Down to town.

I've been told that in Cambridge, people refer to going to London as "going down to London," rather than as "going up to town," as they might in many other parts of the country--as in, everywhere is down from Cambridge. In any case: at an absurdly early hour this morning, my student and I trekked across Cambridge to the strange parkside bus stop and waited for our (late) bus down to London.

At first, the day didn't look so promising, though the holiday crowds were mercifully gone.


But as we ate lunch, looking out of a sixth-story window at a panoramic view of Westminster, we could see the sky clearing. And by the time we arrived at our ultimate destination, we had not a thing to lament.


Westminster Abbey wants to blow your mind. It succeeds. I defy anyone to see the tombs of Elizabeth I and Geoffrey Chaucer and Charles Dickens--not to mention Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin--and come out unimpressed. Alas that one can only take pictures outside: there are so many more things I wanted to show you.

We've got to watch out...


...or else they're going to want to keep him as the mascot here.

Many of my usual routines are in happy disruption right now, but the following are not:

1) Writing in the morning
2) Drinking coffee in the morning
3) Reading a book in the bath in the morning
4) Thinking that it's still morning when I climb out of the bath at 1 p.m.
5) Wandering blithely through colleges and shops (and dodging rain) in the afternoon
6) Having dinner at 7 p.m., finally aware that it's really no longer morning
Tomorrow: more of London, for one who has not yet spent very much time there. It is one of my favorite cities. It is a city where I have a collection of Places I Love. Tomorrow I hope to add a couple of Places to my list.

Reunited.

I have a visitor from home, and she has brought me another visitor from home. I realized tonight that I've never touched him before.


Expect further exploits.

They are only two reasons that today was immeasurably better than yesterday. Those new words I added to my writing didn't hurt, either.

Varieties of self.


In this dream, I am in yet another library, one with its very own cataloguing system. Somehow I discover one of my old family photo albums in the stacks, shelved according to its call number. It's not the album I'm looking for, though: I don't want the one where I'm still a child. I want the one with photographs of me as an adult.

The bathrooms in this library are inexplicable: some stalls are like office cubicles, so that one can see right over the tops of their walls. Others are like little closets into which no person could fit. Men and women mill around. The whole place is reminiscent of an airport; people mill about, come and go, seem to know exactly what they're doing. I spend no small amount of time circling the bathroom, trying to figure it out.

After this dream, which in itself wasn't really unpleasant, I awoke into what was largely a stupid day--then redeemed it, in the evening, by finally seeing that whizbang of a riddle of a biopic of a fiction of a legend I'm Not There. From the opening point of view shot to the closing footage of harmonica-playing, I was sold, even when I didn't have the faintest idea what was going on. I walked home with my friends all afizz. "Are you always in character?" my Canadian friend said to me as I launched into an explanation of how the movie's final shot had made me think of Spiegelman's Maus. My first answer: yes. My later answer: no: this is just the way I am, the way I have always been. I go to eleven, that's all.

Also, the year of family.


One afternoon, a few weeks after I moved into my office in Gambier in 2004, I heard my department's wonderful administrative assistant bringing another new person up the stairs to her office. After she'd left the other new person and gone back downstairs, I went around the corner to introduce myself and to welcome this other person to Gambier. I was doing it out of politeness, and curiosity, and a little bit of hope that maybe she'd be someone at least kind of cool with whom I could hang around.

We had an instant rapport, but I had no idea how swiftly she would become one of the truly crucial people in my life. When she left for the plum job she won in that year's job market, I barely let myself think about how much I missed her; when, as I always do, I started flaking out about being in touch, she helped me not to drop the ball. She's one of the people in my life who helps me be unflinchingly honest with myself and thus helps me try to become my best self.

You know her as my beloved Lexingtonian, mother to the littlest Lexingtonian and wife to another excellent Lexingtonian.

As of today, they're all officially soon-to-be-mid-Ohioans-once-more, a development for which I've been too hopeful even to hope, and I have had extra helpings of joy with every meal I've eaten and every task I've undertaken since mid-afternoon.

The last Christmas I lived in Ithaca, I saw the holiday in by having middle-of-the-night subs from the Shortstop Deli in my living room with two of my friends, one of whom shared with us his conception of the queer family: that which is related neither by blood nor (because of our inequitable legal codes) by marriage but only by choice, by force of desire and will and often defiance. At that point in my life, I think I was still a lot more confident that I would end up partnered at some reasonably near time, though I was already feeling fairly sure that I wouldn't be bearing children. But I loved this idea of the queer family anyhow. As the years have swooped past since then, I've realized its value more and more. I am the auntie or simply the Dr. S of several beautiful and talented small people, one of whom is currently only inches long; I have two women in my life from whom I feel sure that I was separated at birth, even though one of them is three weeks younger than I and the other is a few years older; I have couples in my life who have been the best academic parents (and now most excellent friends) anyone could ever want (especially since I was blessed with such excellent biological parents anyway); I have networks of friends to whom I am certainly tied far more tightly than to most of my blood relations.

Indeed, for a woman who considers her traditionally defined family to consist of only her beloved brother and parents, none of whom lives in the same state as she, this growing alternate family is a prize beyond all treasure. Its members are playing an enormous role in my process of returning my self to myself this year, even while I'm thousands of miles away from all of them. They help me to know that even if no one ever falls in love with me again, and even if I never have a child of my own, I will not be alone, and I will not be without siblings (both biological and chosen) or children.

And to know that by the time I return to my mid-Ohio home, even more members of this alternate family I've been constructing over the years will be a part of my daily life, rather than a day's drive away? It's almost enough to make me start looking forward to my repatriation. It's certainly going to soften the blow of leaving this place, come summer.

Congratulations, you badass colleague, and welcome back. Don't forget your whiteboard.

Oh, and this one's for you.

Recommittal.


Andrea "Superhero" Scher (whom I've never met, but whose jewelry I wear on a semi-regular basis--particularly when I have to participate in academic processions) is encouraging her readers to participate in a Mondo Beyondo exercise, and I am more than happy to do so, not least because the turn of my year was so hectic and love-filled (and so empty of Academic Mayhem! did you notice?) that I didn't have my usual end-of-year collapse-and-reconsolidate experience.

Herewith, the end of 2007: the first step is to say goodbye to the old year, and she's offered a set of suggestions for doing so ritually. I'm just going to take her questions one by one.

1. What do you want to acknowledge yourself for in regard to 2007?
Moving. For me, 2007 was the year of moves, both within my U.S. home and to my (temporary) England home. Packing up and coming over here was, as you may recall if you've been reading since last January, nearly impossible for me even to consider a year ago: it took me about a month to let the idea sink in far enough to concoct applications, and another few weeks beyond that actually to finish the applications and send them off. Packing up my house and moving out was another enormous step. In both cases, facing down a fear of change (and of not being able to master the complexities and logistics of major physical shifts) has paid off immensely. For one thing, I've learned once again (and this time for good, I hope) that I can transplant and still be liked--still be something of a social center, even--in fairly short order. For another, I got to introduce my parents to England, which was a bigger thrill than I've been able to acknowledge even to myself, much less to them, in the aftermath of their whirlwind trip.

I also moved into greater artistic exploration, first with the photography class and now with the piano. I've kept writing here, even if it's only a few words some days. I even faced down some of my fears and reluctances about my critical writing, in part because of my community here. I tell you, they don't take "I'm not sure" for an answer.

I did my very best, always, to be the best teacher, daughter, sister, friend, writer, and artist I could be. I didn't always succeed, but I also want to acknowledge that I learned how better to sidestep feeling guilty so that I could try to fix my mistakes and stop making the same ones over and over. 2007 taught me, once again, how much I love my friends' children--how delighted I am when my friends get pregnant (ahem), how delighted I am when their children are born and start growing up (ahem), how happy it makes me when I can support and entertain either those children or their parents (or both) in person or via Skype.

I learned a lot this year about how not to want to be perfect. I learned a lot, thanks especially to my flaming-sworded friend, about how to be angry in the right directions, how to strike back at the real monsters instead of at myself. A few years ago, I told one of my Chicagoan friends that I wanted to be more serene than I felt myself to be. This year helped me find my center, which has made a lot of things clearer than they were before--and which has indeed grounded me more strongly and serenely.

Speaking of grounding, I want to acknowledge, though it's not necessarily in celebration, that 2007 saw me get lots more white hairs, a small collection of new wrinkles, and a changing body composition. I'm proud to say that most of the time, I don't fret about these things: 2007 also saw me appreciating a wider array of beauty (human and otherwise) than ever.

2. What is there to grieve about 2007?
It was a painful year for my ardent heart. I try to keep things half-veiled around here, but you can find traces of my romantic intrigues (or lack thereof) without a lot of effort, and some of you have heard my various tales of woe ad nauseum. I want to believe that there's a reason for my being single, and that the reason is that I'm somehow not ready for whoever this person who's "out there" is going to turn out to be. But sometimes it feels like getting kicked, and then kicked again, and then kicked once more for good measure. (That's one kick for each hope up in 2007, for those of you keeping score at home.) Fortunately (and this should go in the answer to #1 as well), I bounce back from each kick a little faster, largely because I'm realizing more and more that they're not actually kicks, not in any intended way. They're just bad timings, or mismatches, or unwarranted projections of some longing on my part. But that doesn't mean that I feel any less lonely when I feel lonely, or that I don't wonder where my partner in crime is. If he's as lonely as I am, we're wasting good years.

I didn't get as far on my book as I'd hoped, which is especially frustrating given that I had all but three weeks of 2007 off from teaching (shocking, when I write it that way). After a lifetime of swift progressions and earned praises, this year felt like a relatively unproductive one. What I have to show for it is the perch where I'm sitting right now--no small thing, to be sure, but I actually earned the time in 2004-06. This place was just the icing. It feels as though I went into slow motion the second I started my research leave last January.

I have such a hard time being patient while everything realigns.

I regret the plenitude of ways in which I wasn't a good friend.

3. What else do you need to say about the year to declare it complete?
Regardless of the things that felt awry at particular points during the year, 2007 was remarkably good to me: it was possibly the first year of my life wherein I took the chance to enjoy my powers and accomplishments and to explore new options for myself. It really felt like a year of realignment, of slow and steady shifts toward some big change that's still on the way. And in the meantime, it also felt like a year of being loved and valued by all the people in my world whom I love and value most. I don't think I've ever been able to perceive, much less appreciate, how much love is in my life--and I wonder whether that's the very reason that my covivant hasn't shown up yet. But now I get it, and I am full to bursting, and so it is difficult to continue being patient.

Now I get to say it aloud:

I declare 2007 complete!

And I get to make a new declaration, naming my primary intention or theme for 2008. I've been sitting with this question for several days now, trying to decide whether or not I actually want to say what I'm about to say, or whether I just want to say it because I think I'm supposed to. I've decided that I actually do want to say it--and having said it, I hope I'll be able to identify the currents in my life that drag me away from this intention.

2008 is my year of writing. Not of wanting to write, or of thinking about why I don't want to write, or of wondering what I will write. But of writing.

Hell, let's make that two things: 2008 is my year of writing and of love.

Can I refine that one more time? See what's happening here? Andrea is one smart woman, which is why I like wearing her jewelry. She knows that writing this stuff out makes you clarify what you actually want. I do want love in my life, but (as I've already told you) I have love in my life. What I want is romance. Can I actually declare 2008 a year of romance? It seems so unlucky, somehow, to make that wish out loud. Again. As I have many times, in this space and elsewhere. But I'll do it again, as another act of hope.

I want 2008 to be my year of writing, of love, and of romance.

When Andrea posts the next set of instructions, you'll get another post like this one, only the next one will be forward-focused.

Oh, and that title? Tomorrow, I crack back into writing this project, no matter how much effort of will it takes me. I need to get this thing off my shoulders yesterday.

Tickets for love.


I saw lots of signage in Paris that was love-worthy, but this reworking (shall we say) of a Eurostar sign was my favorite. When did tickets for eros get handed out? Was that the day I was home sick from high school or something? Because I tell you--I seem to be short an "admit one" or two.

But: just in case I seem to be grousing: it would seem that I am not going to come down with the norovirus right now, for which I am so much more than immensely grateful--not least because it means that I can walk to a neighboring village for a lunch of mussels tomorrow.

Resettling.


When my family and I left for our London-Paris-London jaunt, we blew out of here early and swiftly. Today, I've straightened up what we didn't get a chance to do before we left: washed the sheets and towels they used, ran the vacuum in the room where they stayed.

But more of the day has gone over to doing my best to steel myself against illness, given that one of the friends with whom I was staying in Scotland became violently (though, mercifully, only temporarily) ill while I was there. And when A) you're staying with an ill friend and B) the worst norovirus outbreak in five years is screaming through the country where you're living, well, let me tell you: you get ginger ale and soup and crackers ready in advance, just in case you start projectile vomiting.

Since I didn't see much of the outside world today, you get to look at Edinburgh and its lovely snow some more.

This train is for Cambridge.


It's funny: looking at today's pictures, I see that there was a considerable amount of blue sky in Edinburgh this morning and afternoon.


But it was such a changeable day, weather-wise, that what I remember is having ducked out into the falling snow, just to document that it was really there. And what I remember is having had to relearn very quickly what my feet and legs do differently when faced with slush-slippened hills. The flakes on my friends' neighbours' roofs this morning were the first I've seen in person since last winter.


And the snow? Not even the most excellent thing I saw today. Not by a long shot.


Tonight I lay my head down on my own pillow.

The Irresistible Flavorous.


At the end of a long day of reading, and watching television, and reading, and watching television, and reading some more, all on the couch with my lovely friends, we ventured out to a restaurant whose business card advertised it with the tagline "The Irresistible Flavorous of Thailand." It was indeed irresistible, their flavorous.

Soon: many pictures, many words. I'm home (d.v.) tomorrow night.

Many trains, much travel.

I suppose that I could have predicted it: a lot of traveling has both worn me out and shifted my senses in potentially radical ways. Alighting in Paris on Friday morning, I found myself hungrier and hungrier for advertisements and signage: so many idioms, so much more language than I knew myself to know. "Oh!" I kept exclaiming. "That means..." Some things were beyond me: what's "thon"? my father asked at lunch. I didn't have a good answer--but now know it's "tuna." What's an "émeutier"? I wondered as we watched world news in French while we awaited our food. "Rioter" was what I guessed (correctly) (the context made it pretty easy).

This morning, I left my family on the other side of a ticket barrier in central London, waiting for an airport-bound train, nearly all by themselves in a station that Sunday had emptied out. I waved and waved and waved, then decided that I couldn't just keep waving for eighteen more minutes, and so I waved one more time and strode off into the Underground, to wander the streets of Covent Garden with the other tourists who wanted more things to be open before noon. I paced in front of closed bookshops' barred windows before remembering that I could return to London as early as next week, for as little as £2, if I wanted to.

That didn't stop me from buying three blue blank notebooks at perhaps my favorite office supply store in the world before boarding the train that took me to the other train that bore me northward to where I'm perched now, in the dark, typing to you while my friends settle to sleep.

Soon, I will offer you picture posts from my time away, but accounts of my adventures will probably just filter to you the way my stories always have: one at a time, as associations make them necessary. Suffice it to say that I've gone and seen some things while I've been quiet here.

Happy Night Afore, as they say where I am now.

The brink of a silence.


Ach. Once again, there is so much I would say but cannot. Remember that Oasis song "Wonderwall"? The one with the lines that go "There are many things that I would like to say to you / but I don't know how"? I have always found this song comforting, because at least I'm not the only person to whom this kind of thing happens. Once again, I find myself at an ostensible end, wondering what might have been different had timing been better.

Hem is on the iPod as I pack for more than a week away, a week that will take me to the continent for the first time since my arrival in Cambridge, a week that will see my newest acquaintances' returning to that other home world of mine, a week that will see me return to this country with family and then split from them, to spend days with other loved ones elsewhere. "We'll meet along the way, I know," the band sings. I love that this song from their latest album begins, "Go easy now; go easy now." So much of my world, for the past few years, seems to have centered on exceptional people's passing into my life and then slipping back out of it, always in a way that feels premature. I do my best to be cool about it, but whatever coolness I manage is mostly fakery: what I'm desperate to know, even more than why they keep going, is when the staying one will arrive.

Somehow, when I ordered lunch in Grantchester today, I missed the word "whole" on the menu. Of course, later, I could see it there, in plain type. But all I saw after our walk through village and meadow was "baked trout," and so I ordered it. And there it was, head and all, grinning at me with its fishy teeth.

I am one of a family of photographers. This trout might be the best documented lunch entree ever.

Celebrating in Cambridge.


No snow here--just rain, and then clouds, and then clearing. But grey wetness is a good backdrop for small cozy spaces full of loved ones, and for a little stroll through (or at least near) one's new haunts, and for convivial meals. Even if we couldn't go into colleges today, because every one of them was locked tight, I was glad for the chance to show them off--with even a little flourish of proprietariness. I find myself using first-person pronouns at unexpected moments this week.


The sunset was just red enough to make me hope for clear skies for tomorrow's walk through meadows I love, beside a river I greet daily. It felt like a sunset of great promise.

Tomorrow, one night late, we will flambée a Christmas pudding, and I will think back with enormous fondness on the last time I flambéed something, back in my old house in Ithaca, with all my graduate school friends, one of whom stood by with a fire extinguisher in case the cherries jubilee flared up out of control. May it not require that much brandy to flame the pudding tomorrow.

Many details omitted.


Perhaps we should just go over to pictures only for the rest of the year. At the end of another day, I find myself once again tired and unmoved to write--though I will tell you that when I crept out of the college this morning, as my family slept on in my friend's flat, the sun and sky were humid and warm-cool as though spring were paying an advance visit. And I will tell you that in the market, I said, "I need apples!" and the boy at the produce stand I'd chosen said, "Excellent, madam, what would you like?" and I ordered eight each of Braeburns, Coxes, and Pink Ladies. And having the fruit for my pies slung into a bag on my shoulder made me decide to buy not one but two bouquets of Christmas tulips from the flower stand on the corner, even though the bouquets together cost £10. I will tell you that the whole market square had the sound and smell of a great day's morning, people buying beetroot and carrots and figs and celeries and cabbages and clementines, people getting cranky with their elderly mothers because said mothers were proposing to feed too many people with too small a bag of potatoes, people selling cheeses, people selling sheepskins, people carrying rolls of wrapping paper and boxes of Christmas crackers. I will tell you that the piles of brussels sprouts were truly prodigious.

I will tell you that as I headed for home with pounds of apples on my back, loaves of bread and bags of sugar and flour in my hand, I felt happy both to be by myself for the walk and to think that so many other people were getting ready to do something much like what I did for the rest of the day: eat, go to pubs, eat, bake, and eat some more. And then talk, and talk and talk.


May your days be merry and bright, everyone.