IX. Punting and Pimm's Parties, London and Berlin Revisited, Paris Visited, and the Value of Spontaneity

I will begin by unabashedly stating the obvious: this chapter has been relegated to the backburner for an inexcusable amount of time. Yes, my travels have been incredibly hectic, perhaps in some regards even more so than they were over winter vacation, as everything was spontaneously decided. With the exception of the flight to Berlin for choir tour (which I hadn't even directly purchased myself), I made bookings only days in advance, and was alone in transit between cities.

But that is hardly an excuse. I did technically have time to write, especially since I stayed for much longer in each place than I had on my last European adventure. And the words were there, accumulating in my head more and more every day, until the crescendo became almost overwhelming. I promised myself over and over that I would write them down, when I reached my next destination, when I was firmly settled again in one place, when I was feeling better, when I had a stable Wi-Fi connection. But the opportunity never quite arose; there was always something, or someone, that prevented it from happening. And for one week near the end of my travels, when I was in a stable place with a good Wi-Fi connection, I wanted to live in the moment for as long as possible. I did not want to reflect on past events, as wonderful and exciting and fresh in my mind as they were. I wanted to remain in the bubble of the present, away from technology, because I was happy, more blissfully happy than I ever could have imagined. But that bubble will constitute a future chapter in itself: not this one. It is not the right time.

So now I am confronted with the dilemma of having too much to write about—as with chapter VI, I hardly know where to begin. Bubble of happiness aside, one chapter will not be sufficient to capture everything else that has happened in the last seven weeks; I will need at least two. And even then, I will be missing out on several important details simply because I have forgotten them, because time makes memory fuzzy around the edges. Which is not always a bad thing, as it allows for general reflections, which I noted when recounting my winter travels. But this time, the portrait will be even more impressionistic, with less brushstrokes of clarity. Because when you reflect upon something after it is completely completely over, you inevitably will write about it in a different way than you would have written about it while fully immersed. Such is the angle of retrospection. And so I have decided to try something different for once: I will start from the beginning of my voyage and work my way forward in time, rather than backwards.

I want to begin begin, however, with my first week back at Oxford—because although term officially started yesterday, already quite a lot has happened of the eccentric and outrageous variety. I intended on moving back in on April 22nd, as I had an essay due on April 28th that required an immense amount of reading, and all of the books were only accessible at Oxford.

But this didn't quite happen. I had spoken with Jane Osborne, the Accommodation Manager at Pembroke, about returning a week early before I left for vacation, and she told me that it would be all right as long as I emailed her in advance. I sent her an email a day or two too late, however, because she was on vacation herself (for the Easter holiday) and could not respond. So then I emailed Brian Harvey, the Head Porter. His reply was a little startling: I could not return early because I had indicated on my moving-out form that I would be coming back on the 28th. But I was in Belfast at the time and had already booked my flight to Heathrow for the next morning, and it could not be cancelled.

After making backup accommodation arrangements with several friends who had already moved in, I returned on the 22nd as planned, in the hopes of convincing the porter on duty that I should be able to have my room because I had already spoken with Jane Osborne in person about this and received her permission. Because she was on vacation, however, the porter could not call her, and had no choice but to abide strictly by the College rules: no one was allowed to move back earlier than the date indicated on their moving-out form (which can only be changed by the Accommodation Manager). Moreover, there had very recently been a conference that used up all of the spare rooms, and because it was Easter weekend the scouts were not available to clean them. Jane Osborne would be back on the 26th, so that was the earliest I could return to my room.

Not wishing to cause a fiasco, I did not attempt to plead any further, and thanks to Sam and Cory I had places to stay until then. I do admit that I was more than a little irritated, however—after travelling for six weeks straight and living in hostels and friends' houses, I was more than ready to have my own personal space again. I needed privacy to write, to reply to dozens of emails that had accumulated in my inbox, and to do work: I have an extreme aversion to studying in the library, because I find the atmosphere both distracting and stifling.

But everything worked out in the end, and Sam and Cory were such entertaining and wonderful hosts (not to mention the fact that both had mattresses so I did not have to sleep on the floor). I stayed with Sam on Friday and Saturday. We cooked a delicious dinner on Friday night and ate it al fresco because the weather was so pleasant—during the day it had been as high as 25 degrees C!—and the Chapel Quad lawn was finally open. On Saturday there was a wedding in the chapel, for which Sam was hired to play the organ, and I tagged along under the premise of turning pages because I love weddings (I've only been to one other in my entire life, that of a family friend at the New Jersey Botanical Garden). It was a delightful affair, and the perfect way to jumpstart my weekend, along with the lemonade that Sam and I had made the previous evening. I had a glorious time with Cory and his friend from Sunday until Tuesday, when I was indeed able to return to my own room. Easter was relatively uneventful, as I spent most of the day in the library working—but I was able to swallow my aversion and managed to have a relatively productive session.

If Easter weekend was calm, May Day weekend was a complete storm, and it was exactly what I needed after hibernating in my room from Tuesday to Friday to work on my essay. On Saturday, there was a Pimm's Party on Chapel Quad hosted by the Pembroke College Boat Club, and due to inordinately sunny weather and the joy of collections being over for most people, the lawn was inundated. It was my first time drinking Pimm's, which I am fairly certain is unique to Britain, as I had not encountered it on any of my travels. I would say that it is the closest in taste and composition to sangria, except the alcohol is gin rather than wine. But both are infused with fruit pieces and mint leaves and best served with ice in large pitchers, and don't really taste alcoholic—which means that you don't realise you're properly drunk until it's a little too late; the inebriation is quite insidious. Great fun, especially if you go punting after.

PCBC Pimm's Party

Which we, of course, did. We being Sam, Ashley, Andrea (Ashley's girlfriend, who I hadn't seen since Berlin), and Tara, who is also in Pembroke Choir. It also happened to be my first time on a punt, so I was not quite sure what to expect. In appearance punting sort of resembles a gondola ride, but they differ in one important regard: the punting pole touches the bottom of the river, which has to be quite shallow, but the gondola pole does not. And punting isn't really common across all of England; in fact, I think it's mostly an Oxbridge tradition.

With Sam and Ashley, it was, to say the least, an adventure. Both exhilarating and traumatic, in the best possible proportions. We were all fairly tipsy or beyond at this point from the Pimm's party, and we had brought along the obligatory alcohol funnel along with some just-as-obligatory Sainsbury's cider. Thankfully, I finally agreed to try the funnel (yet another first) after we had disembarked and were safely grounded—it was a complete disaster but would have been even more of a disaster had we been on the punt (and luckily there is no photographic evidence).

Sam took control of the pole, which was good because I am convinced that I would have fallen into the water or the boat would have capsized had I made an attempt. Due to inebriation levels and tomfoolery with the funnel, however, the ride was not as peaceful as it conventionally should be. At one point, Sam tried to steer us down a narrow side stream that was exciting uncharted territory, but the punt got enmeshed between a submerged tree and the branches on the shore. At another point, the pole got stuck in the river, so we had to paddle back to retrieve it. We also tried to steal several ducks along the way, tempting them with bread from our little sandwiches, but to no avail. On the whole, though, the sailing was very smooth. Here is my video footage of the entire affair. [On the way back to Pembroke we saw a tree walking down the street. Seriously.]

Sunday was May Day, which has become one of my favourite holidays because of the hilarious festivities. In Oxford it is especially bizarre. Traditionally, everyone wakes up just before the crack of dawn to hear the Magdalen College Choir sing like angels from the top of a tower. Directly afterwards, many students jump off the nearby bridge into the river, at the risk of severe injury—fractures and broken limbs are common, but one year someone actually broke his back. I did not hear or witness any of this, however, as I wanted a solid eight hours of sleep and had other plans: David Kirke had invited me to a special celebration in South Parks, a Pink Pimm's Party. Ironically enough, it was the complete inverse of the party in Pembroke, which had been a proper and tranquil affair; many people had shown up in fancy dresses and suits. The attendees at this peculiar gathering were all clad in outrageous bright pink costumes (which happens to be Pembroke's colour), complete with wigs, ludicrous hats, feathers, and polka dot bathrobes. They were also quite literally from all avenues of life: I met several automobile engineers, several planetary geophysicists, and Adam Harper, the man who pioneered a fire extinguisher-powered dinghy and the fastest electric car. He has promised to take me on a ride in the former sometime this summer. I hope my first punting adventure has prepared me well...

The Pimm's was poured into a huge rubbish bin up to the brim, and refills seemed virtually unlimited because the level kept rising the more people extracted from it—normal laws of mathematics never apply to alcohol. There were also many explosions of all shapes, sizes, and varieties, bridge-jumping (but with a harness, of which I have also taken video footage), tree-gliding (with a rope), spontaneous food fights, torches (employed to singe off facial hair), a bomb-powered water car, a sledgehammer, inflatable couches, a random tent (that I suspect was only there because it was pink), broken champagne bottles, an accordionist, several little traumatised children, and the obligatory maypole. Definitely the most alternative celebration I have ever been to—although one of the attendees informed me that it was much worse last year, as they had killed a giraffe. I don't think it was real though.

Pink Pimm's Party in South Parks

Now, finally, I shall rewind to the beginning of my spring travels: my weekend in London just after the end of Hilary term. Like my previous half day in London before my trip to Edinburgh, practically everything went according to plan. I had formulated an itinerary the day before of what I wanted to see, knowing that hardly any of it might actually work out, but I always need to have a plan regardless. This was my first proper time exploring the city; I had visited for a week with my parents when I was six, but I hardly remember anything except for the fact that we went to Buckingham Palace and my mum saw the Queen (whereas all I could see were the heads of people who were much taller than me). And it fulfilled all of my very high expectations, despite the fact that I was primarily in tourist-infested areas. I can easily imagine myself living in London in the near future, or at the very least making many return trips. Of all the major cities I have ever been to, it is most probably my favourite.

The Palace was of course on my list (I walked there directly from Victoria Coach Station), as were St. James's Park, Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery, the National Portrait Gallery, King's College, University College London, the British Museum, St. Paul's Cathedral, the Tate Modern, walking along the Thames, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and Parliament Square. All of this I managed to do in two days, with the most incandescent of company. On the day I arrived, I met up with Ryan Baker, the British boy that Andy and Anna and I had befriended in Rome, as he lives quite close to London. The meeting was spontaneously arranged via Facebook and texts that very morning, but everything worked out—we found each other outside the National Gallery (to which I absolutely must return for an entire day), and then made several loops through Chinatown and the Covent Garden area before settling on a place for dinner. As I recall, it was a two-floor restaurant with a distinct bar vibe upstairs—very edgy and modern. The desserts were heavenly; I had a cheesecake as per usual and Ryan ordered an intense cookie explosion that definitely lived up to its name.

I stayed once again with my friend Amber at UCL, and she introduced me to several friends of hers: Roisin and Tess, who are also studying abroad at UCL from Columbia, and Andrew, who was visiting Roisin on Columbia's spring break. Andrew and I instantly became best friends, even though we hadn't even heard of each other before. It astounds me how you can always know, to a certain extent, whether or not you will get along with someone—and how well you will get along with them—within minutes after your first interaction. We soon discovered our many similarities: we are both Aries (and fiercely proud of it), working on novels in progress, lovers of photography and art in general, studying Linguistics at Columbia, risk-takers, conscientious eaters, free-spirited and quite outgoing. The unfortunate thing is, we won't be able to see each other again for a long time, as Andrew will be studying abroad in Barcelona for the entirety of next year, my last at Columbia. But we are keeping in touch via Skype—he will be giving me virtual bartending lessons—and I have the perfect excuse to visit Barcelona on my spring break next March. And we both plan on doing post-graduate study in the UK.

I also saw two other Columbians in London: one of the invaluable Inside New York 2011 staff editors, who is studying abroad at LSE for the year, and a girl who had written for me when I was Books Editor of the Columbia Daily Spectator. The former meeting had been arranged (also via Facebook and texts); the latter meeting was pure coincidence. Andrew and I were at the Tate Modern and from out of nowhere I heard someone call my name, but I almost didn't recognise her at first because it had been so long since I had last seen her. She's studying abroad at Trinity College in Dublin this semester, and was visiting London for the weekend. I love such moments, when the world seems to contract infinitesimally, and I've had several others on my trip—but they won't be recounted until my next chapter. They make you wonder at the natural patterns in life. So much is random chaos, but the unpredictability is not completely senseless.

Ryan and his Cookie Explosion

Caressing the Fake Rosetta Stone at the British Museum

Twin Lunch

UCL

The Eye on the Thames

Big Ben

Daffodils in St. James's Park

I returned to Oxford from London for two very long (but enjoyable) days of choir rehearsal prior to our departure for Berlin. We were there for five days, in which we delivered five superlative services and concerts at the most distinctive cathedrals and churches: Friedrichstadtkirche, Kaiser-Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche (which is so startlingly modern that I did not recognise it was a church), Kreuzkirche, and the glorious Dom itself. The audiences were very supportive and generous with their donations; we ended up garnering over 700 euros in total, and all of it was inevitably spent on food, drink, and more drink. One of the most valuable lessons I have learned at Oxford is that alcohol and singing exist in a mutualistic (albeit precarious) feedback loop; neither can truly exist without the other, but if too much fuel is added to the fire the results are not acoustically pleasing. Regardless, as inevitable as getting absolutely hammered seemed, I did not have any shitshows this time around.

It was nice to return to a place I had already been, as I felt much less like a tourist, less pressured to see all of the highlights in between rehearsal and concert time. The snow and holiday markets were gone, which made the buildings look even more stark and industrial than they had seemed before, but the weather was actually bearable (although not very pleasant; it was overcast most of the time and there was a bit of rain). During our concert-free day I went for a completely unplanned eight-hour walk and saw areas of the city that were utterly derelict and abandoned, as well as the Berlin Wall's East Side Gallery, a 1.3km-long stretch of paintings and graffiti. As disquieting as the scenery was, I am glad that I experienced it, if only because it was completely different from anything else I had encountered in my travels, and was the perfect opportunity for me to pause and reflect.

Berliner Dom

Tiergarten

East Side Gallery

Kreuzkirche

21 Amaretto Shots

The evening before, I had booked three flights in a row on easyJet, to and from Paris, Madrid, and Venice, for a mere £153.75. I had finally decided to stop waiting for Septimus. Things would not work out; we could not travel together, at least not deliberately. I had known this before, but I hadn't been willing to acknowledge it openly. There were too many distractions, thanks to David Kirke and my two weekend excursions—the term seemed infinitely shorter than Michaelmas had been—and I wanted to keep myself immersed in them for as long as possible so that I would not have to think about this, about the situation. Denial at its finest.

I first sensed it at the beginning, a few days after we met up for lunch back in late January. He sensed it too, I am sure. But we both ignored it. The lunch had been wonderful, but not what either of us had expected. And from them on, at least from my perspective, reality drifted farther and farther from expectation. It reached the point where I almost could not tolerate his presence (although that would be a rather extreme way of putting it). I simply could not be myself around him, or anyone even close to myself. I found it extremely difficult to communicate with him face to face. Everything was a performance. Everything was superficial. And I detest superficiality.

The most ironic thing of all is that I could be myself with him when it was just words. This is true with all people to a certain extent—the disjunct between words and actions—but with Septinus it is especially heightened. And that is what made me uncomfortable. That is why things were awkward, at least from my perspective. He responded perfectly when it was just words, but in real life it was the complete opposite. It was as if the words did not exist at all, or as if there were two different versions of him. And as I explained in my last chapter, I cannot trust people whose words do not match up with their actions. I am a writer. Words matter to me, more than they should, and if they are rendered meaningless, there is no point in using them in the first place. It is the most fundamental violation of all.

In any case, he understands. Of this I am certain. And it has all worked out for the best, despite (or, perhaps, because of) the spontaneity of the decision. Having completed my travels, I can look back and say with the utmost sincerity that I have no regrets at all whatsoever. Moreover, the decision was not entirely spontaneous—the pieces had been there beforehand, just scattered. I had always had a vague backup plan in mind, because I knew people either studying abroad or living in places throughout Europe that I wanted to visit. The only issue was figuring out an order and trying to minimize cost. But the latter mostly determined the former and everything unravelled by itself. I definitely spent less than what I had over winter vacation because I went to fewer places in total and only stayed in hostels half the time. Because these places were more spread apart geographically, I ended up taking seven flights, which I did not think I would be able to endure (that's an average of more than one flight a week!). But I have, and I'm a stronger traveller for it.

I had to be alone in order to meet people. For me, this is as much the purpose of travelling as exploring the places themselves. People stimulate me; they quite literally fuel my writing, for I view everyone as a character to a greater or lesser extent. In Berlin, I made many new acquaintances at the hostel itself, from completely different social and cultural backgrounds. There were two lovely girls from Virginia who were studying abroad in Florence; I went with them to the Sunday flea market. There were three very attractive guys from Denmark who I convinced to come to our concert in Kaiser-Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche after talking with them for just ten minutes. There was a kindergarten teacher from San Francisco who also sings in a punk rock band (I briefly saw her again in Paris because she booked the same hostel as me). And there was a group of seven delightful Swedish boys who moved into my room right after the choir people left; I was staying an extra day because my flight to Paris did not leave until then. They corrected several of my misconceptions of Sweden: Swedish fish are manufactured in Canada, the wildlife mostly consists of moose and reindeer, and less than half the population is actually blond. Most importantly, they went to sleep at a decent hour (between midnight and 1am) and did not snore, which is more than I can say for two of the British gentlemen who had shared my room on the previous four nights. I now want to visit Scandinavia more desperately than ever.

The Beautiful Swedes

One unfortunate result of the drunken choir tour was that I fell ill, for the first time in two years. But it wasn't exactly a proper flu or even a cold—just a headache and a sore throat, the latter of which worsened in Paris to the point where I could not open my mouth more than two centimetres, much less swallow, much less talk. The pain was excruciating; it was definitely the worst sore throat I have ever had, and probably also the longest. It took a week in total to go away because I was travelling alone, which requires a great deal of concentration and exertion even if you are not physically moving around, and I was determined to still see everything; I could not stop talking because that is just my nature, and there were so many people to talk to; I did not rest until I had no choice but to rest (sacrificing two days of Paris sightseeing, in which I had planned to conquer the Louvre). I had bought cough drops and painkillers in Berlin, but not proper medicine. I did drink tea, though. Loads of it. Camomile with honey. And it helped, if ever so slightly.

Along with my sore throat, I arrived in Paris at 10:30pm with an ear-splitting headache and a head-splitting earache from the plane ride. But I did not make it to the hostel until almost midnight due to the long train ride into the city and the half hour walk from the station, burdened with my 20-kg suitcase (I debated whether or not to purchase a backpack for this trip but decided I could not abandon Tipsy) and a 10-kg handbag. I miraculously did not encounter any sketchy people or get lost—the provisional map I had sketched on the back of a sheet of notebook paper before leaving Berlin actually worked. Perhaps I do have some rudimentary sense of direction after all; it is definitely much sharpened when one is travelling alone.

After seeing London, Edinburgh, Holland, and the highlights of Central and Eastern Europe, I must admit that my expectations were not very high for Paris. I had heard both very positive and very negative things about it, and was convinced that it was overly romanticised. Sure, it may be pretty, but most of its residents are far from pleasant—everyone possesses a dislike and distrust of foreigners, especially Americans. The rude ladies at the information booth near the airport's ticket centre confirmed this. I clearly needed help with the machine but did not want to interrupt their conversation, and the lady behind the desk clearly saw me standing there, but did not so much as raise an eyebrow. After she had finally helped me, I repeated something she said and they laughed, as if there was something wrong with my pronunciation or grammar. And I am sure there wasn't, as the phrase had been quite simple.

After a seven-hour walk through the main highlights of the city, I began to change my mind. I couldn't live in Paris, I decided, but I could still appreciate its beauty and its history. I could spend hours upon hours walking along the Seine, or sitting in Notre Dame, or just ogling the architecture on the streets and breathing in the scent of fresh baguettes (all of which I did). My opinion was further improved after I met several of its residents, both of whom happen to be involved in the film industry. This was my first encounter with either of them in real life: one had friended me on Facebook through one of my friends a week prior, and sent me a message because he saw that I was in Berlin and wanted to know more about the city. We met up for coffee one evening and had a lovely conversation, slipping in and out of French and English.

The other person I met isn't really Parisian, but works there on occasion—in between jaunts to Shanghai—and is originally from Toulouse. We actually met through another person, Jesse Barack, who had added me as a friend on Facebook a few months ago, au hasard. I accepted because we had one friend in common who I trusted, and because his IMDb profile is pretty spiffy-looking (I have always been interested in the film industry). Throughout the past few months we have been sending each other messages, about film and literature and other odds and ends; I asked him about his current project, Polypore, and he said that someone was filming for him in Paris. On a whim, I asked whether I could make an appearance in the movie, since I knew I would be going to Paris soon. He said sure and told me to message this person, so I did. And he just so happened to be returning to Paris a few days after I would arrive, and was filming a scene that required two females. It seemed too good to be true.

And it was—we couldn't film because the other actors and actresses weren't properly assembled on the only day in which we could meet up, my last in Paris. But it was wonderful regardless. He arrived at my hostel at around noon and we set off from there. First we went to the Père Lachaise Cemetery, an unbelievably beautiful and tranquil space that has been used in many films; quite a few famous writers and artists (Marcel Proust, Oscar Wilde, Max Ernst) rest there. Then we strolled down the Champs-Élysées to the Tour Eiffel, which I had not seen yet up close (it's rather anticlimactic compared to how it appears at night from afar—very rusty-looking), walked to a boulangerie where one of my friend's cousins works for a transcendental baguette, popped by his friend's flat in Chinatown to escape the rain, ate dinner in the area, walked around some more, ended up at McDonald's for sundaes, and raced each other back to the metro station. All in all an exhilarating day. And now I have a reason to visit southern France. He also might be in New York in October, which would be perfect because Jesse lives nearby and then the three of us could meet up. What's ridiculous is that Jesse actually hasn't even met him in person himself! Facebook is much more powerful than I had imagined; it has completely revolutionised human relationships, but not necessarily in a negative way.

Despite the fact that I was sick for over half of my eight days in Paris, I encountered some very interesting characters at my hostel. When I arrived, there was a chirpy Canadian girl in my room who I instantly took a liking to. She was vivacious and talkative, had studied art at University, spoke with a bit of an Irish accent (after having spent three months travelling around there), gave me all of her Vitamin C tablets, and reminded me a bit of myself when I'm not incapacitated by a sore throat. I invited her along to the Centre Pompidou, where I had planned to meet my friend Madina, who is studying abroad in Paris for the semester. We also spent a day in Versailles with another Canadian from our hostel—it was absolutely splendificent, of course, but I need to return when all of the flowers are in bloom, as the gardens were virtually indistinguishable from each other.

The Seine

Dusk

Gardens of Versailles

Père Lachaise Cemetery

Then there was Simone, a lovely writer, journalist, and photographer from Munich who moved in after the Canadian girl left. She is in her mid-thirties, but I could tell immediately that she was very young at heart. There was something so pure about her. She understood me and I understood her; we come from very different backgrounds but we have had similar experiences, and we think in the same way, because we are both writers. We told each other stories, both happy and sad. I wish we could have spent more time together, but I will hopefully be seeing her when I return to Munich in one month.

And finally, there was Jon. I met him on the day that I finally began recovering my voice, and could open my mouth almost all the way without flinching in pain. We were sitting next to each other at the public computers (the Wi-Fi signal was atrociously unstable), and he was muttering aloud about random things, incessantly, and somehow we began talking to each other, and I was in such a good mood that I offered to make dinner for us. I hadn't cooked for months, there was a grocery just around the corner, and restaurants in Paris are, inevitably, quite expensive. It was a success, but the entire time I cooked he kept trying to irritate me by asking if he could help in any other way, and we quibbled about the most trivial of matters (I asked him to watch my purse and he somehow distorted this into an imperious command). On one level it was amusing, particularly to anyone who may have been observing, but on another level it was intensely irritating and absolutely ridiculous. He is a 27-year-old engineer from LA, but acts like a 14-year-old boy, and is very much aware of it. Throughout the course of our very long conversation (which carried on late into the evening), I discovered that he didn't know what a corset is, and also hadn't heard of either Jane Austen or Pride and Prejudice. I've always thought that I was the one who lived under a rock in a cave, but this was beyond belief. Regardless, we had an interesting time together, to say the least, and he gave me some nice insights into a personal piece of writing, as well as some funny stories of his own. Oh, and he calls himself "a very in-depth character." Whatever that means.

Friends and hostel companions aside, I was also accosted by two random strangers during my stay in Paris, both of whom happened to be from Senegal. One was in the Jardin du Luxembourg, where I had been minding my own business sitting on a park bench and watching a tennis match. He sat down next to me, saw that I had a map, and asked to see it; I was a little uncomfortable but showed him out of politeness. Then he began asking me questions, but not in an unfriendly way, so I used it as an opportunity to practice my French.

The other encounter was much stranger, at the base of Sacré Cœur—a group of men literally would not let me pass through because there was apparently some sort of important religious "festival" going on. Hakuna matata, one of them said. I was a bit worried because I was alone but it was broad daylight and a tourist-infested area, so I heard him out. He took some red, yellow, and green strings and tied them around my finger. I had no idea what he was going to do; all I could do was stand very still. He kept talking to me and asking me questions about myself while braiding the strings, and soon he had made a little bracelet, which he tied around my wrist after asking me to make a wish, since it was a good luck charm. It is still around my wrist now, for that matter, as the knot is very tight. And it has indeed brought me luck, if one believes that luck can be brought by such things.

Luck. It seems as if ever since my arrival at Oxford, I have had more of it than usual. So many things have happened to me in the past seven months alone that have surpassed anything I have ever experienced before, and I know that these things will continue to happen. It is not just the place, but the people. It is always the people. I have stressed this before, but I cannot stress this more than enough. I fundamentally believe that change comes from without and not from within; it is others who change you and make you do things that you never thought you would have done before. People redefine you. In the past seven months I have definitely changed for the better. I have discovered more of myself; I have been willing to try new things, to take more chances. I have become more open, I think. More accepting and tolerant of novelty and strangeness. And this novelty and strangeness engenders more change; it is a constant feedback loop.

Speaking of taking chances: in Paris I did something that I did not think I would do for another few months at least—I got a haircut. Like all of my other decisions on this trip, it was completely spontaneous. I woke up one morning (the morning that I first began to feel much better), and said to myself, "I am going to get a haircut, because I am in Paris." So I did. And was actually quite pleased with the result.

My Parisian Haircut

I have so many more stories to tell—this is only half of my vacation—and thoughts to reflect upon, but this chapter has rambled on for long enough. I shall conclude with several video clippings from my lunch in Al-Shami (a lovely Lebanese restaurant in Jericho) two months ago with David Kirke and Piers Ashworth. Here is what the latter about breakfast television and the fascinating miracle of skinny jeans. And his promise that he will introduce me to Keira Knightley by the time I leave Oxford. The clock is indeed ticking.

VIII. Of Chaos Theory, Wedding Registries, (New York) Parties of Epic Proportions, Magical Weekend Escapes, Pink-Fingernailed Vampires, and Purity

Sunlight is streaming through my window as I write this. It's almost surreal, given the tempestuous weather we've had lately—lots and lots of rain, coming in sporadic but continuous bursts. The soft, feathery kind, the kind I like. The kind you can feel more than you can see, at times. Periwinkle rain, if I may. It's what you'd expect of England, of course, but strangely enough last term there hadn't been too much of it. It was definitely sunny (or at least clear) more than half the time, even when the forecast predicted otherwise. Then again, you can never trust forecasts, whether they be of the weather or anything else. A fundamental principle of the universe as I see it is that anything can happen. Chaos theory is true, to a certain extent.

Chaos theory—I most recently encountered this in Tom Stoppard's Arcadia. It is a play that engages in almost every weighty theme that has ever plagued mankind: the nature of time and change, death and the end of the universe, order and disorder (symbolised by Classicism and Romanticism), insanity, determinism and free will. It bridges the fields of mathematics, science, philosophy, religion, and literature; recurring motifs and symbols include everything from hermits, rice pudding, dahlias, Lord Byron, and landscape gardening to apples, turtles, poetry, steam pumps, and heat.

As overwhelming as this seems, however, the play actually works. Yes, it does do too much when examined purely on the thematic level, but at the same time it does exactly enough, for there is a logic to be found that stitches all of these disparate elements together. And this logic (or, perhaps, illogic) is that of love, in both its purest and impurest sense. It's a bit difficult to explain, and I don't want to. Once you read the play, you will understand. The last scene is everything—perhaps the most beautiful I've read in any theatrical piece. And the names are beautiful: Septimus (but not at all like the one in Mrs. Dalloway), Thomasina, Jellaby, Valentine, Augustus. Real, but at the same time fundamentally unreal. Just the way I like it.

I have more to say on the subject of love, much more, but I will save it for a future chapter. Although coincidentally, it does relate to the next subject I am going to bring up: Starlight Registry. A wedding registry company founded by an alumna of Pembroke College who still lives in Oxford but works in London (she essentially has the life I want to have). Once I saw the job posting I knew I had to apply. She wanted someone with self-initiative and persistence, and I possess both of those qualities to a sometimes unhealthy extreme.

We met yesterday evening for the interview, at a lovely café in town. I went in knowing not only next to nothing about the company, but also nothing about wedding registries in general. I had had a crazier week than usual (if that can even be possible), but I know it is no excuse; sometimes my lack of tact is frightening. Regardless, the fact that she hired me despite all this means that I am, ironically, the perfect person for the job (Vice President of Business Relations)—if I invest all of my potential. And I will. I'm not really sure what I'm getting myself into, but I know it is a risk that I have to take. I have always been fascinated by weddings. I've only been to one myself, but I plan on attending many more, including a very special one in India. Moreover, something about Sarah (the founder of the company) really struck a chord with me, if you'll pardon the cliché. She is another one of my doubles. I knew it from the moment we first started talking, and I think she did too.

Speaking of events of Epic Proportions, I hosted one of my own this Wednesday, with the invaluable help of Nick Lambert and David Kirke. I met Nick through David (who is introduced in Chapter VI); he teaches Art History at Birkbeck in London, and in his spare time creates digital art masterpieces in which he explores "the relation of time and symbolism by creating virtual spaces and animations." I'll let his blog speak for itself (although 'speak' is not quite the right word).

It was called the Inside New York Party, but was really meant to be a celebration of New York in general. I just needed an excuse to host it, and I had a pretty damn good one. I had had Plans of Epic Proportions, a gamut of spectacular show-stopping performances lined up including but not limited to: a glorious photo slideshow, an open bar serving NYC-style drinks, jazz trumpet, jazz piano, violin and guitar performances, a live DJ (with songs à la Barbra Streisand and beyond), In the Pink (Oxford's most famous female a cappella group), Broadway and opera numbers, poetry readings specifically for the occasion courtesy of David and his friend Franklin Smith (who has a beautiful Jamaican-British accent and no less than seven academic degrees), and a digital art show courtesy of Nick. There were to be extravagant decorations, including a balloon arch and streamers. I wanted it to be a party to remember.

And it was. Only the Proportions weren't Epic, in the technical sense of the word. In the metaphorical sense, however, they were. Because when you have the right combination of people in a room, nothing can go wrong. In fact, something magical happens. And it is always a surprise. Things can be planned, of course, but the agenda must not be set in stone: you must always let the Circumstances decide. And decide they did. [They also decided the location of the event—I had originally intended for it to be in Pembroke College, but due to an unforeseen situation that had to change, so it ended up taking place in Lady Margaret Hall, in a room with the perfect facilities. The setting was unexpected, but definitely apropos.]

Some of it happened, of course. I did give a brief introduction and present my slideshow of almost 200 photographs, half of which were of food and drinks; it brought back many wonderful memories. Nick did show us his digital art projects, both of which were utterly ineffable (I had to ask for a ten-second silence after he finished for everyone to properly digest what they had just experienced). And David did write a poem and read it, or at least a third of it... but he literally could not finish because the poem was 30 handwritten pages, which he unfurled across the floor like a scroll. It was beautiful, to say the least—one of the most beautiful things anyone has ever done for me, and for New York. There was also much general conversation and a discussion on atomic and laser physics, courtesy of my dear friend Tessa.

The Poem

The next morning, Tom Kemp, a digital artist and a friend of Nick's who had attended, sent me one of the loveliest e-mails I have ever received: "Thanks for last night. It was a strangely beautiful, disconnected, empty and filling affair. I got more out of it than I expected."

Several e-mail exchanges later, Tom said something else quite profound: "I was struck by your pointed note yesterday that some people don't do what they promise and that we were sat in that sober room because of it. You were almost bitter."

Almost bitter. I hadn't realised I had come across that way and I hadn't intended it at all. But I suppose I was (and still am) bitter. Embittered. Disillusioned. It's happened so many times to me, so many times that I've strangely grown acclimated to it, but at the same time... at the same time, I don't want to. I want to keep believing, to continue taking risks, to keep investing myself in people despite the fact that I know it could go horribly wrong, that it could devastate me. And it already has. But that is how I live. I've lost so much trust over the past few years, and the past few months alone, but I have to keep trusting. Otherwise how could I go on? How could I persevere in being persistently persistent? It may sound extreme but it's true—I am a person of extremes. And most importantly of all, I am a pure person. I cannot help but trust, despite how many times I have been betrayed. That is David Kirke's definition of purity, and I could not have articulated it in a better way.

I already said this in Chapter IV, but I will say it again, for I cannot help but repeat myself: people are always changing, for better or for worse. Things are always changing. And sometimes, most of the time, it cannot be explained. One just has to accept it, even though acceptance is one of the most difficult things in the world. One must keep calm and carry on, as the Brits say. No matter what. With a head held high, a bright smile, and long strides forward—all that fluffy jazz.

Something is violated when a promise is broken. Something beyond trust: something on the level of language itself. Why have words when you cannot believe them? Why communicate with others if nothing can ever be taken for granted? If one can have no expectations at all whatsoever? Why bother to know a person, to become friends with him or her, if one cannot invest in him or her? Sure, things might sound pretty in the moment (and only in the moment), but that is not enough. There is always some degree of expectation, some degree of investment, in any verbal exchange you have with someone you want to see again, to talk with again. An investment that is embedded in the words themselves, and the act of conversing itself—if you genuinely do not care, there really is no reason to bother in the first place.

There is a difference between being mysterious and not fulfilling predetermined appointments, especially if these appointments were your idea in the first place. A fundamental difference. Yes, everyone needs privacy; despite my outward openness I myself am a deeply private person. Everyone needs to be alone. Even the people you love become insufferable if you see them too much. But a balance must always be struck. If you have to withdraw from an appointment, you should let it be known that you have to. No reason needs to be provided; it just has to be known that you cannot be there. This is common courtesy. Convention, yes, but there is something to be said for convention—otherwise why would we have it?

I am going to change him. Him being Septimus, but the more appropriate sobriquet would be Godot. If only slightly. And I have, if only slightly. There were moments in which he revealed his potential. There were conversations, one of which was the most beautiful online exchange I have ever had with anyone. In that conversation he told me that I have already changed him, for the better. At the time I had no idea what he meant, but I do now. I do now.

We have plans that cannot be broken, because they profoundly affect the next two months of my life. He has also promised that he will be at my party on May 14, that he will help host it, because he must (suicide would literally be the alternative, since that is what happened in Woolf's novel). I want to believe this, but I cannot. At least, not yet. There are always so many uncertainties. I know it is a risk—one of the biggest I've ever had to take. I don't think I have invested much, but perhaps I have without realising it. Such things happen. I always go overboard; it is just my nature.

And I am deeply vulnerable. Deeply. I try to maintain a confident façade, but it cracks at times. Too easily, and at the precise moments when I need it the most. In the past two weeks alone I have had four emotional breakdowns, two of which were public. They were necessary, but completely unexpected. Catharsis, if you will. Such things happen.

Sometimes I don't want my insanity. My intensity. My overflow of feeling. Other times I fully embrace it. But I always want what I don't (and can't) have. Always.

I played a game with someone last week. A psychotic vampire with pink fingernails and women's boots that are just as pink, for all intents and purposes (viz., the craziest Brit I've met thus far). But games are dangerous, especially if the person you're playing them with can match you: word for word, thought for thought, action for action. I had known this from the beginning, but I also hadn't thought I was investing anything at all, or anything much. But I did, without realising it. And I hurt myself, without realising it. There are limits to how far you can stretch yourself, to how long you can masquerade as someone else. As I learned from Playboy of the Western World, the boundary between fact and fiction is much more tenuous than one might think.

He reminded me of myself, and even of my father. That was why I had been attracted to and repelled by him at the exact same time (but not at all in the physical sense), and why I had profoundly enjoyed talking to him. Why I still profoundly enjoy talking with him. We do not speak the exact same language, but he speaks a dialect of mine, and he too was at the wedding of Irony and Circumstance (bass soloist). It is strange how you can see yourself in other people after knowing them for a very short time. It is strange how you can just know these things.

But enough of abstractions, and onto more tangible events. I had several weekend escapes this term that completely threw my academic and personal life off balance (with quasi-disastrous results), but they were definitely worth the trip. The most recent was this past weekend, to Cambridge. Oxford's counterpart, in the fullest sense of the word. And as reluctant as I am to admit it, I have to: it was pretty. Prettier than I had imagined, than I had liked to imagine. Prettier than Oxford, an unbiased observer might even say. There was so much greenery, so much space (it feels much more like a quaint town—dare I say hamlet?—than a city), and the architecture of the buildings was quite different. More country manor than crenellated castle. You can guess with a relatively high degree of certainty whether a college is from Oxford or Cambridge based on the picture of its grounds alone. Interestingly enough, many of the colleges at both share the same name, and Pembroke is one of the crossovers. Of course I had to drop by (especially because it is conveniently located a block away from the Fitzwilliam), if only to prove that my Pembroke is better. I was very pleasantly surprised, without wanting to be. From a completely objective standpoint, I am sure it would be considered more beautiful: it is about double the size, with sprawling lush grounds and well-groomed trees, along with a pond. The library resembles a church of sorts, constructed from solid dark red brick with a two-faced clock tower and stained glass windows. I even poked my head into the chapel, but I will say that this is where Oxford's Pembroke is aesthetically superior. It was predominantly white, which made it austere and almost stale; I don't quite know how to explain. Regardless, I would not betray my college for even King's, which is Cambridge's equivalent of Christ Church. Humbleness is a lovely quality to have, and an undervalued one at that.

Clare College

Newnham College

Where Watson and Crick "Discovered the Secret of Life"

Pembroke Street

Pembroke Library

I was there mainly for a colloquium on Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic, which lasted pretty much all of Saturday. It was my very first academic conference, so I really had no idea what to expect, but it was definitely a lot more casual than I thought it would be. The classroom where it was held was relatively small and there was no great separation between speakers and the audience (all of the speakers were sitting in the audience before it was their turn to present). What's more, even though over half of what was discussed was completely outside my realm of expertise, I never once lapsed out of attention—there were three breaks for tea and lunch, in which there was much intermingling of attendees, and each topic presented was incredibly interesting (my favourite was an examination of four different Anglo-Saxon riddles that all connected the concept of writing with birds, or flight). Coincidentally, my tutor for Middle English last term was one of the speakers (he is writing his dissertation on "the social mythology of medieval Icelandic literature"), and so was Malcolm Reginald Godden, a renowned Anglo-Saxon scholar and a Pembroke fellow who I met last term after attending his Old English seminars.

Me and Professor Malcolm Reginald Godden

My second motivation for the Cambridge excursion was to see several friends from Columbia who are visiting for the year, one at Clare College and the other at Newnham. I was also highly encouraged (viz., forced) to meet a fellow by the name of Maximilian Smithwick—David Kirke's godson and a third-year history student. David gave me a book to deliver, and deliver it I did. I do enjoy meeting strangers, but the situation here was a little bizarre, as I 'knew' Max before I met him through a series of text messages. Anyhow, he turned out to be one of those charming British gentlemen, as I had anticipated. A pleasant conversationalist. We went to a lovely castle-themed pub for dinner with my fellow Columbians and it was not awkward in the least.

Backtracking two more weeks, I went to two UK capitals in mid-February: London and Edinburgh. I had been to both before but not for nearly as long as I would have liked, and unfortunately this time I was only passing through the former, as my bus departed from there instead of Oxford. And both were absolutely perfect, but for completely different reasons. Everything in London went according to plan, from my time of arrival to every item on our agenda, whereas everything in Edinburgh did not go according to plan, yet still worked out in the end. I suppose I should explain.

I didn't have too much time in London, as I arrived late on Thursday evening and had to catch a 3pm bus on Friday, but the friend I was visiting (also a Columbian) is studying at UCL for the semester and lives directly across the street from the British Library (and not too far from Bloomsbury, which is where I dream of living or working someday). After a lovely brunch, we went to the Library to see their current featured exhibition, Evolving English: a comprehensive survey of the history of the English language, from Anglo-Saxon manuscripts to text messages and everything in between. I found out about it last term and had been desperately planning on going ever since. The presentation was perfect; there were only two rooms but everything was numbered and divided into navigable sections, which allowed me to peruse almost every single information panel in chronological order. One of the only surviving copies of Beowulf was there, too, which sent my heart into wild palpitations (I had taken a graduate seminar on just Beowulf last spring, and it was one of the most challenging and rewarding classes I have ever had). I also, of course, went all aflutter at the dictionary display. Samuel Johnson and the OED—my little twin stars.

As indicated above, Edinburgh was not as well-coordinated, and it was all because of circumstance. The ten-hour bus ride was bad enough, but I arrived two hours late due to a lunatic who got on at one of the rest stops because he had missed his plane and there was no other form of transportation that he could take. He had to go to Middlesborough to meet his girlfriend, however, and it was completely off the path that the bus was taking. I did not know this, nor was I informed of this. I had texted my friend that there would probably be a slight delay, but little did I know how long the delay would actually be. The problem was that it was past midnight and he had to wait outside the station, and it just so happened to be raining pretty heavily. I felt terrible, even though it wasn't really my fault. The most excruciating thing was that I literally had no idea where we were, or when we would be arriving—it might have been two of the longest hours of my life. But we finally did arrive, at almost 3 in the morning. I did not alight at the main entrance of the station, however. It was a side entrance, and it was still raining, and I did not see my friend. After twenty even more excruciating minutes (and the frightening chance that one of our phones would run out of battery), he did manage to find me, so everything worked out in the end. Needless to say, I will never again be taking a bus to Scotland from southern England.

On Saturday we had been planning on seeing the Aberdeen game at Perth, which would take up most of the day because of the two-hour commute, and then going out in the evening. The game was cancelled at the very last minute due to rain (but that is a pathetic excuse if it can even be called one, as Scotland has more than its fair share of precipitation). And I had actually been quite excited to see my first live football match. The alternative plan was more than adequate compensation, though. We ended up scaling the Salisbury Crags, just to the west of the highest point in Edinburgh, Arthur's Seat. It was utterly breathtaking, and photos will not suffice to capture how magical the view was, so I recorded a video. [Suffice it to say that I absolutely detest the sound of my own voice, especially on tape—it's akin to the vociferation of a traumatized chipmunk or hummingbird. But the situation and the scenery are what's important.] In the late afternoon we went to watch a rugby game in a very popular sports pub, and it was another experience I have never quite had before (my closest was this summer when I watched several of the final World Cup matches in various New York eateries). I must admit that I've always been repugnant to the idea of rugby, the very concept behind the game, but there is definitely a certain method behind the madness (or should I say the brainlessness). And being in a sports pub also made a huge difference; there were at least eight different screens, several of which were broadcasting a football match. The excitement was both contagious and tangible.

After dinner we went pub-hopping and failed to attend a birthday party; our clubbing attempts were thwarted by the situation as well (the situation being that we were not nearly drunk enough due to the fact that we did not know exactly where we were going and when). But we did do lots and lots of walking, so I saw most of the city by night, and I met several of Neale's close friends—who were quite interesting, to say the least. One of them went to Oxford but dropped out right before he got his degree, and he has the most outrageous patter ("I'm more attracted to metal than magnets" was the highlight of the evening). Another is a mathematician and has known Neale since he was three. He, too, used to work for a cheese factory, and he is writing his thesis on the paradox of zero factorial. [This is more validation of why I never need to invent characters for my novel: they already exist by virtue of being alive.]

On Sunday the original plan had been to have a relaxed and work-productive morning, hopefully on the crags again with a picnic and Becoming Jane, one of my favourite films of all time. But we woke up late and it was chilly and raining, so this did not end up happening. Instead, we watched Trainspotting indoors (a very intense film about the Edinburgh drug scene that did slightly taint my opinion of the city), went to a pub for lunch where I had haggis for the first time (surprisingly tasty, albeit so spice-infused that I could not tell exactly what it was, which is precisely the point), and then attempted to watch Becoming Jane, but failed because my laptop chose at that precise moment to freeze. I am terribly worried about its state of health, as I have had it now for almost four years, but I am very much attached to it and cannot bear to let it go. But let it go I must, eventually.

We then went to Tesco to purchase supplies for dinner, which I very heartily volunteered to cook—and it was my specialty fried pasta, as per usual (but the recipe changes every time so it is always different). This also did not go according to plan, however. I was unable to locate a satisfactory tin of bread crumbs (an essential ingredient for purposes of texture and flavour), so I ended up substituting raw stuffing in the recipe. Of course it did not remain raw; I added it to the pan as I was frying the vegetables and pasta, but apparently this was not the appropriate way to cook it. Everything tasted fine in the end, but I could tell that my friend was psychologically disturbed—to the point where he went to look up the repercussions of ingesting raw stuffing for one's health. But we survived, and as far as I know I'm still as healthy today as I was before I ate the pasta.

I left late that evening on an overnight bus, which I very luckily made it onto as it filled up really quickly, despite the fact that tickets had to be reserved (I think there was another bus later on but I did not want to wait an extra hour in the station). Sleep didn't really happen—or at least not the way it should, but the ride did seem much quicker than the ride up. And it was the perfect time for me to reflect on things, before I got inevitably sucked back into the academic whirlwind of Oxford. I was sad that the weekend was over, as it had been one of the most magical two and a half days of my life. Despite the fact that nothing went according to plan, I had had a wonderful time and I did see no less than ten men wearing kilts in the street and in various pubs (yes, I counted). My only disappointment was not seeing a) a ginger-haired guy wearing a kilt and riding a sheep and b) Ian Rankin, but there will be future opportunities, I am sure.

And I realised something that I've acknowledged before, and even referenced earlier in this chapter (under the 'party principle'): it's not so much what you do as who you do it with. If you're with a good friend, no matter what goes wrong, everything is ultimately all right. Nothing can go wrong, really. And even though we hadn't really known each other for that long (it was the second time I actually saw him), I knew that I could trust him. First impressions are incredibly important. As are names, as superficial as this may sound—his has a very genuine feel to it, and a grounded feel as well. That's what I need more of in my life. Groundedness. A connection with reality, with day to day happenings. Anti-novelising, so to speak. How ironic, then, that I had to seek this groundedness in such a magical environment.

So in a strange sense, I needed my weekend escapes. I never thought I would be saying this, especially since I only arrived at Oxford a few months ago, but I needed a breath of fresh air, and that breath was what Cambridge and London and Edinburgh provided. [Then again, I also never thought I would ever want to leave Columbia, especially not for as long as a year, but after two years and two full summers in the city I was more than ready to depart.] Oxford is chill enough, a bubble within a bubble, but Cambridge and Edinburgh were even more chill, if that is possible—each was a bubble within a bubble within a bubble. An extra layer of safety, of protection from the insanity of my existence.

And now I have returned, but there is only one week of term left. I can hardly believe this, and I still don't quite believe it. Which is fine. I will make the most of it, though, no matter what.

I'd like to conclude this chapter with another magical moment, one that happened the night before I left for Cambridge. It was a long-promised New Year's celebration with fire lanterns by the river. There had been swans, and wine beforehand at the Modern Art museum on top of formal hall—I got a little too tipsy but such is usually the case (and it wasn't an inappropriate kind of tipsy). Pictures would not do it justice, so I had to make another video. Half of it is utter blackness, unfortunately, and I again sound like a hyperactive rodent or bird, but the incandescence of the situation prevails. As always. And in this case it is literal.

Oh, and one last thing. According to the psychotic vampire with the pink fingernails, "You need 22 decimal places of pi to calculate the circumference of the universe to one electron's width." An overgrand statement, perhaps—but whether it is true or not, how utterly fascinating.

VII. Edges, Interstices, and Inside New York

This will quite probably be the most difficult chapter I've had to write thus far. Because it is a reflection not only on past events, but on distant past events—events that happened over half a year ago. Events that fundamentally contribute to who I am now. So it might be quite intense, and quite personal. But the distance is why I am finally ready to discuss these things without the danger of exaggerating them beyond proportion. And the distance itself is of two types: temporal and spatial. Besides the time that has elapsed, I am now over 3,000 miles away, in a magical place that hasn't been any less magical than it was when I first stepped off the bus in October. Now I can properly assess what has happened, and what the consequences are.

To begin at the beginning, I need to backtrack to last January, or to be more accurate last November. I'm not sure exactly when, because there hadn't been a beginning. Not exactly. He had been there all along, and so had I, but we hadn't truly known each other until we did. It is difficult to explain, but that is how these things are. There had been an e-mail, though. A long one. And a beautiful response. We spoke the same language, and at the same time we were learning a new one together. I began to rediscover myself, to reinterpret myself, to redefine myself.

It was so pure. And it was romantic, the most romantic relationship I've ever had, by virtue of the fact that it was pure. I hadn't thought such a thing was possible: a more-than-friendship friendship that was intimate, but the complete opposite of friendship with benefits.

And it never really ended. But it did. But it didn't. That was what made it so painful. He wanted it to end, but I resisted, and then I wanted it to end, but he was already gone. And I need closure for things, definitive closure, in person closure. There was never the opportunity, though, because he didn't want to (or, perhaps, was unable to) confront me. He sent me elusive texts, postponing our meeting for a later date, until I finally woke up. I finally realised that the dream was over.

So I wrote him a letter. It had to be a letter—e-mail is too dangerous, texting is too casual and inordinately short, face-to-face conversation was impossible. I left it on my desk before leaving for the Met opera to see La Traviata (it was my first time, and to my surprise I actually quite enjoyed it). And he wrote back, a short notice. I hadn't expected him to, and when I saw what he had written I laughed. I actually would have preferred to receive no response. He said that things had indeed changed, that his perception of me had changed—for someone who was almost 20 I acted much younger. But that was precisely why I had written him a letter in the first place—because he had just turned 20 (exactly six days before my birthday), and didn't nearly live up to his age. Perhaps in the end we did speak the same language after all.

Words. I care so much—too much—about them. I remember them, over and over again. Physical actions I can easily forget, or excuse as merely circumstantial mistakes. Shit happens to all of us. But the words—they stay forever, especially if written down. That is why they are so dangerous. That is why they are the greatest risk. And that is why our relationship had been so pure—it was constructed entirely from words, from thoughts, from emotions.

I invested everything. I had so much feeling, more than I'd felt for a long, long time, and I gave it all away. I gave him my heart, in the fullest sense. And then he completely let me go; he just lost interest. Yes, there had been a reason, a terrible misunderstanding, and it had partly been my fault. But I thought we had fixed things, and that our connection was stronger than ever given the intensity of what had happened. He promised that we would have a semester of contentment. Ironically enough, it was—but just that. Contentment is infinitudes away from happiness.

Regardless, I knew from the beginning that it was just a dream. That it would end, as all dreams must (even for Descartes). And as I noted in my last chapter, there is something to be said for first impressions. I hadn't liked the way he looked at (through?) me one time; I cannot quite explain it. But I am a risk-taker, and a dreamer. I had to do it. How could I have known how great the risk would be? And even if I had known, how could I have helped it? I am a big believer in happenstance, in seizing the moment. And to this day he was the only person I ever truly fell in love with (or, rather, the only real and living person).

But no matter. I have recovered, finally. And I am a better—a newer—person for it; it felt almost like going through purgatory. But the greater purgatory was what happened to me over the summer. It was spectacularly ill-timed, or perhaps maliciously well-timed. I had already lost myself, in the fullest sense, and I had to give myself away again—but this time for a book, a collective miracle, rather than a person. Inside New York.

When you give yourself up to something so utterly that you become consumed by it, you die in a certain sense. I am not joking. I did die a certain death this summer: that of stagnation. It was living in New York, it was sitting in (for all intense and purposes) a basement from seven to ten hours a day, five days a week, eyes glued to my laptop screen, staring at jumbled up words that usually had to be completely reconstructed. I began to question everything about myself, all of my most fundamental convictions. I began to "undefine" myself, if you will. Case in point: I had always loved e-mails, and thought of it as my medium (the validation of which was Spectator Books, but that will be the subject of another chapter entirely). I grew sick of it; it took me an agonizing amount of time to type even the simplest message. Everything I said seemed stale, like a repetition, but without variation. I doubted myself; at times I even hated myself. I was so frustrated, and the rut didn't seem to be getting any shallower. I lost a tremendous amount of confidence at the exact moment when I should have had it, when I had the perfect opportunity to make the most use of it. Everyone on staff—the other editors and the writers and the photographers—were so friendly and willing to do whatever I asked of them and beyond. Columbia's Center for Career Education staff were very helpful as well—and provided free, essentially unlimited coffee and tea that tasted like candy, as well as occasional sugary delights—as were the Bartending Agency and Translation Agency managers (between which our office was sandwiched). It truly was an incandescent job, and I knew it was the job I was meant to have the summer before I left New York for an entire year. I needed to be fully immersed, to be Inside Inside New York, living and breathing and becoming it, before I could want to leave it.

But it didn't go at all according to plan: I didn't change, even after I had familiarised myself with the staff members and the general editing procedure. I was still stuck, utterly devoid of motivation to do anything. Outside of the office I could only think about looming deadlines and how far we were from meeting them (so in a sense I did truly live my job), and how I myself was slowing down the entire procedure by not submitting content on time or editing fast enough. On multiple occasions I would just lie down and not move, not think (or try not to). I couldn't even read—apart from my Oxford assignments, I only trudged through three novels the entire summer, and didn't absorb much of any of them. Every day felt the same, and it only grew worse as our deadlines drew closer and closer and I could no longer be in denial about the whole situation.

And I could not get away. My temporary escape was actually New Jersey, as I went home every weekend I could so that other people could take care of me. I even went on a Vermont retreat with Columbia's Bhakti Club, during which I picked blueberries the size of quarters, hiked up mountains, meditated both to silence and to music, and ate myself into an orgy. There was no cellphone reception in the cabin we stayed in, which was exactly the way I wanted it—I had to be cut off from all forms of communication. And these moments of escape worked, but they were only moments. I was gone, gone, hopelessly gone; I was drained, in the deepest sense. I kept blaming the insufferable heat (it shot up to above 100 degrees Fahrenheit in early July and our apartment had no AC), as well as the fact that I never really had a chance to "crash" after finals, but these were just excuses. The situation was only exacerbated by my denial, until I thought that I would never really resurface. At one point I did not think I was a writer anymore, or had ever been one. I could not even look forward to Oxford; I had an essay assigned for one of my tutorials and four entire months to do it, but I did not manage to even begin before my departure. It seemed as if the book would never end: I even worked when I was on my family vacation in Tennessee, staying up until odd hours in the morning, because we had not met our early August content deadline.

I know I am repeating myself, and that this probably does sound exaggerated beyond all meaning, but I swear it is true. There is no other way for me to convey the depth of how I felt. It was one of the most frightening periods of my entire life. And it had its physical toll too: I missed my period for almost four entire months (it came back literally the day I finished everything I could possibly do for the book). The week before I left for Oxford, I met up with one of my closest friends from secondary school, a friend who understands me more than I understand myself sometimes. We hadn't seen each other for months, and she almost didn't recognise me. "You look different," she said. "I can't quite explain why." But after a few moments she could: "You look older, somehow. Aged."

She was right. I had aged; I was tired and weary beyond belief. I couldn't really feel anything. I wasn't happy, and I wasn't sad either. I had had moments of this before, of course—who doesn't?—but never to this extent, and for this long. At many points I almost gave up.

Almost, yet not quite. Despite how unbearable it all was, I knew that it would end eventually, and that Oxford was a future reality. And it did. It just took forever and three quarters. It

finally ended, and the miracle is now a tangible product and it is beautiful, 515 full-colour pages with a spanking white cover. At first I wasn't quite convinced that it was right, but after seeing it on the physical book I know it is perfect, for three reasons: it a) is not at all overwhelming, b) really stands out on the shelf, and, most importantly of all, c) invites readers to make New York their own. A blank canvas, shall we say. Because the book truly is not complete—it is only the beginning, as Al and I declare in our introduction. Only the beginning, like so much else.

The miracle could not have been possible without the support of any one of the members of the INY 2011 team. Yes, there were multiple blunders and miscommunications and too many shitshows to count, but we managed to pull through somehow. We just kept going, instead of dwelling on how far behind our goals we were. I am eternally grateful to everyone for sticking

through, despite all this, despite me and my insanity. For believing in me, despite my complete and utter incompetence at times. For being so unbelievably talented and able to function under such extreme pressure: all of the editors worked extra hours beyond their contract, no matter where they were—be it Israel, India, Ireland, or a farm in Wisconsin (the alliteration is purely coincidental).

And, of course, there were the funny moments in the office. We had such a lovely group dynamic; I didn't want there to be any sort of a hierarchy (except logistical when it came to editorial procedure). We worked together, with each other, not for each other. Everyone told ridiculous stories. We shared food, mangoes in particular, and preserved their remains. We went on lunch excursions that were only supposed to last half an hour but ended up being at least twice that amount of time. We indulged in our complimentary dining and nightlife reviews. My most memorable was at GILT restaurant at the New York Palace Hotel, and involved a ten-course meal with seven courses of wine, virtually the most expensive dinner I have ever had. I was even able to take a picture with the Michelin-star chef, Justin Bogle, afterwards.

Me and Justin Bogle

I also saw several off-Broadway shows for free: The 39 Steps, which is based upon a Hitchcock film, and STOMP, which completely revolutionised my conception of music and dance. I actually saw the latter twice, the second time because one of the dancers is the husband of my Academic Advising Dean at Columbia; we met up after the show and I got an autographed poster from the entire crew.

Me and Alan Asuncion

So it was ultimately the people who helped me pull through. And it wasn't just Inside New Yorkers: I had the best flatmates in the world, who cooked for me, coddled me, inveigled me into playing ridiculous video games (i.e., Fuzion Frenzy), shared movies and books with me, and made me feel so much at home (practically like a baby)—even when I didn't have the mental energy to respond to their efforts. There was also the random hipster from LA I met on the subway after going to Bushwick for a warehouse concert; he was starting a history degree at Teachers College, and wouldn't let me say no to lunch the next day (and many more meals after that, as well as evening excursions, one of which was to see The Big Lebowski under the glittering nighttime expanse of the Brooklyn Bridge). He also gave me music, lots of good alternative songs, and insisted on accompanying me at 7am to meditation sessions at the Bhakti Club flat every week. Things never quite ended with him either, but this time it was completely my fault. [I might never see him again, but there is a chance—albeit an infinitesimal one—that he will read this entry. Anything can happen, after all.] And my friend Zach, who was living at Columbia over the summer to work in his lab (where he was trying to create a molecule, something utterly inconceivable to my limited brain), and hung out with me on a number of occasions—the most memorable of which was when we went to see a comedy show and I danced like a chicken on the stage and almost won first place, but deliberately didn't. Bhakti Club people, who widened my mind with discussions over good food and interesting film clips every Wednesday evening, as well as hosted the aforementioned meditation sessions and the Vermont excursion. My dear friend Sruthi, many thousands of miles away in India attending law school, who sent me e-mails every day and let me vent to her, over and over again, in seemingly endless despair. My other dear friend Yun, who made me a playlist that I listened to over and over and over, and who just generally believed in me, even when I couldn't believe in myself. And, of course, my family, who welcomed me home with open arms every time and didn't bother me about my work, allowing me to hide from everything, if only for two days.

These are the people who kept me alive, just barely. These are the people who kept me sane. And I cannot thank them enough; this chapter doesn't even begin to convey my gratitude. I am an incredibly lucky girl. Incredibly incredibly lucky, and I marvel at this every single day. Every single minute.

Was it worth it? Yes and no. The question is impossible to answer. Like Berlin on New Year's Eve, I would have changed many things, many many things, if I had an opportunity to go back. But I don't, so there's no use thinking about it. What matters is that I learned so many important lessons, lessons that will stay with me all my life. I might make the same mistakes again, but what matters is that I will try harder and harder to avoid them. I am more conscious than ever of myself and my limitations, as well as my aspirations and desires. And that is something. That is definitely something.