Month: October 2012

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Traveling North

By Annette Gildshtein.

It was irkingly quiet Friday evening at Zoomass. It seemed as though all the animals headed back to their origins to hibernate for the long weekend. Carrying what felt like half my belongings, I made my way down to yellow lot 11 from Washington Tower. Not even halfway down the hill, I already felt my body starting to perspire. Bags were hanging off me from every direction: a huge bag that was over-packed for a 3 day weekend swung across my body, a beige Liebskin purse crossed to the other side, and an overweight backpack just in case I ended up doing some homework. Though my shoulders were a bit sore, I toughened up and set forth to an unknown evening. All I knew was that I was headed to Franklin, CT, with the intent to go to UCONN. With gas prices too costly for my student wallet and still half a tank left, I went straight for the exit out of Amherst without any stops.

Heading North down 119, traffic started to pick up a bit towards Hadley, especially when the lanes merge into one. We crept down the whole way doing the annoying traffic dance, with one lane moving to a faster tempo than the other. In a way I didn’t really mind; I casually cruised with my windows down, steering with my knee and just observed my surroundings. Before I noticed the parking permit stickers, I could already tell which cars were students by how packed their trunks and back seats were. My favorite but brief section of the traffic was when we were crossing the bridge. Calm waters surrounded us from either side, scattered with small boats and canoes. Driving can sometimes really have a meditative effect on me. It was a relief to finally get on my way and escape into the open highway.  The sun was settling deeper into the horizon and fog lights were popping up on the surrounding cars. Since I’ve never driven to Connecticut from Amherst before, I was surprised to see a pocket of industrialized beauty in such a rural environment. The structures were lit up purposefully and tastefully, showing off the distinct architecture. It was mostly comprised of what seemed like major business corporations, but suddenly something to my right struck my interest. As I got closer, I could see a spherical building resembling Disney’s Epcot Center. As I made my way past it I noticed a sign that read “Basketball Hall of Fame.” I was not only in awe at the gorgeous purple and blue ambient lights but I also had no idea that one existed here.

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Music is what sets the tone for any trip. Whether you are driving down the street or going on a three hour car ride, music is an essential attribute to that experience. I am very indecisive about what to put on, so from the beginning I put on my favorite song from the LongSong Playlist, Luv Step 2.5. This is a fifty-minute compilation of at least fifteen different songs remixed into one, without injuring the originals (which isn’t easy, some people can really butcher a song).  It’s one of those songs that you want to hear in quality headphones or have the vibes surrounding you from good speakers. I love listening to it in the car. It just makes you apart of the song and driving solo I can dance as ridiculously as I want without judgment. After about thirty minutes my brain needed a break from the high frequency bass and it was time for a change of pace. Generally I like to put my iPod on shuffle and have it decide my musical fate. One of the songs that I bookmarked in my brain was Train Song by Feist and Ben Gibbard.

Feist

Traveling north, traveling north to find you
Train wheels beating, the wind in my eyes
Don’t even know what I’ll find when I get to you
Call out your name love, don’t be surprised

Feist & Ben

It’s so many miles and so long since I’ve left you
Don’t even know what I’ll find when I get to you
But suddenly now, I know where I belong
It’s many hundred miles and it won’t be long

In a way this song summed up the whole reason of this trip. I was visiting one of my closest friends from my previous school, Iona, whom I haven’t seen in months. Though this song is speaking of an intimate relationship, it is still applicable. Any type of relationship is intimate, the stories and emotions we share between each other are unspokenly locked between us and nobody else. Those are the comforting qualities you look for in a friend.

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When I arrived, plans to go to UConn had been canceled. Not having many other options, we decided to go to Mohegan Sun. When you first walk in, you walk through a seemingly never ending hallway. The wall decor resembled the tribes authentic art and gives you a brief history – a perfect preface to lure you into the actual casino.  Before you even reach the central area you are greeted with a set of escalators, that only overlook a small portion of the venue.  

The first time I was there, it was quite dead, but this time it was alive with quite a diverse crowed. As we ventured our way passed the exhausted slot machines and packed restaurants, you can tell the distinctions between who was here to party or to gamble. Girls would pass us struggling to walk in heels pulling down their tiny, skin-tight dresses, while males snickered behind them. There was a bar in the middle of the casino that was attempting to impersonate a club (which really wasn’t successful) and had the music blaring just as loud. It was funny to see all these adults standing around in their fancy clothes, holding drinks and just looking bored. We had better plans: Ben & Jerry’s.

My friend and I waited in line contemplating which flavors to choose from. Come our turn we each asked to sample a few different flavors and would switch in attempts to figure out what our taste buds were asking for. Since we couldn’t decide we just ordered for each other. I ended up with the Peanut Brittle and for her the Strawberry Cheesecake. Since I knew she was not a chocolate fan, I knew she was pleased with my decision. The peanut butter chunks and caramel swirls were a perfect choice for me. We each finished every drop.

Not wanting to spend any more money and with the night still young we decided to meet up with a few of her friends at the local skate park. Across the street from the brightly lit Norwich Tech, ironically the darkness cloaked us from the main street. Since this was the go-to spot, not only were their beer cans scattered around, but also some abandoned liquor bottles from previous inhabitants. We just sat their looking at the sprinkle of stars, secluded from the world – except the occasional car passing by. Suddenly I noticed extra bright lights coming our way. As they approached us,  I could faintly  make out the word Police.  Once my brain processed the situation, I quickly started walking towards our vehicle while everyone was still hanging out. Of course I got the routine questioning: What are you guys doing out so late? What is your name? How old are you? Eventually everyone got the picture. Some of them scattered throughout the woods, but thankfully my friend joined to help me deal with the situation. She chimed in explaining to the officer about our whereabouts and pretending we didn’t realize you’re not allowed after dark. As we thought things were smoothed out, she realized her glasses were missing. Instead of leaving the scene, an officer went back to the park, flashlight in hand, to help her find them . Nervous that he’ll notice our illicit activities I waited very impatiently in the car. Upon their return, my friend gives me a glance and I think to myself, “Greaaat”. Thank goodness I was the designated driver and answered all the sobriety questions on point. Once the police officer was convinced I could safely get us home, we were let go. After much unwanted stress, we were relieved to have avoided any dire consequences. We collected the “run-away” group and decided to call it a night. . .

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Come morning, the sun exposes Norwich’s natural beauty. Since at night the brightest lights are the moon, stars, and the occasional straggling, dim street light, you get a very limited view of the town. Though it isn’t the most impressive town, during the day there are many serene parts that are aesthetically pleasing.  In many ways it’s comparable to Amherst, with its grassy patches and farmlands. At certain parts of the trip, I’d realize I’m driving in silence taking in the beauty of the scenery around me. The leaves were turning over new colors, some still attached gracefully to the branches and wiggling in the breeze. As the roads swerve between these forests, the massive trees on either side engulf you, making you apart of their world not vice versa. Sometimes a measureless, vibrantly green field comes up along the road allowing access for the suns rays to embrace you.  Before I left we made one last stop to my friends favorite field. We laid out in the sun a bit allowing it to hug our skin. Though we were saying our farewells, the warmth comforted us with a promise of a beautiful day ahead. As for me, a smooth ride ahead.

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A Frog on a Lily Pad

By Kelly Duhamel.

We ascend up a twisting dirt trail, darkened by the surrounding woods and simultaneously brightened from bits of grass and little green clovers sprouting along the edge. The only sounds we hear are the dirt crunching below our feet and our own breath, quickening with each step. A lone house peers out behind the scattered trees as if watching over the path and the visitors along it. It is a large white farm house with red shutters dulled from years of exposure to the New England seasons. The house is still and looks tranquil as the only movement comes from the white cotton clothing fluttering on clothes lines. Dispersed along the path are piles of stones, somehow balancing perfectly on top of one another. The piles lay on the ground, among the trees, and on a stone platform. As we begin to see light, we realize we are reaching the end of the path and our destination, the New England Peace Pagoda, also know as “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo,” in Leverett, Massachusetts.

I first heard about the New England Peace Pagoda from my friend, Alina, two years ago. As Alina showed me pictures of a beautiful monument and frog pond, she described feeling completely calm and peaceful during her trip. Since then, a journey to the New England Peace Pagoda has been on my list of things to do before I graduate college and leave Western Massachusetts. Both my sophomore and junior years came and went without an adventure to the Peace Pagoda, though, and I began to think I would never be able to check a visit off my list. However, a couple of weeks ago, I convinced my friends Emily and Vuk to join me on an exploration to the Peace Pagoda.  We set off on a warm fall afternoon.

Reaching the top of the path, we see a freshly manicured lawn, and just beyond that is a grand white monument, the Peace Pagoda. “Wait, so that’s the Peace Pagoda?” Vuk asks, a little taken back by the simplicity of the memorial. “I guess so. I mean it’s the only thing here. It has to be,” I reply, as we both stare at the memorial, suddenly wondering what all the fuss was about. Emily is already ten steps ahead of us and about to climb the white stone steps that lead to the Peace Pagoda. The first flight of stairs brings us to a small garden with purple, red, and yellow flowers. The colors pop out against the complete blankness of the monument. The stairs then split into two, reconnecting at a walkway that allows visitors to walk around and have a closer look at the monument. Directly at the top of the stairs, about five or six feet above our heads, is a cutout in the monument. A gold statue of Buddha with one arm raised stands tall within. The golden Buddha shimmers in the sun, and I have to shield my eyes to make out the delicate details and contours of his face and hands. Pink flowers surround the Buddha’s feet, and black Chinese symbols are painted on the golden wall behind him. The light glistens across golden Chinese writing carved on a grey stone plaque below the statue. I begin to wonder what the symbols mean.

Although we had started the adventure together, we begin to separate, exploring the Peace Pagoda at our own pace and getting wrapped up in our individual thoughts. A need for silence suddenly feels overwhelming as Emily and I start to walk clockwise around the monument and Vuk counterclockwise. I walk barefoot on the stone path, feeling the cool rocks below my feet, and letting my hand lightly glide over the bumpy white stone walls. We circle the monument, as if in a trance; only pausing at the five different golden statues above our heads. Each statue is Buddha in a different pose. In one, he is lying gracefully on a stone bed, while in another he is meditating, hands in a prayer pose.

Emily, Vuk, and I collide at the center of the monument and Vuk changes his direction to join our path. “I wish I could just get up there and see the Buddhas closer” I say, as I gaze amazed at the statues above. “I could climb up there easily,” Emily remarks daringly. I believe her; in addition to being completely fearless, she is incredibly strong for her tiny size. She has already set the task for herself and will not stop until she has accomplished it, so I just smile and wait for her to attempt the climb. She uses the tiny bumps on the walls as grips and pushes her feet against the engraved stone slate below. She hoists herself up and stands next to the statue. “Come on, Kel, your turn. This is sweet!” Fully aware of my own lack of athletic ability I laugh, “I’m good, dude. You can just tell me how it is.” Emily circles the statue, and then sits down next to the Buddha, making the same meditative pose. Vuk and I laugh at Emily’s boundless energy, and her eyes bounce open from our noise. She stands up and jumps down, rejoining us on the ground. The three of us finish our slow loop around the monument. “Look at that,” I say, as I point to a small pond. I recognize it from the pictures my friend had shown me years ago. “It’s so pretty,” Emily swoons. “Let’s check it out.”

A few feet beyond the Peace Pagoda is a pond, shaped in the infinity symbol. Long grass, high stemmed orange flowers, thick bushes, and trees surround the pond as if trying to hide its beauty from the outside world. Lily pads and lilies thickly cover the water, hiding the koi fish and frogs below the surface. I allow myself to become engulfed in the natural sounds of frogs croaking, water bubbling, small splashing from the frogs and koi fish movements, and the wind rustling through the trees and bushes. All thought seems to leave my head as if the wind has blown my thoughts away with the loose leaves. As we near the pond, we begin to follow a stone path that brings us through the grass and bushes to a stone bridge. The arch leads us to the other side of the figure eight. The sounds of crickets and frogs intensify and the beauty of the pond is breathtaking. The greens from the engulfing forest reflect in the water, and rays of sunlight dance across the pond. Religious green, yellow, and red Buddhist flags hang between the trees. Some are so old the color is almost gone, and the frayed edges flutter in the wind. Others are newer, the artificial colors contrasting with the vibrant natural colors.

Emily and Vuk climb onto a large rock that sits half on land and half in the water. I sit on the ground beside the rock with my toes inches from slipping into the pond. Emily and Vuk chat lightly while I sit quietly, intently watching a small frog bob up and down in the water. He eventually makes his way to a lilly pad by my feet and rests peacefully. I reach behind me as slowly and seamlessly as I can to grab my camera from my bag. The frog continues to lie still and I begin to wonder if it had suddenly died while I was watching him. I flick on my camera and snap a picture. The frog seems to barely notice my movements or the noise from the camera, as he continues to rest, only moving his legs slightly every once in a while to keep himself afloat. I feel completely calm and connected to the natural beauty around me. My thoughts are no more complex than the small frog’s thoughts at my feet. I sit back letting my eyes close and my head drop backward, soaking in the sun and the cool, fresh air. I snap back to reality when I hear a slight murmur and Emily and Vuk jump off the rock beside me. The frog startles too and jumps back into the water, lost in the pond below the thousands of lilies and lily pads. “You ready to hit the road?” Vuk asks. I nod and we begin to head back to the winding dirt path.

Below is the frog I took a picture of at the pond.

Below is the Peace Pagoda monument and the first golden Buddha statue I described.

 

 

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The Efforts of Elevation

By Emmy Carver.

Several times over, I have traveled up and down Route 116 to Mt. Holyoke College for classes, pleasure, and work. Whenever passing the parking lot for the Notch Visitor Center, I always wondered as to why I hadn’t yet taken the chance to hike the trails back there. The main problem I usually face is that many of my friends aren’t active enough to actually go and do something involving physical endurance. That, and none would last the distances I like to go, or would slow me down. These thoughts passed through my mind as I drove solo, giving myself excuses for why I hadn’t bothered to text or call anyone to go out with me. The biggest truth of the matter was I liked to walk and hike alone, especially in the woods. It’s something I’ve done for years as a child, growing up with the High Point State Park as my backyard in New Jersey. The only thing that set me on edge about being by myself was that I was unfamiliar with these crisscrossing trails and the terrain; if something should happen, such as my foot slipping on some wet leaves as I traveled down a slope possibly off the trail while exploring a better view, then no one would ever know. For some reason, despite my cautious tendencies when venturing alone, I hadn’t told anyone where I was going; I simply picked up my stuff and went.

On the way, listening to the radio, excitement bubbled within me until I parked my car and started my exploration. Among other tools, I had a camera in my pocket; I wanted to actually record some of the things I saw. I had no idea where I was going to go, except that I knew I didn’t want it to be some thirty-minute walk through the woods that left me wishing I had gone further. After picking up a map from the visitor’s center, I set out to follow the trail that led up to the peak of Mt. Norwottuck.

Starting out, I felt like a fool walking by myself, stopping at every cross section to make sure that I was going in the right direction. No one else I passed had a map in hand; I was the only virgin climber of the mountain that I could see. The trails were a little confusing, especially at the beginning. My first stop brought me to an area that warned me of falling rocks and debris. Signs reading “Danger” and “No Trespassing” lined the road the closer you got to yellow, barren hills that were designated as restricted areas. Despite my curiosity and tendency to ignore such signs, as I do many times in the backwoods of my hometown, I carried on in the opposite direction. The terrain seemed doable, but I was especially glad that I had worn my boots. The protestation I’d encountered when putting them on that afternoon had been cumbersome as the leather fit tight and cold around my feet, but I had managed to coax them on and lace up so I could prepare for my unknown journey. The paths were rocky, full of slate and chipped flakes that clicked against one another with every step I took. It was so unlike the soft, grassy, or moss-covered dirt that I was used to, and I immediately knew I was in for it.

“Taking great care, I walked over a mass mixture that took form in shades of gray; bulky and flaky bits of rock shifted under me…”

My legs pumped as the slope immediately shot upwards into a forest that smelled of autumn decay as it hovered in a state between life and death. Nothing could be seen through the dense walls on either side of the path. Even as I paused to look out into the valley, the trees blocked my view of what lay below. With the climb and change in elevation, my breath came hard as my heart began to pound against my chest. I wasn’t tired, but I was definitely getting a workout. The brisk, fall air was no match for my body’s ability to burn and sweat as I ascended up steep, dangerous slopes. Taking great care, I walked over a mass mixture that took form in shades of gray; bulky and flaky bits of rock shifted under me, and I was sure I could seriously injure myself should my boot slip in the slightest.

On the way I passed various people, but also noticed that it wasn’t a journey for the light of heart. A mother carrying a toddler on her back smiled as I commented on her companion’s assistance in her endurance. Her chuckle and response, “It’s harder on the way down,” made me smile, but I wondered how it could possibly be harder to carry someone down a mountain than up. I would later retract that disbelieving thought. After passing her, though, I was climbing with my hands and feet, leaning forward as much as possible and keeping my head low as I made my way up the steep and narrow rock path. Roots jutted out into it. The path, a small canyon carved into the hill from years of rainfall and erosion, twisted and turned its way up till you reached more level ground. Time seemed to pass by so quickly, but it had taken me under an hour to reach the top of Mt. Norwottuck. After all of the stops I had made to check out the scenery and check the map, I felt like I had made pretty good time going at my leisurely pace.

Accomplishment filled me as I stood on top of a mountain I had never conquered before. After wondering the whole way when each slope would be the last, I had finally made it. As I took in several deep breaths and wiped sweat from my face, I was able to finally see the result of my efforts and glimpse a tiny world below my newfound kingdom.

“The view was gorgeous and made for a grand picture.”

The view was gorgeous and made for a grand picture. Even though the day was bleak and cloudy, the fall colors of crimson, sienna, ochre, and umber all blended to make a palette with the hues of green across a sea of trees and farmland. The mountain range spanned the horizon, and in the valley’s wake I was pleased to see more vegetation than human occupation. However, I was slightly disappointed. Despite how much less challenging the terrain and climb is on the Cliff Park Trails in Pennsylvania, the view of the Delaware River and my town on the other side of the banks is much more breathtaking than what I saw at the top of Norwottuck.

“Despite how much less challenging the terrain and climb is on the Cliff Park Trails in Pennsylvania, the view of the Delaware River and my town on the other side of the banks is much more breathtaking…” (Picture taken from discoverpikepa.com)

I’ve seen landscapes before, but without the view of glimmering water reflecting back the sunlight, the sky, and the mountains just above it, the view of the Holyoke Mountain Range fell short for me. The disappointment, though, was what egged me on to take my journey further. Surely, after barely being out for an hour, that wasn’t it. I looked at my map again and a spot not too far ahead caught my eye for its name alone. I set my new destination: the Horse Caves.

Trekking down another steep, unfamiliar, rocky path made my legs shaky. It was prior knee problems acting up, and I found myself having to catch every other step as my supporting leg would give out with the resistance my body exerted to keep from tumbling down the hill.

“I set my new destination: the Horse Caves.” (Image edited from mass.gov/dcr/)

But I was excited and determined; the path I was taking was even more challenging, and I found myself hopping over rocks and using my hands more to help guide me down drops and over obstacles. As I finally came to a leveled area in the path, I looked down a slope into the woodland abyss, seeing nothing. Down the steep embankment, all I saw were trees blocking even more trees and autumn vegetation. I had already come a distance, but hadn’t found the caves.

Looking at my watch, I reluctantly began to turn back when I heard voices; echoing voices. They would have to be bouncing off of some sort of surface, such as large rocks. After a moment’s hesitation, I began to run down the slippery pathway, keeping myself from going down into the mucky leaves as I propelled down the path, knowing my final destination was ahead. When I came to stand at the top of the caves, I was sure I had reached them, but couldn’t figure out which path to take. After making a wrong turn, I doubled back and looked down a narrow crevice that led off the trail, contemplating it as I had when I first noticed it.

It’s all a part of the adventure, I thought to myself as I squeezed in between the rocks and started to, literally, climb down them. It was a short descent, and I was merely slipping through a small crack between large boulders before dropping down to a few lower rocks.

“It was similar to the light rock hopping and bouldering that I had done over the summer at Devil’s Den in Gettysburg, where the rocks had towered over a friend and me.”

It was similar to the light rock hopping and bouldering that I had done over the summer at Devil’s Den in Gettysburg, where the formations had towered over a friend and me. We slipped, slid, and jumped from one rock to another, darting into creepy crannies and daring the spirits to show themselves in the ever growing darkness.

As I descended down the crevice, my way had been off the beaten path just enough that nearby hikers didn’t even notice as I pushed myself off of a rock and landed on soft, dusty earth where I was dwarfed by the massive rocks that towered over me. There were no coves or openings within the formations that I could see, and I later discovered that the “caves” were not really caves.

“…I pushed myself off a rock and landed on soft, dusty earth where I was dwarfed by the massive rocks that towered over me.”

I overheard the hikers talking about how there were no openings to venture into, and I realized that they were merely these overhanging rocks that loomed overhead. Later, I learned that they were believed to have provided refuge to rebels during Shay’s Rebellion. It was most likely the shelter the rocks provided that brought the caves their namesake. After staring up at these enormous wonders for a bit, I looked behind me and saw the path I needed to get back up. However, it was out of the way and much less fun than how I had gotten down. So, I grasped some holds on the rocks and climbed back up to the crevice again.

The hike back up to the peak was difficult to keep track of; the path was so covered with leaves that I even lost my way at one point. Reaching the top again was almost as fulfilling as the first because I was so tired. However, there was no time for rest. I had already exhausted those spare, precious minutes, and my trek was coming upon the two-hour mark. I was far from finishing my hike, and it was then that the mother’s words came back to haunt me. The descent down the other side was the hardest part of the journey as I resisted gravity and tried to keep my feet from slipping on the unstable terrain. My body felt the wear and tear as it was jostled over every stumble and heavy step. But there was more opportunity for me to realize what was around me. I wasn’t focusing so hard on making my way up the right path, but merely following the way I had already taken. In the woods, I stopped at one point and realized that it was actually peaceful. The silence of the place was overwhelmingly delightful, and I realized that I hadn’t heard such a thing in so long. There’s always noise everywhere I live. The silence also extended to something I hadn’t realized before as I huffed and puffed up the mountain; there were no birds.

Have they already migrated? I wondered to myself. After listening carefully, I finally heard perhaps one or two lonely songs call out into the wild, but aside from that, there was nothing. The peacefulness brought me back in time to days when I hiked often, and I enjoyed the solitary time I had to myself to actually think and breathe without the suffocation of everyday life pressing in on me. It was a time to be myself, and to enjoy the journey. But more than that, there was something about it that was like a state of meditation, and the realization of that silence was as if I had been lifted into nirvana.

That feeling of escape overtook me for what felt like a blissful eternity before reality grasped me once again and yanked me back down to earth with the sound of swift footfall on the leaves heading towards me on the path ahead. I then knew that I would have to return, not only for further exploration of the rocky slopes, but so I could attempt to recreate that venture into another existence.

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A Day in Camden Town

By Mia Dilluvio.

Endless shops and vendors, every color hair imaginable, tattoos that seem to cover every inch of the visible body is what I witnessed walking through Camden Town every day for fourteen weeks. On my last day living in London I walked up and down Camden High Street and nothing has changed. I observed the people pouring out of the tube station and heading for the Barclay’s ATM across the street, while preteens tried on different pairs of neon sunglasses and homeless men sat against the buildings, Styrofoam cups in front of them for spare change. This is Camden Town, a borough in the north of London. What once was unfamiliar and frightening about this place became my home when I studied abroad.

Construction outside of Hawley Crescent.

Camden Town is different from your typical idea of “jolly old England”. Instead of posh white narrow buildings with large pillars on the front of the house, there is a grungier feel to this borough of London. This first turned me off as I had pictured myself living in a flat with a view of Parliament from my window. My view instead was a Sainsbury’s Super Market. Little did I know how convenient it was living across from Sainsbury’s. Later I found out that it was opened until midnight Monday through Saturday, which was perfect, especially if I was craving a late night snack. Some buildings are made of aging brick or wood, split from the weathering it has endured over time and others, like the building my flat is in, looks misplaced as they portray modernity with their geometric shapes, wide windows, and containing the most uncomfortable furniture that IKEA ever made.

As I made my way down Camden High Street, I crossed the bridge over Regent’s Canal. After familiarizing myself with the area, I did not hesitate to wake up early on weekend mornings, lace up my sneakers and run along the canal that cuts underneath Kentish Town Road and Camden High Street. Its waters travel through London and empties out into the River Thames. As I traveled down the walking path I would always pass the same gondola like boats that were docked along the side.  Each one colorful, sporting a name such as Perseus or The Water Quell, giving each its own personality. Not only were these used for transportation, but they were eccentric homes for some of the Camden Town residents as well. If I thought my room in my flat was cramped with a bunk bed, a closet and just enough room for a person to stand comfortably in between them, I would have never survived living on one of those boats.

I finally reached the top of Camden High Street, home to Camden Market. You know you’re there when you see a structure that resembles an overpass that says “CAMDEN LOCK” in a bright shade of yellow. Shopping in Camden Market is an overwhelming experience. At first, the pushy sales people overwhelmed me. If I even looked at an item they would say, “Very pretty! We are having a special today. Two for 30 pounds! If your friend buys one I’ll give it to you for 25 pounds instead. It’s a very good deal.” After a few weeks, I didn’t think anything of it. They are only trying to make a living. From experience, I learned that it is better to go to the market during the weekday, as Saturdays and Sundays are filled with tourists making it impossible to navigate around the people, kiosks and displays. However if you are willing to be adventurous, you can find something unique for a bargain. After a lot of pushing and shoving, I was able to reach a particular store where they sold large Union Jack flags for one pound. I knew that I wanted one for my apartment when I got back to school and there it prominently hangs today. In one section of the markets, there is an area designated for food stands. It is here that you can get food from a vast majority of countries: Greece, Italy, Germany, Japan, and Jamaica, just to name a few. The aromas of each of the dishes indigenous to those countries made me feel bombarded during my first visit to the markets.

A view of the markets from an accessible rooftop

I stood in line for a gyro, but upon smelling the spicy and bold Jamaican jerk chicken, I immediately moved to the Jamaica stand. Unfortunately, it was neighbors to the Belgium waffles stand where the vendor was pouring Nutella all over a waffle hot off the iron. It was in that moment when I made one of the hardest choices while studying abroad. All of these aromas symbolized the city of London on a much smaller scale: the diversity of a great city that contains major influences from all over the world.

On my way back from the markets I passed one of my favorite nightclubs, The Electric Ball Room. In addition to Camden Market, Camden Town is renown for its nightlife. The Electric Ball Room where there was a special ‘70s, ‘80s and ‘90s night. The highlight of that evening was singing and dancing to  “Wannabe” by The Spice Girls, something that was as familiar to me as it was British. The Camden Eye, The Oxford Arms and the Elephant Head are just a few of the pubs that are popular, although one can get a excellent pint anywhere in London.  At these pubs, I acquired the taste of beer that my father promised I would develop someday. There is also a pub called The Hobgoblin, which is located next to my building, Hawley Crescent, but I never ventured there, mostly because the dress code posted outside of the door said that only people that were wearing black were allowed to enter, the sign forgot to mention that an exuberant number or tattoos and piercings as well as a pair of combat boots were also required. At the end of a night of debauchery, it is common to get fried chicken, a strange British obsession, or, my personal favorite, a huge cone filled with chips for a pound thirty from a kebab shop on Kentish Town Road. It is a short walk or thirty second sprint, depending on how hungry you are, from Hawley Crescent.

Paint, Tifa. Camden Punk. 2006. Photograph. n.p. Web. 1 Oct 2012. <http://www.trekearth.com/gallery/Europe/United_Kingdom/England/London/Camden/photo409484.htm>.

As I walked down Camden High Street once more, I took notice of the variety of natives: students, families, senior citizens and homeless people. Every individual has their own sense of themselves and their own panache, however, Camden Town mostly known for their punk rock style: Men and women sporting leather jackets, leather pants, piercings and tattoos are not out of the ordinary for this area of London. Leading up to Camden Markets are several tattoo and piercing parlors, which I managed to steer clear of to the relief of my parents. Although my style opposes the guidelines of punk rock etiquette, I began to embrace it the longer I lived there. At first when I explained how I lived in Camden Town to a Brit, they would comment on what an interesting area it is and how the pubs really rock, I would respond by saying “Yeah, it’s really cool, but I don’t exactly fit in there.” Finally realizing what a snob I was, I began to welcome the pierced faces and electric blue mohawks. My answer changed to: “Yeah, it’s an awesome area and I love living there.”

Benjamin Disraeli, a past British Prime minister, once said, “London is a roost for every bird.”  It is in Camden Town where I found my place to roost, regardless that I felt like didn’t fit in or felt that I couldn’t keep up with the city life at first. Camden Town is a place for every one, and you find your niche somewhere. It is nothing like the London everyone else knows or would ever expect, and that is what makes it extraordinary.

Fowler, Christopher. More Camden Horses. 2009. Photograph. n.p. Web. 1 Oct 2012. <http://www.christopherfowler.co.uk/blog/2009/12/18/more-camden-horses/>.
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Clark’s Circles of Influence

By Kerry McDonough.

At first glance, the spot seems mysterious – a fortress at the top of the hill, intimidating to approach.  Located on the top of Central Residential Area’s highest hill, the layers of thin black walls reach up to the shoulders of most adults, making it difficult to see over the various cut-outs until the adventurer climbs up the final incline and is squeezing themselves through the few small breaks in the wall or navigating their way through the mini-maze that are the layers of concentric circles.  These walls represent different locations important to the third president of Massachusetts Agricultural College and first president of the University of Massachusetts Amherst, William Smith Clark, for whom this memorial was created.

Smith’s presence is clear to all from the center of the circles, as a giant granite rock with a plaque commemorating him, surrounded by other plaques describing his contributions to Amherst and abroad located on vectors from the granite focal point.  Sections of the wall also reflect Clark’s life, from a section of the wall that is a silhouette of Clark’s family home to a silhouette of the present campus of UMass with an outline of the mountains in Sapporo Japan just behind it, uniting the Amherst landscape with a landscape that actually exists on the Eastern Hemisphere.   There, Clark helped establish the Sapporo Agricultural College and served as an American representative who is still commemorated by the Japanese people as an unofficial ambassador, Christian missionary, agricultural educator, and professional academic leader today.

The memorial is located on top of what is now Clark Hill Road, just past Butterfield and Van Meter Halls, located where Clark’s home was formerly situated before it was gutted in a fire in 1890.  It was funded by a combination of donors from the University of Massachusetts as well as Hokkaido University, formerly Sapporo Agricultural College, and individuals.  Its creation in 1991 was the result of years of discussions in both Amherst and Japan faculty in the 1950s and 1960s and by undergraduate students in the 1970s and 1980s.  Submissions for the memorial were advised to reflect Hokkaido University as well as Amherst landscapes or gardens that “symbolized Clark and his contributions to both universities,” according to the memorial brochure.  After reviewing twenty finalists, UMass alumni Todd A. Richardson’s design was chosen for its elegant combination of landscape and cultural importance, and the half acre sculpture and garden was dedicated on October 17, 1991.  The memorial is surrounded by the UMass Amherst campus and residence halls on the hill side and across the street are residential homes and an elementary school, a symbol of the continuing education around Clark’s old home.

With as much history as the memorial holds, most who frequent the area don’t know about its importance.  A popular myth the past few years by freshmen who visited the area was that Japanese schoolchildren had an identical memorial on the exact other side of the earth, regardless that geography would place the other side of the world just off the southern coast of Australia.  Each year the students who live closest to the memorial refer to it by a different name – in 2009-2010, it was lovingly referred to as the “Cult Stone” for the way it created a cult of visitors, many who used the memorial as an escape to smoke or gossip where they could spot potential “intruders” from a distance.  Those same students utilized the terrain for an unofficial “Van Meter Butterfield Meet and Greet” that garnered over a hundred students mingling through the memorial’s walls and reclining on its bench in a smoky, energetic, and music-filled gathering.  During 2010-2011, the students closest to the memorial established it as a place to read and write new poetry and essays, owing to the proximity of the memorial to the living and learning communities focused on humanities and the fine arts nearby.  The 2011-2012 troupe relied on the memorial as a place to stage plays and quick improvised swordfights, adding a hint of danger and intrigue to a place focused on positive and friendly interactions.

Regardless of what small adventures the Clark memorial is used for by each year’s student visitors, it can always be relied on for a few things.  The view from the memorial of different residence halls in the Central area, as well as the lower UMass campus, is stunning, particularly when the sun is setting across campus, lighting up the sky with layers of clouds and color that thrill the viewer.  The circular benches are the perfect place to dance and jump from bench to bench while belting the “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” song from “The Sound of Music,” or to lie down and stare at the night stars while covered in blankets on a chilly November evening.  The area is perfect for reflection or reading, a bit of solitude and defined space to admire on a bustling and vivacious campus.

Clark’s attempts at connecting the soon-to-be University of Massachusetts Amherst campus to other locations across the world, particularly concerning Japan in the late nineteenth century, showcase his drive to improve both the standing of his own University as well as improve the opportunities available to others.  By creating a space where families, students, and wandering visitors can interact and appreciate the work Clark has done and the beauty of the University today, the supporters of the memorial from across the world have shown that Clark’s work lives on.

All photos courtesy of Kerry McDonough. Memorial map courtesy of The William Smith Clark Memorial brochure, 1992, original text by Marjorie Tuttle, additional text by Laurel E. Foster-Moore, Japanese translation by Chisato Kitagawa. Brochure can be found at http://media.umassp.edu/massedu/international/WSClark.pdf.

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Character Building

By Krista Wiberg.

Freshman year was the first time I entered Bartlett. It was 2009, on a hot September morning, and I was headed to my first Journalism course on the second floor. I went up the awkwardly steep steps and took a seat in the farthest right row, under the clock, its white face looming out of sight above me. I began to sweat in the uncomfortably warm temperature, sticking to the seat, impatiently listening to my first ever lecture by the most intimidating professor. The building itself did not seem to be the issue at this point in time, rather my freshmen anxiety. I blamed all of my discomforts on that alone. Little did I know, this was just an average morning in Bartlett, with all of its fabulous quirks in tow.

There are 317 major buildings at the University of Massachusetts. Some are rather large, some are small, some quaint, some quirky. Most majors here get the full experience of the wide range of classrooms and lecture halls, walking different places to go to their next class, seeing different things as they migrate, interacting will all types of people. If you are an English major, once the Gen Eds have been completed and the awkward ventures to Hasbrouck have come to an end, you will see the inside of one building and one building alone. Bartlett Hall.

For example, I am taking four classes this semester. Three are on the third floor of Bartlett. Two of those are in the same classroom. So, it is really no surprise that I have accumulated a lot of time and memories here. Despite its weird layout and confusing twists and turns (which are not helped by my complete lack of directional intuition) I know Bartlett like the back of my hand.

Bartlett has some common features throughout its four-ish levels (there are only three classroom floors but the office floors continue to extend upward in the other wing of the building). The most prevalent is the lack of temperature control. No matter where you go in the building, no matter what season, you will continually be either uncomfortably hot or freezing. It could be a beautiful fall day outside, perhaps a nice breeze is accompanying you to class, but the second you enter the doors of Bartlett, it is the middle of July. Everyone around you is awkwardly fanning themselves, perspiration is collecting on every brow, and the poor professor usually has noticeable pit-stains on their nice dress shirt.

On the other hand, in the dead of winter, you should be prepared to keep your jacket on. I once had a final exam in a room that had a broken window. We all sat and scribbled essays while a winter breeze traveled through the desks.

The classrooms of Bartlett also have charming similarities across the board. Paper thin walls separate each room. If you sit in the back, you will hear the professor in the next room over scratching away on the chalkboard. There are usually about five desks too many in every room, which must be rearranged before every class in order for the room to be semi-functional. English majors typically have trouble with the shape of a circle, leading to many misplaced and awkwardly situated people in desks. This causes significant traffic jams when trying to enter the classroom though a door poorly placed in the back of the room. If you are concerned about the time, buy a watch. The clock it is most likely broken or completely wrong.

The three different classroom floors, though strikingly similar in appearance, hold different treasures. Through personal experience, I have been able to decipher some interesting and important quirks that can further improve your Bartlett hall experience.

I have had three classes down in the dungeons of Bartlett. My time in the basement has actually given me one of the grossest, most horrifying experiences I have ever had. Last year, after my Contemporary American Indians class, I decided it was a good idea to use the bathroom across from the basement lecture hall. This bathroom is windowless and constantly has a faint stench of kitty litter. I opened the door, flicked the lights on, and went about my business. When I went to flush the toilet, I looked down and to my horror, out crawls a huge cockroach from under the seat. In a panicked state, I go to wash my hands, and theres another cockroach scuttling across the floor. I will never again enter a bathroom in the basement, and I advise you to do the same.

The first floor holds some great freshman memories since it is where I most notably took College Writing 112. This class changed the whole course of my college career. I started freshman year thinking journalism (the department conveniently across the hall) was my calling, completely disregarding all the anxiety the actual journalistic work gave me. After seeing how wonderful a writing class made me feel, I realized that college didn’t have to be a painstaking journey towards a career I did not want.  This is where I decided to become an English major, cementing my future within Bartlett for the years to come.

The other great feature of the first floor is the lobby. There are several tables that can be used to get work done and feel the pain of other English majors trying to furiously read a chapter or finish a paper. It is a community of people trying to keep up with all the literature spanning centuries, while also enjoying some light people watching. The chairs aren’t to comfortable, and the lighting (depending on the day) isn’t always great, but the company is surely motivating.

The second floor is the transition floor. This is where most of the sophomore-level general requirements for the English major are offered. I have taken a number of classes here that were not something I chose, but something forced upon me by the English department. While some were great, others were dull and painful. I have also taken classes outside of the English major on this floor, including all of my Spanish classes, Native Studies classes, and other discussion classes from larger lectures.

There is also a nice little nook on the second floor between where the offices and the classrooms connect. There are two couches a table and a chalkboard, all of which look like they have been there for ages. It is a great area for book reading and napping. However, a lack of well-functioning light fixtures makes it difficult to keep your eyes open on gloomier days. You may want to sit there at 6 PM on a stormy evening to read a book, but consequentially find yourself napping as the soft lighting lulls your eyelids to rest.

The third floor is my favorite floor, not for its balmy fall temperatures, or even its awkward physically-draining stair-climb, but for the classes offered on this top tier. The writing program lives here, alongside most of the upper level english electives. Since, as a senior, this is where most of my classes are, (all of which are courses I actually wanted to take) I have a special affinity for this floor. It looks just like the other floors yet it offers the best of the English department.

There have been rumors floating around that Bartlett will cease to be in the next five years due to its supposedly condemned state. I will be finishing my undergraduate career in its musty, warm embrace, only hoping future English majors will appreciate its antiquity after time. Unless, of course a new Bartlett does finally get built, then I hope no one ever forgets the charm of this deteriorating space, and all the memories it has created. I know I certainly will not, especially since there were cockroaches involved.

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Cheap Locale

By Kathryn Beskrowni.

When thinking of ‘it’ places to be, Boston often falls into the shadows of the bigger cities, the likes of New York and Los Angeles.  Without the Hollywood glam or the 5th Avenue glitz, Boston, the smallest of the three, can be forgotten in the city commotion.  However, if given the chance, the New England city does not fall short.  Beyond the revolutionary history, Boston can still hold its own among giants.  Under the bustle of the day-to-day lays an active recreation, if only one knows how to find it.  While tour guides and informationals can give visitors a hand in finding their way, there are some perks, events, and secrets only a Boston native can let you in on.  The best tastes of Boston and all the culture it has to offer are often through these overlooked, cheap, experiences.  So here’s the challenge: find the best of the city and do Boston for under $100 this week.

If you’re starting your visit out Monday morning, a place many may not suspect of a decent brunch the Fire & Ice restaurant on Arlington Street in the Back Bay area.  Fire & Ice is known for the radical style in which the restaurant is set up; think of a hot pot restaurant for the new generation.  Everything is raw and after your personal choosing, cooked right in front of you.  However, what they are not so well known for is their open college discount policy.  Flaunt that student loan and get a good chunk of change taken off your bill.

http://sebastianwhite.com/blog/?cat=25

Once you’ve had your fill to eat, a short walk down Boylston Street will bring you to the Public Gardens.  Providing the weather is suiting you, for a quarter short of three dollars you can take a fifteen-minute ride on the swan boats.  Now 130 years old, the swan boats will allow you to enjoy both the atmosphere and the knowledge that you are experiencing the only boats of their kind in the entire world as you glide around the lagoon in the botanical garden.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Public_Garden_(Boston)

A leisurely walk through the Commons will invite you to innumerable options for activities.  Whether interacting with fellow pedestrians or sticking solo is your taste of fun, you will find something worthwhile.  The carousel, the dancing gazebo, and the Frog Pond will each give open invites to meet new friends, while the book exchange by Park Street will be sure to expand your mind.

Once you’ve killed a good amount of daylight, the Red Hat Café becomes the place to be.  Down on Bowdoin Street, the Red Hat is one of the oldest, still functioning establishments in all of Boston.  More importantly, their wings are ten cents a piece from 5-10pm.  If their buffalo sauce doesn’t hit you too hard, be sure to make your way back to the Landsdowne Pub, right behind Fenway Park, for darts.  Since they’re free, you can certainly make a night of it.  Perhaps you’ll even find some companions for the rest of your journey.  Current balance: $80.25

http://www.yawkeywaystore.com/

Since your Monday evening ended off in the Fenway area, what better way to start your Tuesday than a tour of arguably Boston’s greatest sporting landmark?  Each day during the open season, Fenway Park offers free, guided tours through the building and field, including options to meet players practicing, touch the Green Monster, and taste the renowned baseball fare.  Most days, tours are open from 10am through 5pm, unless a scheduled game intervenes.

If the air of Americana didn’t satisfy your feining for franks, Castle Island in South Boston is your next stop.  Sullivan’s, though seasonal, will give you the best bang for your buck you could ask for, all while enjoying the harbor view and the airport traffic overhead.  With milkshakes for $3.00 and hotdogs for half that, you can’t go wrong.

http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m61uo7Ym1B1qahg25o1_1280.jpg

Tuesday nightlife can become a force, as most people are still settling into the reality of their work week.  The Harbor Hotel at the waterfront has an answer for the early-week-drag: Timeless Tunes dancing on the pier.  With a DJ covering hits from the 1930’s up through the 90’s, one would be pressed to spend a night without hearing at least a single song they did not adore.  The event is free and open to those 21+, with fairly cheap appetizers and drinks available.  Tuesday night, week balance: $70.75

Wednesday takes you out of the heart of the city and to any of the many community centers throughout Boston.  Each community center holds daily events and specials dependant on the area and their facilities.  The Jim Roche Center in West Roxbury, in particular, holds a day-long free skate open entirely to the public.  Skate rental is $3 for unlimited time, and personal skates are completely welcome.  After you have gotten your Michelle Kwan or your Scott Hamilton on, head over to Cambridge to mellow out a bit.  The Cantab Lounge offers spoken word poetry events every Wednesday night.  Entry to the club is free and participation in readings is voluntary and open to the public.  Share your creative side, or indulge in that of others.  Week balance: $67.75

www.merchantcircle.com/business/Lucky.Strike.Lanes.
617-437-0300/picture/view/2332697
http://www.edenresources.com/projects.html

Prepare for Thursday night nightlife, because we are about to get active.  Back in the Fenway area, Jillian’s has blessed us all with free bowling every Thursday night; shoe rental and cover charge is on the house for the night.  With three floors of bowling, dance floors, and bars, the free cover is worth it, even if you are not completely feeling the big-ball bowl.  And, when you tire of the club environment, Coogan’s over on Milk Street has you covered with $1 drafts all night, which definitely gives you some wiggle room with your budget.  Week balance: $65.75

With such an active week, you will need some time to chill out come Friday.  You are in luck, since the Boston Harbor ferry runs regularly all day to each of the harbor islands and back.  For a mere $2.50 you can find yourself aboard the vessel, on your way to Spectacle Island to simultaneously enjoy the beach and the city view.  Or, if you are in a particularly adventurous mood, you may find yourself on Deer Island for a tour of the wastewater plant.  That sort of intellectual stimulation you just can’t buy.

bostongeology.com/boston/geology/islands/islands.htm

After a day of sunbathing (or water purifying), what sounds better than $1 oysters? Van Shabu, a relatively new ‘Asian Fusion’ restaurant in Dorchester has your back on this one.  And if you have had your fill of all things relating to the ocean today, head over to the Pour House on Boylston Street.  As long as you ask, hot dogs are free at the bar after 1am.  Week balance: $53.25

Saturday will become your day of exploration.  Since there is so much to see around the city, you will need at least the day to give in to the markers of the Freedom Trail, the old architecture, the new architecture, and the purposely planned greenery around the city.  You are in luck, since most areas within the city hold their Farmers’ Markets on Saturday mornings, you can finagle free parking to mingle with the locals.  Stop by the tents and booths and ask for samples so you will have the boost of regional locale to get you through your adventures of the day.

As the evening wears on, be sure to keep your phone handy; each weekend Club RISE gives out free admission for a guest, plus one, to the winner of their online trivia.  Keep refreshing that Twitter page and racking your brain and an entry bracelet will soon be on your wrist.  Break out the neon and prepare to dance.  Week balance: $53.25

leaveittobeesus.blogspot.com/2012_05_01_archive.html

You’ve made it to Sunday, and what a balance in your pocket.  In order to treat yourself for the end of your travels and your frugal skills all week, you have $50 to spend on dinner in the word-of-mouth-renowned North End.  While you will have your choice of restaurants upon restaurants to indulge in, all sorts from 5-star eateries to small cafes that seemingly are attached to someone’s kitchen, some spots have perks above others.  If you are looking to spoil yourself just a bit, try the Euno restaurant, recently opened.  You will enjoy entirely authentic Italian food, an accessible wine cellar, and if you ask for “Tony” to tell him how great your meal has been, free dessert with a touch of house Moscato is a guarantee.

As you let your meal settle, make your way back to the heart of the downtown area.  The Prudential Mall, located right in Copley Plaza in the Back Bay area, hosts free film screenings on their lawn each Sunday night that the weather permits.  A movie under the stars with a view of the largest buildings in the area is quite a way to end your week.

sevengablesphotography.blogspot.com/2009_09_01_archive.html

Total Balance: $0.

https://www.tuftslife.com/transportation
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One Sixteen

By Amanda Lavelle.

It takes approximately 30 minutes—without traffic—to drive (or one hour and 38 minutes to bike or four hours and 48 minutes to walk) from my house in Chicopee, Massachusetts to the University of Massachusetts Amherst. The route goes through four cities: Chicopee, South Hadley, Granby and Amherst. If I outline it on a map, the line it forms resembles the side profile of a poorly proportioned person’s face: the chin begins at Lyman Street, the lips rest just above Dartmouth Street and the nostrils are perpendicular to Pleasant Street.

 

(flickr.com/DougTone)

My commute is mostly made up of Route 116 North, more commonly known as simply 116. There is a lot to look at (besides the scattered squirrel carcasses) as I drive along 116 in my bright red 2000 Pontiac Sunfire, so I don’t mind that I have to take this route four days every week. I love looking at the thousands of trees that line the road. In the morning and at dusk, the light flickers through them like a million tiny diamonds. Driving amongst the trees is calming and almost freeing in a way that prepares me for my eight-hour day at UMass.

After I leave my house around 9 am, I drive two minutes down two side streets before I reach Route 33, which is part of 116. A minute later I’m in South Hadley and city police cruisers are stationed at areas where drivers, including myself, tend to speed. I put on my brakes and pretend like I was driving at 30 mph instead of 45. Then I look at my rearview mirror to make sure no cops are following me and let out a sigh of relief when I see that there are no flashing lights. As I drive further into South Hadley I see Mount Holyoke College on my right and students cautiously pass through crosswalks after pushing a button on a pole that lights up the crosswalk and repeats the phrase in a monotone voice, “Caution. Cars may not stop.” The stone buildings at the college resemble the ones from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry which is better known as the school in the Harry Potter books and movies.

(tanukisan2.com)

As I drive down the road, more and more trees begin to appear but the area is still predominantly residential. It’s the beginning of autumn so the leaves are changing colors and flying through the wind before eventually descending on the ground. The faster I drive, the more the colors begin to blur and create an impressionistic painting. According to the sign I just passed, I’m now in Granby and there are no more houses along 116. I’m at the beginning of my favorite stretch that I like to refer to as the “rollercoaster” and on the left I see the mountain of multicolored trees. The speed limit changes from 45 to 50 mph in a matter of seconds and my little Pontiac struggles to make it up the steep hill (on my way back home, I always want to stick my arms out of my car like I’m on an actual rollercoaster but I never do). The sign on the left informs me that I’m now “Entering South Hadley” which is confusing because almost immediately after that I’m in Amherst. The top of the hill plateaus and on the right side of the road is the Notch Visitors Center at the Mt. Holyoke Range State Park. As I glance over at the full parking lot, I realize that I really need to get in shape and feel embarrassed that I am driving instead of walking four hours and 48 minutes to school. I look back to the road and the speed limit suddenly changes to 30 mph. It’s down the spiral hill I go and I put my brakes on the whole way down and hope that my car doesn’t flip over as I go around the sharp turns. The road flattens again and I’m in Amherst. On my left I see Atkins Farms, home of the country’s best Cider Donuts. I hear the donuts calling my name, but I resist their tempting offer to go buy and eat them.

(yankeemagazine.com)

I drive through a newly constructed rotary that is kind of like a maze that I didn’t know how to get out of when I first went through it. Big orange cones are scattered in the road and police officers are conducting traffic. I see a large sign on the left that reads “Hampshire College” but I question whether the college is really around here because I all see is farmland. Further down the road, the area becomes more residential and small stores appear. As I continue to drive, there is one last breathtaking view of just land, trees and mountains on the right. I have to look quickly because unfortunately I pass by it in a matter of seconds. The landscape is especially beautiful now because of the multicolored trees. I look back to the road and see some people riding their bikes.

(bikinglondon.com)

Some look like they are (or trying to be) professional bikers with their bright skintight shirts, shorts and helmets. These bikers try to race my car, but I always win. Other bikers are casually riding with no helmet on while some have a small cart attached to the back with a child sitting in it. I am not against people riding bikes on a busy road and I have no problem “Sharing the Road” but I do mind it when people ride their bike directly on the bike lane line or even in the road near the cars. I begin to get very nervous and am forced to drive in the wrong lane until I completely pass the biker. I move back into the correct lane and look into my rearview mirror to make sure he or she is still alive. I breathe a sigh of relief when I can see that the person is still on their bike.

(amherstrestaurant.com)

After I drive up a hill with poorly placed crosswalks at the top where someone will probably get run over, I wait at an intersection on South Pleasant Street in Downtown Amherst and Amherst College is on the right. People are crossing the street, people are jogging, and people are talking to other people, talking on cell phones or maybe just talking to themselves. People are being people. The traffic light turns green and I drive—when no one is walking through the five crosswalks—past the small and independent restaurants, bars and businesses with clever names like The Souper Bowl, Food for Thought Books and the Toy Box. As I pass the shops, I think about going inside because I have only gone into a handful of them.

I reach the end of 116 and turn left onto North Pleasant Street and am in the city within the city of Amherst known as UMass. I continue to drive straight onto Massachusetts Avenue and play a game of stop and go through the six crosswalks. At the intersection, I turn right onto Commonwealth Avenue and slowly—due to the UMass police officers’ urging—pass by the construction of the new campus buildings which will not be finished until after I graduate. On my left I see the Athletic Fields and the Mullins Center. I drive through the final set of traffic lights of my commute and turn left into Parking Lot 25. After I find a suitable space, I park my car, turn off the engine and look at the clock. It is now 9:45 (15 minutes later than the approximate travel time due to traffic) and I am fully refreshed and ready for the day ahead of me at UMass.

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Paradise, Nine by Eleven

By Ashleigh West.

When I began the process of choosing a place to live for the fall, I had one thing and one thing only on my list: space.  Not just any space, my own space.  Space is hard to come by on any college campus in general, but here at UMass Amherst they like to make it a personal challenge; a feat in which, if you are triumphant in not only managing to find, but actually be able to “register” for a little slice of personal space, well my friend you have discovered the Holy Grail.  Time limits, set dates, class restrictions—just a few of the “do not enter” signs UMass has thrown in front of the most desirable of housing spaces on campus, leaving a many an exhausted student, desperate for a two by four squeeze to call their own without the likes of a roommate or three.

After three long years of sharing a space barely big enough for the two twin beds it housed and after over a decade of sharing a bedroom with my younger sister, I have achieved the college dream: a little space of my own to call home.  I reside in North Apartments—the crown jewel of housing on campus—in a room that’s just a hair smaller than the one I’ve been splitting with roommates in the past.  The door, which has the ability to lock, and actually does, swings open to the left and behold!  Paradise.

The room is painted a medical white and for not the essential dorm furniture, might be mistaken for rather large hospital supply closet.  Medical closet or not, these walls—though increditibly thin enough to hear the person showering in the next apartment—are in fact actual walls and not the brick foundation of the building, as was the case of my last humble abode, which was in the basement—yes, the basement, exposed pipes and all—of Wheeler Hall.  To compensate for the rather bland interior, strings of Christmas lights—a college dorm staple—line the walls, encircling the room in a cozy glow.  With over two-dozen red thumbtacks and a few near-death experiences, strands of twinkling multi-colored, dangling white icicles, and red heart lights are secured and provide just enough light to render the interrogation lamp overhead inconsequential.

There is a decent-sized window nestled in the wall directly opposite the door: four panels of glass with only one cranking out to the outside world, allowing a slight breeze to seep into the cracked opening.  Though the apartment is air-conditioned—an amenity of the rarest variety in all the land of UMass—apartment dwellers have no control over the two white boxes that “cool” the living room and the four bedrooms down off of the hallway.  No matter how many times you try to adjust the boxes, the lowest setting still blinks a mocking 710F but never reaches such a “low” temperature.  The window, barely opened wide enough to drop a pencil or two out of, then becomes essential, especially after learning that all the vents in all the apartments of charming North D are connected to one another.  Here at UMass Amherst, we like to share everything, including used, dusty, uncooled air.  Yet when the window is opened to its full two inches, living on the second floor has its disadvantages.  Skateboarders can be heard rattling over the pavement as obnoxiously as the UMass Alarm System and with the timetable of the Boston Green Line.  Nondescript panel blinds clothe the window, almost blocking out the light, and with the addition of the almost-big-enough-to-cover-the-window pink Command Stripped curtain, the mornings are generally not too bright and brutal.  A pink and white flower lamp perches nearby but is never plugged in, as there is an extreme lack of outlets, and with three large extension cords already wrapped around the room, the looming threat of blown fuses is at an all-time high.

If locating living space is an issue, keeping up workspace is no different.  To the left of the window resides the desk, an ecosystem in itself.  An array of teacups and travel mugs adorn the K-cup stuffed storage drawer resting on the far left corner of the desk.  A baby Keurig once resided but was overrun with drink-ware and the absurd need for the desk to be in fact used as a desk.  Boxes of tea, half empty bottles of water, and numerous sheets of paper boasting scribbled poems or “Optime” Latin vocabulary quizzes litter the empty spaces.  The need for caffeine is life or death for the average college student juggling four classes, an eight-hour workweek, and being ever involved in campus extracurriculars—so moonlighting as a barista and turning your desk into a personal Starbucks is just as necessary as actually completing the assignments.  The NASA sized printer—a must for any student with last minute turn-ins and when the lines at the library snake outside—is kitty-cornered to the right, where journals, books, magazines, notebooks, course packets and a vase of fake flowers spreading dust instead of pollen are precariously stacked, balancing on its uneven top.

The drawers of the desk are full of various types of cords, a camera, paperclips, tape, more pens than needed, since only one is used in particular, and too many neon colored Post-Its that never get written on.  On the shelf above the desk, a Pixar-esque lamp sits donning a couple flowered headbands.  More mugs of various sizes rest amid DVDs and blu-rays—among them the complete series of “Friends” for when the inevitable blizzard strikes, rendering class untrekable—which lean on an immense pile of novels for support.   All of these books are on the “to-do” list, but with little time for sleep let alone outside reading, they stand largely untouched.  Beside the tower of books lies the glass drink-ware collection—champagne flutes, a martini glass, wine goblets, stem-less glasses, a beer mug, and a number of shot glasses from the likes of Walt Disney World, Montreal, and Puerto Rico.  With the drink-ware collection being a favorite, it’s no wonder that the desk is more of a shrine to hand painted cups and an over-caffeinated coffee addiction than a functional study space.

Beside the desk stands the dresser, where vintage black velvet jewelry box full of unworn treasures from the hectic morning routine marks the territory between the two.  A moderately sized Toshiba flat screen TV—whose channel function does not actually function, leaving the few HD stations UMass cable provides forever elusive—spots proudly on a matching blu-ray player, front and center.  The alarm clock is perched on top of a box of eyeglass cleaner—as far away from the bed as possible, to ensure no snooze button abuse—and next to a navy bag of makeup, which is constantly falling over.  A white lamp from IKEA that is always too hot and has most likely has been recalled, hides behind the TV with a 1960’s style traveling bag chalked full of makeup and too many brushes.

On the opposite corner of the room rests the wardrobe—definitely not of Narnia fame, as it is bursting purely with shirts and dresses of the rainbow.  Jackets hang off the side of one of the doors—which can no longer be closed—and scarves and belts decorate the other.  The drawers of the wardrobe are stocked full of “essential” clothing—probably too full, as the drawers are always sticking and must be kicked shut.  To the left is the bed, with purses and backpacks dangling from its posts for lack of storage space.  Two thick mattress pads and cozy denim colored jersey cotton sheets make this spot heavenly.  A fluffy yellow and black flowered comforter, over three large pillows, and a baby elephant complete the cozy oasis, where at the end of a seemingly endless day, all that matters is that the space—though loud, uninsulated, full of half-drunk coffee mugs, dead air, and unusable lamps, barely big enough to contain all the organized chaos that is senior year of college—rooms only one and is just enough to house a bed and a few highly-anticipated hours of pretty peaceful sleep.

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The Lagoons Have Eyes

By Amy Laprade.

I’d had some of the best times of my life in San Francisco but was ready for a change. My love affair with the city had grown stale after six years of living with crazy housemates, wrangling with seedy landlords, and shlepping from one dingy flat to another.

I broke it off with San Francisco in the winter of 1997 when a man came into my life. Kevin was the quintessential California boy who sported long hair and garish Don Ho shirts. He’d grown up among the spidery freeways that snake along smog-filled L.A., and the piers of Venice Beach. He knew the dusty desert peaks of the Santa Anna Mountains like I know each and every birthmark on my body. Years ago he and his brother Shawn had been uprooted to Marin County to live with their mother.

Kevin talked me into moving to Marin months after we began dating. Traffic aside, the county was only a twenty minute dash over the Golden Gate Bridge, north of San Francisco. Kevin found us a two-room studio apartment with a dutch style door in a little town called San Anselmo, which is in the central eastern side of Marin County. We lived on Bell Avenue, a quiet, residential street, off the main drag. Our building was tucked among a grove of redwoods. Every morning, the spicy scent of these trees carried on the air, dry as the striker on a matchbox. The scent would later mingle with the cool, enveloping fog, that fell in cascades over the golden hills of San Geronimo Valley, West of us. The air in San Anselmo was a contrast to San Francisco’s air, where black exhaust belched from the Muni buses daily.

The center of San Anselmo was lined with boutiques selling silk scarves and watches from Switzerland. It boasted specialty shops that sold gourmet chocolate, organic wine, and cigars from around the world. These stores had nothing in common with the x-rated porn shops of downtown San Francisco, with their black-mirrored windows and stuttering Christmas lights. These specialty shops had nothing to do with the twenty-four-hour convenience stores with their bullet-holed windows and entrances that stank of urine. I’d gone from dodging homeless people with their shopping carts on sidewalks to dodging yuppies in spandex shorts as they barreled down the dirt paths of Mount Tamalpais on their mountain bikes. Mount Tam, as everyone in Marin called it, was the local biking and hiking hotspot. The high trail had breezy golden vistas, laced with windswept junipers, gnarled toward the valley below. The low trail boasted cool, mossy ravines with enormous ferns, towering Redwoods, and random Mountain Lion sightings.

Mount Tam is not only rumored to be a defunct volcano but is the centerpiece of Marin. No matter what town Kevin and I were in, we’d always catch a view of Mount Tam. We could even see the tip of it from the end of Bell Avenue.

In Marin it seemed that everyone drove a BMW or a Lexus, everyone except Kevin and I, who tooled around in his boss’ rattly work van. Kevin was a plumber who did service jobs for a living while I went to massage school at night. Exhausted by the end of each week, we vowed to take it easy on weekends. To Kevin, that meant an adventure of some kind. During our first year together, he took me to a new place every weekend.

The town of Bolinas, a forty minute drive West of San Anselmo, was a funky, clandestine coastal town, comprised of colorful characters who liked to smoke grass and chop down road signs so that the tourists and realtors couldn’t find their way in. Bolinas Beach was infamous for its Great White shark infested waters.

“A friend of a friend of so and so, lost his pinky finger in a shark attack while out on the fishing boat in Bolinas Bay,” so the rumor went. I always wondered if the rumor was real or a story devised to keep tourists out.

In any case, one had to be very acquainted with Western Marin to know where the turnout to Bolinas was. There was only one turnout on that lonely coastal stretch that Kevin knew of, and even he would occasionally miss it. He missed it once during an adventure of ours. It was night and the fog was heavy. There were no street lamps to speak of, and we’d rolled endlessly through the shroud, our high beams never penetrating further than one foot beyond. If there’d been a moon that night, we hadn’t known about it. John Fogerty’s grainy voice crackling over the radio as he sang, “Better run through the jungle, don’t look back to see” was the only hiatus from our own bickering about how we should’ve taken a left at the fork instead of a right.

Eventually we found ourselves dangling dangerously close to a seaside cliff. A sign, barely illuminated in the pallid glow of our high beams, read Point Reyes National Sea Shore. EROSION CONTROL, PLEASE REMAIN ON THE PATH. Point Reyes is at the bitter end of the continent and approximately a forty-five minute drive (without fog) from San Anselmo, and has miles of protected shoreline.

“Well, where to now, Ame?” Kevin shouted over the crashing surf.

We hiked down that rocky precipice and into the mouth of a cove. It was my birthday and Kevin was trying to make it special. He’d brought wood and kindling along. We rolled sleeping bags out on the beach and got a fire going. Kevin played his guitar and we polished off a bottle of wine, but just as we were settling in for the night, the tide came rolling in. I grew scared.

“You’re getting paranoid, Ame,” Kevin grumbled.

Jagged cliffs surrounded us in a narrow horseshoe and felt cavelike. When we’d arrived, the tide had been far out. However, within an hour, it seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere and fast. Raging foam swallowed our stretch of sand and slapped the rocky outcrop that’d sheltered us from the wind. The first drops of ocean spray pelted our arms as we blindly stumbled up the precipice in the fog. We would later discover that we’d been at Drake’s Bay, only one of several areas that comprised of Point Reyes.

We tried to find it again the following weekend but became distracted by the way the lovely redwoods of Lagunitas, a town in West Marin, had cast bending shadows over our windshield. We ended up, instead, at Bodega Bay, which is further north along the coast from Point Reyes, and a forty minute drive Northwest of San Anselmo. The switchbacks on the road to Bodega were endless. Many were crumbled from erosion. In some places whole chunks of road had plunged two hundred feet below, into the jaws of the churning Pacific. However, Kevin and I forged ahead at five-miles-per-hour, with me holding my breath, eager to get to the beach.

On other trips, we languidly rolled along lonely stretches that seemed to go on forever, or until they fell off the edge of the state. We’d often stop to admire the vistas where wisps of cloud would hover far below our rocky perch. They were the only things dividing the ocean from the sky. Gulls would circle mutely as they cast aquiline shadows on golden hills, carpeted with poppies: riotous orange lashing at blue skies. At such a distance the roaring surf was no louder than a dull boom and the waves seemed to roll in slow motion.

On the way to Bodega, we’d stopped at the Cheese Factory in Petaluma, which is a farm town in Sonoma County, North of Marin. There purveyors sold a wide variety of brie cheeses, French baguettes, and table water crackers. Visitors could purchase wine for as little as five dollars a bottle, since it came from local Wineries in Napa Valley.

Calistoga, one of the towns in Napa Valley, had been another destination of ours, and was an hour drive Northeast of San Anselmo. There we’d watched Old Faithful, an ancient geyser, spout plumes of hot spray that stank of rotten cabbage while getting buzzed on wine samples.

On the day of our Bodega Bay trip, however, we stuck to one bottle of Cabernet. Trying to rid ourselves of the chill from the coastal breeze, we took our provisions to the pond, dodging the hungry ducks on the way. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, we alternated bites of bread and cheese with the dry, red liquid that’d warmed our bellies.

Bodega Bay, part of Sonoma County, is an enclave between two stumps of land that jut into the Pacific. There, Kevin and I rolled our pant legs to our knees. We traversed that golden beach, observing the way our reflections rippled and shimmered on the wet sand. A gaggle of starfish in their pink and purple glory, revealed themselves on the rocks with each receding wave while sea urchins gently suckled my toes. The surf crashed against the barnacle-crusted boulders while I made a run for the dunes, squealing with delight as my hair clapped my face and the salty breeze stung my nostrils.

Kevin watched me with an expression of endearment. Only he could get me to drop what it was that I was doing. Only he could get me to come out with him and witness all the beauty that is our backyard. Our foot prints were the only ones left behind on the beach that day. The only other person around had been a a man fishing on the rocks.

Soon Kevin and I longed for the warmth of the van. On our way to the lot, we were intercepted by a red fox who slinked low on the path before vanishing into the high grass. A sonorous moan from a distant foghorn announced the four o’clock hour as we started the engine.

We headed in the direction of home, yet weren’t ready to return from our dream, so we pulled to the side of the road. There was a trailhead that looked like any other on the Pacific Coast: white sand that vanished over a grassy embankment.

Abbot’s Lagoon, tucked away in West Marin, was a place even Kevin didn’t know about. Together we’d discovered the fresh water lagoon and wildlife sanctuary. Snowy Egrets lighted on its glassy surface. They grew stiff and still like paper sails, their necks arched toward the sky. Water Lilly clusters levitated among shadowy depths, a dark jade green. I wanted to strip down and dive in?but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because the brown sugar dunes, bearing blades of delicate grass, appeared to have drifted into perfect formations, eons ago. They have since been undisturbed by nobody’s feet but that of the sandpipers’. Why should anyone cross them now?

I held my breath. This time not in fear of tumbling over a cliff, but because I wanted to drink in the silence, save for the distant surf. I no longer wanted the noise pollution of my heartbeats. I worried that my words, our speech would intrude upon a place that was seldom intruded upon by man.

When Kevin and I finally did speak, it was a whisper. I don’t remember the conversation. I only remember what happened next. He stopped whispering suddenly and pointed to a ledge above us. I looked up and saw the silhouette of an antelope, sporting a rack of antlers as wide as an eighteen wheeler. We wondered how long he’d been watching us. He was so still that for a moment I was convinced he was only a statue. He suddenly bolted in the other direction. His gallop was like thunder.

We weren’t frightened by the antelope, exactly, but we were afraid of what might be watching us without our knowing it. After all, we were only guests at that lagoon, but were glad that a world beyond humans still existed.