Gravity

As written in the Notes section of my iPod, traveling at 38,000 feet:

Please allow for an extended metaphor.

A few weeks ago I found myself making personal comparisons with a high diver, twisting and turning in midair as I completed my first draft of the dissertation, traveled to Scandinavia, attempted a trip to Stonehenge but wound up at Brighton, arranged farewell dinners and parties and picnics with anyone I could think of. To put it bluntly, preparing to say goodbye.

I came out of the acrobatics last week, shaking hands with bosses and supervisors and lecturers and friends in what finally was farewell, feeling like I was finally pointed down at the water. I have a friend from elementary school living in Nottingham, the one I called when I was first considering a Master's degree abroad. We've known each other almost two decades. Four nights ago I sat across from her and her mom in a London pub and we remarked on how far we'd come. Two nights ago I sat on a blanket in the Angel and Greyhound meadow in Oxford with classmates I'd known less than a year but who I hope to see gracing the industry newspapers. This morning, one of them had already made the Bookseller. What a cast of characters. What a life.

So I'm out of my twist and I'm pointed straight at the water. I've been focusing hard these past few months on what my first evening back will entail. A quality New England beer, a veggie chilli (two L's), a balmy Boston evening and glimpses of the Hancock Tower on Copley Square. Now I'm on the plane, it's the periphery stuff I worry about. The things like, how to pronounce 'can't', and the baseball scores, and 'line' versus 'queue'. There are many things I've missed. Things I can't put a finger on but which seem to linger beneath every attempt to listen to US radio. In a few moments I'll be back in the pool, hoping I remember how to swim, sure eventually I'll be back in the air wondering about that wild falling sensation still fluttering in my stomach.

I have no idea what happens next, but no one ever dives so they can swim. They dive for this crazy feeling of midair, the way I asked friends last night about their plans to move to London, or China, or Tehran, or beyond. Once I land, all I know is, it's time to start kicking, to come back for air so I can do it all again.

Bag It Up

There is only one thing more chaotic than living out of a suitcase:

Putting it all back in when you're done.

More Things I Wasn't Expecting to Do Today

The first: enjoy dinner at an Indian restaurant in East London with the same lovely British expats I stumbled into on my first morning in the Delhi guesthouse.

The second: Be appointed chief price negotiator, and successfully haggle the waiter into a ten percent higher discount and a few extra bottles of wine. Best customer, indeed.

The third: Go to Brighton.

We had planned for weeks to go to Stonehenge. If by 'planned' I mean, 'talked vaguely about' so that Saturday night found us googling 'trips to Stonehenge' at 2 am. We walked to the nearest hotel the next day and asked if there were any tours going, but of course in tourist high season they were all booked. Oh well. I'm told it's smaller than you expect, anyway.

Our Plan B was to hop on a train head to the coast, to the Atlantic City of the English channel.

At the end of the evening, my sunburnt face glowing over a plate of vegetarian tapas, I confessed I could hardly imagine any of the past two years of living abroad going half so well had I not been placed in such good company in our guesthouse in Delhi. I had arrived thinking I'd be traveling alone. Then I thought I'd disappear back into my country, never to see them again. Instead I find myself toasting the health of these same friends twelve months and two lifetimes away.

Isn't it nice to know that, sometimes, Plan B can be the better option anyway.

Now or Never

I was in Nepal. I was tired. I had just come downhill from Everest Base Camp and wasn't looking forward to a few extra hours in dirty, bustling Kathmandu. I needed to rearrange my flight. To do that, explained my elderly travel agent, I would need to travel by motorbike with him to the offices across town.

That's how I found myself, on my last day in Asia, perched on the back of a motorcycle weaving its way in and out of traffic. I was pretty sure the old guy wasn't keen on me clinging to him like I'd seen most Indian families do. I kept a respectful if wobbly distance until he gently said, 'Hold my shoulder, please' and I gingerly held on to him with one hand while trying to keep my balance.

My blonde hair glinted in the sun and my expression, behind my aviator sunglasses, said to the gawkers: Yeah? so?

I bring this up because it's the kind of adventure you have when you're halfway out the door. Within 48 hours I was at the bar in Boston, shaking my head to clear the dust of Delhi from my nose. (Harder than you think.) This week, I looked at what I had been missing from my year living in Europe and took a long-awaited trip to Scandinavia to stay with friends.

There I was, cycling down the street in Copenhagen with a calm but bemused smile, wondering when on earth I would ever have a chance to do something like this again. Would I ever fly all the way from America to ride the roller coaster in Tivoli? Not likely. So why not now? When there's so much to see?

My hostess, a friend from the publishing program, understood completely and ushered me from boats to museums and, just for a lark, on a quick trip to Sweden. When we played fairway games at the amusement park they let me pick the prizes, and we (accidentally) stayed past closing at the Carlsberg brewery. Sure, I could have gone to Denmark earlier in life, or later, and there's plenty of things I need to take care of in Oxford before I go. But the chance to finally see Scandinavia, with friends, is an opportunity that can't be wasted. I only hope I can share such good experiences when it's their turn to visit me in the States.

At Least We Don't Call it 'Barbie'

Last week a few friends and I gathered to celebrate the Fourth of July with a barbecue.

There were a few problems with that: first, it wasn't the fourth of July. We had to celebrate on the ninth of July because we were too busy the previous weekend, and the actual fourth was a Monday and everyone was working.

Second, there were only three Americans there. The rest of the party was made up of Germans, Australians, South Africans, Brazilians, an Irishman, and a few Brits.

Third, we were standing in the country we were celebrating independence from.

Needless to say, it was the least American celebration of American independence I have ever enjoyed. That doesn't mean it wasn't a good time. English weather threatened us with rain but for the most part we stayed dry. The grilling was fine and we had no fewer than three apple pies for dessert. In fact, we were even proud to call it 'dessert'. No 'pudding' here! Don't tread on me!

I suppose it could be worse. Another friend and I were at a grill-up a few days later and, upon looking at the menu, she burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" I asked, and she pointed at the sign.

"Polish sausage!" she giggled. This friend was, I should mention, actually from Poland.

"Oh, do you want some?"

"What the heck is Polish sausage?" she cackled. She was barely able to contain herself. Apparently, in Poland there is no such thing. It's just sausage. Who knew.

She ordered it anyway, and thoroughly enjoyed the English barbecue version of Polish sausage, just as I had enjoyed the American version of an English barbecue. Tomorrow, I plan to celebrate Bastille day with my French roommate by drinking sangria. We are all rubbish at playing to type.

London Calling

Being a longtime fan of classic British rock, it was vaguely satisfying to find myself wandering down the streets of Soho at 2 am a few nights ago, rushing to catch the last bus back to Oxford. I had the opening lyric to The Who's "Who Are You" rolling through my head on repeat: "I woke up in a Soho doorway, policeman knew my name." Now here I was, quickstepping right past the same bars I'd heard about in the songs, surrounded by friends after an evening of birthdays and conversation.

This isn't the only thing that's wonderful about living so close to London. When I first moved to Oxford, I remember planning exactly when I would catch the Oxford Tube, then staring out the window at the green fields we passed (wondering why we stopped to pick up passengers at a stop called 'Lucknow', which as far as I could tell was four houses in the middle of a field). When we entered London I looked around in awe at the hustle and bustle of the west end, then hopped on the Tube to--well, who knows. It was so long ago now I've forgotten.

Now, I stroll across the street whenever I can be bothered to catch whatever bus comes along for London. I can go just for dinner, for a drink, for a conference, and I can be back in my own flat by evening. That still hasn't deprived it of any of its wonder. A few weeks ago I took my older sister and we enjoyed imported American beers and veggie burgers from Borough Market along the Thames, not far from where Shakespeare had his Globe. We walked opposite the river from the Tower of London, in the shadow of the Shard, and then met a friend for curries in Brick Lane. Two days later, I was back in town having drinks in a riverboat with a friend from elementary school. From our window, we could see Big Ben and the London Eye making its lazy circles along the riverbank.

These are just a sampling of things to do in London. It can't even remotely describe what I'm trying to get at: the amazing diversity and life in the city. It's not very well organised and it's completely random. The White Tower where Anne Boleyn got her head removed is just around the corner from Canary Wharf.with its brand new skyscrapers. Many people dislike London for all its grey skies and (yes, occasionally) stuffy people, but now that I'm only a few weeks away from shuffling back to my side of the ocean . . . I'm going to miss it more than I originally thought.

It's been a great year. Now, as time marches on towards my flight, onwards and upwards, at the very least I can console myself with yet another lyric from The Who: "At each end of my life / is an open door."

Workaday

During the trip to Italy last week, we were given the unique opportunity to visit one of the country's most prominent publishing houses. Guinti Editorial, whose dominance includes both books and retail chains, hold their operations in a beautiful mountaintop villa down the road from our own accommodation. So, after plenty of chatting and conferencing, we trod up the road to have a look.

As we toured around the beautiful, historic villa I tried to keep a running commentary in my head of what it would be like to actually work there.

"Here I am, coming into work, making my way past the carved marble statues and through the 17th-century frescos painted in the same style as the Palazzo Vecchio. Around the corner from the fireplace with the family crest of the Medicis, where nobles plotted the family's overthrow in the 18th century.

"Oh! Look what's hanging from the ceiling above my desk!

"Time for a meeting. Look at the view from my conference room!

Not your correspondent, but she could be my boss

"Time for lunch. What shall I read in my break time. Oh, I know! The collected works of Leonardo Da Vinci bound in priceless leather volumes handmade to replicate the original documents as closely as possible!"

Then I tried to think of the perks of my former Boston office. We used to brag because we had really nice cubicles and free coffee.

....... Yeahhhhh.

Here's the Kicker . . .

'To punt' has a couple of different meanings, depending on which side of the ocean you're on. In America, it's something you do in (need I say it, American) football, where you toss the ball back to the kicker and he launches it across the field to the other end, buying you extra yards before you send out your defense.

As a result it's taken on a second meaning, when you decide not to address something right away and sort of waffle on it until you really can't help but get to work.

In the UK, it's a sport native of only Oxford or Cambridge, where you take a long flat boat out and steer it around using only a worthless little paddle and a long pole. The breed of punting can be distinguished by where you stand on the boat: Cambridge punters stand on the flat end, Oxford on the scooped end. Both of them tend to smack into the riverbank more often than float downstream.

Well, your correspondent has been doing a little bit of both.

It's been so long since I last posted because, as I've hinted at before, it's awfully difficult to take a break from intensive report writing to . . . do more writing. The good news is, one draft is (just about) done and I should be back to my regular schedule shortly.