a lot of music.

I love a city at night. lights come from all over. Offices, street lamps, houses, flats, businesses. And in London it is better than most. The Eye stares out over the tumultuous Thames, and lights reflect on the cold waves. Big Ben is a beacon over the city, a reminder that you are here, in this great and glorious city, won't let you forget for even an hour the history and grandeur of the ground you stand on.

Lights change from red to green. Headlights guide the way through darkened streets. The city refuses to relinquish its sovereignty over the sun--no, it isn't time to sleep yet! Eventually it will give in. Not like home, where neon doesn't surrender to the night until it flickers out in death, exhausted.

There are areas of darkness, too. Equally as beautiful as the lights. Walls of stone that refuse to be replaced by another pub. There is black, defined by shadows. it is a place you can explore, but only if you're prepared to meet the unknown head-on. Only if you can hold your head high against the muffled voices, the crunch of gravel a few steps too close. 

They love the shadows, the light that screams rebellion against the stars. The spice of success, art, royalty so rich it poisons. The rotting smell of murder and scandals, of tourists losing themselves in the mazes set up just for them.

Bikes, colleges, another Tesco. Lights all over. Churches, warehouses--the darkness between them, separating in a way the daylight never could. This is a world that believes it is fine, perfect, rubbish. Both proud and self-loathing. It is a city that hardly notices your presence, no matter who you are.

Memories of  good, strong harmonies, rounds and roars of the city give me chills. Or maybe that's just London, whispering her tempting offers in my ear, while I am helpless to avoid the call of the wind over the Thames, the spicy aroma of possibility, the inviting feel of London in my lungs.

Dublin: The One Detail

So the plan was this: after finals, we would pack, watch the Olympic Opening Ceremony, then grab the last train to London and get to the airport for Dublin.

I've mentioned I always miss my train when I buy the tickets in advance. At least this time it wasn't just me. There were four of us going: two California natives, and a friend from Hong Kong (one of whom we sadly had to leave behind at the very last minute). We took too long watching the opening ceremony and didn't have enough time to grab our suitcases and run to the train station. The train was just disappearing from sight as we approached, and the next one wouldn't leave for at least five hours... which would give us nowhere near enough time to catch our flights. So we pooled our money together, and got a cab at 11:30 pm, headed for London. It took two hours.

I didn't bring my laptop or my iPod, so all I had for that drive was my journal and my mind, still discordant from the day's events. Which began with my first honest "I'll-never-get-this-done" all-nighter. I was writing the proposal to a study which would examine linguistic profiling and attractiveness; it had to be about ten pages, sans bibliography, and I was scrambling to get it done. Just as the sun rose, I found my paltry revisions complete, and slept for an hour and a half. After a quick shower and breakfast, I attended my first Cambridge exam.

We sat in a long, quiet room on tables built for only two students at a time, but extending back about twenty tables. The test waited for us as we filed in silently, four different classes at a time. We started directly at 9:37, and weren't allowed to leave until the first half hour was through. It was quiet, and felt much more high-stress than perhaps it needed to be.

I rewarded myself afterward with my first Doctor Who episode since landing in the UK; there are some serials that are not available in the US, but I can easily find on Netflix here. I settled on The Planet of the Dead, which had a great premise but was executed like a first-year screenplay writer. What they tried to do was replicate the Smith and Jones episode, where Martha's character is replaced by some international thief, or something. It's hardly worth the time, honestly. On the bright side, I also watched the pilot episode to BBC's Life on Mars, which was heart-wrenching, mind-boggling, and beautiful.

The story revolves around Sam Tyler (played by John Simm, easily recognizable to any Whovian). He is a cop in 2006 who gets into an accident and finds himself in 1976. The show is in part a police procedural, detailing the differences in policies between the 70s and the early 2000s. But more than that, it makes commentary on how we define ourselves. Sam is a DCI in 2006, but is essentially just another cop. In 1976, what he considers to be the norm of policework is seen as a radical set of new ideas. Throughout the episode, though, we get the sense that he may actually be in a coma in 2006, with an overactive imagination whisking him away to 1976. At the end of the pilot, Sam is about to jump off a building, in the hopes that it will wake him from his coma and he can return to the present day. Another character, Annie, stops him at the last minute. She grabs for him, and he notices the grit on her hand. He thinks, "Why would my mind include that detail?" It strikes him as so authentic that decides not to jump as a result.

I left for lunch afterward, wondering what detail would convince me I was in the real world... and to be honest, there isn't much. I'm feeling privileged out here as a temporary student of Cambridge, validated in my interests (even the low-brow ones) and grateful to experience a study abroad program in this way.

I digress. Dublin.

We arrived at 7:45 in the morning, and after that all-nighter I mentioned, it was safe to say I hadn't gotten a whole REM cycle in about twenty four hours. But we only had a short time to explore the city, so no sleeping yet! After dropping off our suitcases and such at the Isaacs Hostel, we walked to Trinity College, Dublin and got a short tour before being let loose in the Old Library.

This is the College Green of Trinity College. On the left going on past the frame is the largest sample of an oak tree in the UK, apparently. It was given to the college by the United States. Trinity was founded with only four areas of study: medicine, theology, math, and arts, but now has many available majors. Our tour guide had a very good grasp of the college's history and included some great anecdotal stories.

We got to visit the Long Room of the Old Library, just after seeing the Book of Kells, neither of which I was allowed to photograph myself, but here are some sanctioned pictures:

This is the Chi Ro page (Chi Ro being a Latin form of Christ). The Book of Kells is not the only illuminated text of the New Testament, nor is it even the oldest. However, its story is quite remarkable, and deserves your research... or a single viewing of The Secret of Kells. Whichever.

This room here is one of the most beautiful libraries I've ever seen, known as the Long Room. I stayed in here as long as I possibly could, before my friends found me and dragged me away. 

After my companions convinced me to leave the gift shop (which, let me say, took just as long as the Long Room), we went in search of a fabled marketplace which was around the Temple Bar District. This is not only close to the college, but also within easy walking distance of our hostel, and  would have been a very easy walk, therefore, if not for one thing.

You see, Dublin's weather is a bit like a child just old enough to throw around words like, "Yes" and "No." So for about fifteen minutes, we would get hard, heavy rains and strong, cold winds that would leave us hiding beneath whatever cover we could find, which is where the below picture was taken.

And then, the rain would disappear, and we would have to scramble out of our sweatshirts and heavy raingear because the weather would get so warm so quickly. In the other half of Dublin's fantastic weather tantrums, only t-shirts and sunglasses are welcome. We thought the electric box below was appropriate, given that all the locals shook it off and said, "Yeah, it's always like this." 

At the end of the day, I did finally get some sleep. It felt glorious. I dreamt of villains and warm winds, parallels to events I could only begin to grasp, slipping rather quickly into that great minefield of forgotten dreams once I awoke.

We visited St. Patrick's Cathedral the next day.

I only have one picture here, because there is no way any number of them could give you any sense as to what it felt like to be inside this sacred space. It was cold within the stone walls, but also felt full somehow. It was potently filled with history and ritual and ardent worship. From the windows on the right of the picture, the sun streamed through the stained glass windows and parted into separate rays of brilliant light, to be covered up only moments later by the ever-present looming storm clouds. People milled about--photographers ignoring the sanctity of the chapel (separate from the church proper). They snapped photos of saints entombed and decaying beneath a stone replica of their image. They grabbed pictures of a huge display of flags, and of the pews where quiet prayers were whispered into the full, cold church. In the front of the chapel, the choir rehearsed, and they were nearing a point where entire songs could be sung without  breaks. I heard that perfect "Amen" chord just as I reached for a rosary to give to my mother.

We did quite a bit of exploring. Visited a flea market, and I found two books, only one of which I enjoyed. It was "The Devil's Ladder," by Graham Joyce, whom I had the great pleasure of meeting just a few weeks prior. Written for young adults, it is properly frightening and inspiring. I wish I had had it around when I was in middle school.

The next day, we got on the train to the Irish coast, to Howth. Debate reigns over how to pronounce this, but the two biggest contenders I've heard are "how + th" and "goat with an h." It was a lovely summer day. Clouds passed us overhead, as if waiting to drop their heavy loads on Dublin rather than spoil it for us. One of us had a bike, so she got to see the cliffs of Howth, but those of us without the cycle went and found this abbey:

After a long trip through dodgy alleyways, we found the entrance, and it was surprising to see what lay beyond the wall.

We walked among the gravestones, catching names and snippets of history that few can retell. The only sound was a seagull, aggressively attacking a tin can for whatever lay within. Our footsteps barely disturbed the gravel, and we felt both guilty for and obligated to photograph what we saw. Someone has to remember this place. After that investigation, we all met up for a luncheon, and then headed back to the coast.

At the end, we sat at the edge of the sea, and breathed in the salty ocean air, before getting on the train again.

We packed up the last of our things, and returned to the airport, landing in London late in the evening. It took us until nearly two in the morning to get back to Cambridge, but was well worth the hell it worked on my sleeping schedule. The land is enchanting in a way nothing else can be. When I returned, I thought back on all the events of the weekend, and wondered if somehow, the whole trip was that one detail, the thing that could remind me that the world is real, it is beautiful, and it is worth exploring.