For two weeks, I told myself, “This is a class…” but I never felt it. I was walking where Thoreau and Emerson walked on the shores of Walden Pond, I breathed in the cold ocean air as Melville once did, and I traced the curves and angles of Hawthorne’s own handwriting with my index finger. How much closer can someone get to these literary geniuses of nineteenth-century America? Of course, they’ve long been dead and buried—we visited their graves and meditated on how even mortals can become legends that linger in our consciousness today.

In each house, I gazed at the paintings, the wooden planks of the floor, even the exposed bricks in the wall trying to imagine that the mythological figures we study in literature class once looked at these very same things. I studied the dinnerware in Twain’s Steamboat House as if expecting to see lip imprints around the rims of the glasses. When we were told to hold onto the banister while going down the stairs in the Old Manse, I gripped the wood, picturing Hawthorne or Emerson descending that very same flight some bright morning a couple of centuries ago. Ultimately, I was trying to make the names I see constantly in class more real. I like to think those authors left those houses, their clothing, and their possessions behind as if to say “I was here.”

Then again, what better legacy did these persons leave in their wake than their words? Some were recognized in their day while others experienced fame long after they were gone, but either way their work bears testament to their existences more than anything else. The toil of their hands and imagination—what we now call our American literary tradition—is addressed “From one soul to another.” Without this trip, I don’t believe I could have fully understood this concept. Sure, I would read these novels and poems for a grade, study my notes in hopes that I would remember them well into my old age, but seeing the country those authors roamed has made all the difference. Now I read Hawthorne, Melville, Twain, and the rest of them differently. I feel closer to the literature than I did before. I am convinced that the New England authors did not intend their writings to be solely the subject of study and criticism but, rather, lived as well. They wanted us to breathe the air of their fictional worlds and make them just as real for ourselves as they were for them.

I left New England with several heavy souvenir books and some other little articles that made it through airport security checkpoints in one piece (Yeah, I was surprised too!), but greater than that is the pride I feel in being a part of the continuing American literary tradition through the study and examination of both the lives and works of our famous authors.

The more I hear about these famous New England authors, the more I realize that most, if not all, of them were connected to one another—either by personal acquaintance or through someone else. For English dorks like me, these New Englanders would be the easiest authors to use in a “Six Degrees of Separation” game.

First we have Nathaniel Hawthorne. For being notably reserved and standoffish, Hawthorne had an unbelievable array of connections to most of the finest writers of the time. This is probably a result of both “coincidence” (which I don’t believe in) and his success as an author. Beginning with “coincidences,” Hawthorne attended Bowdoin College in Maine, and his classmates included the famous poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and future president Franklin Pierce. Hawthorne and Longfellow had a long and close relationship. Apparently, the two men couldn’t be more different, but these variations were complementary, making for a lifelong friendship. Longfellow even wrote a beautiful poem about Hawthorne’s death in 1864.

Next, Hawthorne lived in the “Old Manse,” which was owned by Ralph Waldo Emerson at the time. Emerson introduced Hawthorne to many of his fellow Transcendentalists such as Henry David Thoreau and Bronson Alcott. Later on, Hawthorne would move into Wayside, which was right down the road from both the Emerson and the Alcott houses. One of our tour guides told us a story about how Bronson Alcott would often sit beneath a large tree in front of his house, and if you passed by, Bronson would engage you in a philosophical conversation that could go on for hours. Apparently while living at Wayside, Hawthorne would occasionally head for town, see Bronson sitting beneath the tree just itching to stop someone for a chat, and would hike up the ridge behind the houses so to avoid his friendly neighbor.

Finally, Hawthorne befriended Herman Melville while living in the Berkshires. Melville lived on his farm at Arrowhead and Hawthorne was a neighbor. The two became as thick as thieves, spending days together talking about…well, “literary things” for lack of a better term. Hawthorne played a pivotal role in the creation of Moby-Dick; he suggested that Melville pursue the novel he really wanted to do instead of just another commercial piece. Hence, many notice a drastic shift in tone after the first fifteen chapters of Melville’s book.

I realize how much time I’ve spent lecturing about Hawthorne, so I’ll try to sum up the rest as quickly as possible. Henry David Thoreau was a devoted student of Ralph Waldo Emerson and practically a member of the Emerson household. Emerson was close with the entire Alcott family, especially Louisa May, author of Little Women, and her younger sister May. Mark Twain and Harriet Beecher Stowe were neighbors—I can envision them borrowing cups of sugar from one another.

Honestly, if you picked one author and did a little research, you could connect the dots between all the big names of early American Literature in New England and daresay most of America at that time. If one were to, say, tromp through places like Concord and the Berkshire (as we did), you’re sure to come out with a lengthy “Who’s Who” of American Lit. Neat, huh?

WARNING: If you ever visit Mark Twain’s Steamboat House in Hartford, CT, be prepared to pick your jaw up off the floor because as soon as you walk in the large front doors, you’re awestruck by the ornate richness of the structure. There’s woodwork sneaking its way up the walls and across the ceilings like large lattices. In between the red-colored wood, designs and flourishes are stenciled on with golden paint. Statues and idols hold lamps in their outstretched hands, their ebony bodies gleaming in the sunlight. The stairs wrap around to the second floor and then the third. You leave one bright, glistening room thinking your eyes can’t get any wider and then you enter another room only to have them bug out again. If television had been around during Mark Twain’s lifetime, the Steamboat House would have been the first home featured on MTV Cribs! Couldn’t you just imagine Twain strolling through his huge house with a lit cigar between his two fingers and telling audiences about the gigantic wooden mantelpiece over the fireplace, which he bought in Scotland?

Anyway, the house is indescribably beautiful! You have to go for yourself sometime (and then stop by Hot Tomato’s afterward for a delicious Italian dinner)!

From the desk in his third-floor billiard room, Mark Twain turned out his two most famous novels: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. On one wall, there is a door that leads outside to a balcony. According to our tour guide, this was Twain’s “Stepping-Out Porch.” The story goes: whenever a caller came that Twain didn’t want to see, he would simply walk out the door and meander around for a bit. In the meantime, Twain’s butler would inform the caller that the master of the house had just stepped out and wouldn’t be able to receive visitors. Technically, Twain was being an honest man about these encounters. Sometimes I wish I had one of these installed in my dorm room!

In Twain’s dining room is a unique fireplace which features a slanted flue. Basically, instead of the flue rising straight off the fireplace like in most homes, it leans to the side for a few feet and then straightens up again. The slanted flue made it possible for a large, rectangular window to be installed over the fireplace. The tour guide mentioned that it’s especially beautiful in the winter time because the snow seems to be falling into the licking flames. To quote the boys from Lord of the Flies: “Wizard!”

Twain was a man of strong opinions—he once said that every time he read Pride & Prejudice, he wanted to dig up Jane Austen and beat her over the head with her own shin bone. I guess that was his way of “putting it gently” that he didn’t care for the book. It was Twain’s sharp wit and wonderful storytelling talent that made him the legendary author he is today. Twain once boasted of himself, “I’m not an American, I’m the American!” When you walk through his Steamboat House, you see that attitude etched into all the woodwork and painted on all the walls. You know you’re in a Twain residence…it’s almost like he left traces of his spirit there like lingering wisps of his cigar smoke.

We had our first formal class time last night, and our topic was Emily Dickinson. An endlessly fascinating personality, Dickinson created unbelievably deep and provoking poems. If there’s one poet whose work you could describe as “tight,” hers would be it—she packs huge ideas into short, seemingly simple verses. Honestly, readers from any background can enjoy her poetry. Even her life is particularly memorable. The story about how she would often lower a basket of homemade goodies out her window for the schoolchildren to enjoy after school is especially remarkable. She exuded selfless acts of kindness and I believe she discovered a great deal of joy in that.

I also believe every generation has its Emily Dickinsons. These are the great artists who go unappreciated and unrecognized during their lifetimes, and by some whim they are rediscovered after they are dead. (Melville, anyone?) Additionally, each generation has those revolutionary minds that just don’t catch on in time for a cultural rebirth and drift off into the foggy twilight of obscurity. In order to avoid this, we must contemplate the lives of people like Emily Dickinson.

Everyone can learn a lesson of persistence from Dickinson. When our work is turned down or snubbed, we can’t lose faith. Like the eminent film director Cecil B. DeMille, we must be determined self-promoters. In other words, we should each be our own biggest fans, because if we don’t believe in our art, how can anyone else? Nathaniel Hawthorne once said the most important job of an artist is to believe in his work more than anyone else. If only Emily Dickinson and Hawthorne had crossed paths!

On the other hand, her poetry was ahead of its time. The finest poets of her time were telling her to fix her rhyme scheme and tack on other alterations. Almost like she could see into the future, Dickinson let these criticisms go in one ear and out the other, dedicated to her own style. I admire Dickinson for sticking to her guns. Another lesson we can take from this American poet is the importance of going against the grain and aiming to revolutionize one’s art.

So as I stretch out the cobwebs in my leg muscles from sitting on that lovely hardwood floor, you should take a moment and reflect on what it is you do. Listen to Frank Sinatra and do it your way!

Arrowhead Farm, where Herman Melville lived with his family and wrote his most famous work, Moby-Dick, is absolutely beautiful—the sun casting green shadows on the yellow wood paneling of the house, the distant haze of Mount Greylock beyond the treetops. Western Massachusetts seems to be a different world from the eastern region, where we have spent most of our trip. Did Melville travel there seeking solitude from the bustling seaboard he once knew and loved?

Melville’s story of how he came to write is absolutely fascinating. Actually, many authors seem to have had similar circumstances that led to their labor in prose. When you hear about their lives, you realize that had one or two major things been different, we wouldn’t have half the famous novels we’ve come to know and love. I will use Melville as an example.

Herman Melville’s father passed away when he was only a young man. His mother, who was part of Dutch aristocracy, had to care for eight children and couldn’t seek work. It was up to Herman and his brother to find work since they were the oldest boys of the family. Herman first tried working on a farm in Ohio, but that venture soon failed. Ultimately, he ended up signing on for an expedition on the whaling vessel called the Acushnet, and the rest is history. Melville used his travel experiences as the basis for most of his novels such as Typee and Omoo. Had the family never gone through the tragedy of losing their father, Melville would most likely never picked up that life at sea which inspired his greatest works.

The “coincidences” don’t end there. When Moby-Dick was released in 1851, several critics praised it, essentially saying, “This book is really something!” However, readers at large didn’t know what to make of the novel. Unlike his commercially successful novels at the beginning of his career, Melville’s new book explored deeper themes such as the duality of man and good vs. evil. Thus, the book was a financial flop.

Fast forward to 1921 when family members of Herman Melville were digging around in the attic. Herman had been dead thirty years and his name wasn’t widely known. Inside a cake box, one of the family members came across Herman Melville’s manuscript for Billy Budd. They sent it to Scribner’s publishing company, which accepted it for publication. Suddenly, there was a rebirth of Melville’s career. It was then that Moby-Dick received rekindled interest leading up to its becoming a criterion of American Literature. If Billy Budd hadn’t been discovered, Melville’s name and legacy would most likely still be largely unknown.

I firmly believe that things happen for a reason. Whether it’s Melville or Emerson or Hawthorne, I believe we are reading their works today because somewhere along the line they were meant to shape our Literature and, consequently, our culture. Taking a note from Melville’s life, we can see how something bad that happens to us today may end up being the starting point for greatness.

First, let me get the stars out of my eyes before I begin to talk about Harvard. Okay, I think I’m ready. When I say “broken bottles,” you probably think of a bar fight. Well, that’s kind of how our tour of the Houghton Library at Harvard began—Alicia smashing her bottle of Nantucket Nectars all over the floor of the coatroom. As if the lady at the front desk wasn’t already in a snippy mood—we were disturbing her magazine reading with our silly requests for a mop. Anyway, we were joined by a staff member at the Houghton who took us upstairs to show us the wonders they had hidden behind those locked doors.

We first traipsed through the Emily Dickinson room. I got to touch the famous chest of drawers where Emily’s sister found all her poems. The room also contained her tiny writing desk, the family piano, and several portraits of the family. That’s not even the cool part of the visit.

Next, she led us into a conference room where she had about six or seven books laid open around a table. She wouldn’t tell us what they were and, instead, asked a few of us to read from them. We soon discovered that she had set out a John Eliot translation of the Bible, Longfellow’s notes, Melville’s travel journal, Thoreau’s notebook, Bronson Alcott’s personal journal, Hawthorne’s final manuscript for House of Seven Gables, Emerson’s notes on Margaret Fuller, and letters by Fuller during her travels. I can’t tell you the feelings that washed over me! It was almost excruciating. This whole trip, we’ve followed in these authors’ footsteps—visiting their homes, their graves—now, we’re literally running our fingers over their handwriting.

I admit that there have been times when I’ve felt like a dork in my life…too many times, actually. There was a moment during the visit to the Houghton Library when I stepped back and said, “Bobby, get a hold of yourself! You’re having a conniption fit over Hawthorne!” There would have been a time when that was a signal for me to seek therapy. However, after a handful of excellent literature courses at WKU and this trip, I’m unashamed to say handling the manuscript for House of Seven Gables was a religious experience. By the sheer presence the works had in that little room, you could just tell these people were pivotal in creating a national identity for our infant country.

All too often, we hear kids say: “I want to be like Lance Armstrong!” or “I want to be like Tiger Woods!” Let me be the first to say, “I want to be like Herman Melville! I want to be like Nathaniel Hawthorne!” You might think I’m just a little bit screwy, but let me explain. These authors were essential in the creation of the American Identity. In his writings, Ralph Waldo Emerson spoke about how America needed to turn away from England and begin working on its own culture and character. I believe our country has a hard time expressing that identity nowadays, because asking immigrants to assimilate to the American culture is labeled as “racist.” Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis, who was an immigrant himself, once said, “(W)e properly demand of the immigrant even more than this — he must be brought into complete harmony with our ideals and aspirations and cooperate with us for their attainment. Only when this has been done will he possess the national consciousness of an American.” The American identity is crucial to our country in ways many don’t even think about. Hawthorne, Emerson, Thoreau, and the like were all in some way responsible for the development of our culture. For that, I’m eternally grateful.

I’m sitting in Room 204 of the Boston Hostel wondering why the people above us find it necessary to jump around and bang on the floor. It sounds like Riverdance being performed by people with peg legs and no sense of rhythm. I’m just praying the ceiling doesn’t come down with one gigantic thud. Bodies plummeting into our room would be the perfect climax to a very hectic day. It began on that yuppie paradise called Nantucket and ended somewhere in the great city of Boston.

Our day started at the Whaling Museum. Nowadays, when someone claims the neighbor’s dog is telling him to kill young girls, we lock him up in an asylum and inject him with enough morphine to stop a charging rhinoceros. He’s obviously out of his mind! However, back then, men decided (of their own free will) to spend months, maybe years, on the open sea capturing behemoth mammals, stripping them of their entrails, and cheating death on a daily basis, and yet society seemed okay with that—nothing crazy there! Learning about the arduous tasks these men completed every day was eye-opening. I tend to complain when I have a three-page paper to write. Now I’ll think to myself, “Gee, I could be climbing into the head of an adult Sperm Whale and scooping out buckets of oil and brains.” Puts things in perspective, eh?
After the museum and some extra time to wander around Nantucket, we grabbed our bags and embarked on what would be hours of traveling. Was it the kind of traveling in which one says, “Oh, look honey! A deer! Quick, stop the car and grab the cameras!”? No! It was more like: “Gotta go! Gotta go! Gotta go right now!”

First, we had a bumpy two-hour ferry ride back to the mainland. If you think big waves with whitecaps are fun to look at, you should try riding over them in a 50-ton vessel! There were a couple of moments when the boat leaned so far to one side, you couldn’t see sky out the windows anymore—only water. Let me just say…I suddenly remembered prayers from my grade school days at St. Athanasius and I began firing them off one by one. If we were going to do an aquatic cartwheel maneuver in a steel ferryboat, I wanted to be prepared to meet my Maker. Luckily, we lumbered into port, and I was never so happy to see blacktop pavement in my life. Land!
Everyone, out of the boat and into the vans! We still had an hour or so drive to Boston to complete. So we grabbed a quick bite at Wendy’s, gathered up our effects (not to mention PURSES), and took off.

Several hours later, both vans were sitting in a parking garage and we were piling onto a transit headed to Boston. If you ever thought, “Wow, a trip to Boston via transit sounds like a nice, relaxing time,” you should take this computer screen and beat yourself with it. The Boston transit system is like a stress test gone insane. When you have fourteen people and luggage, it’s nothing less than a miracle that you make it alive. Yet we all hopped off at the right stop for the Boston Hostel and nobody was missing any limbs (maybe just a bump on the head). Kudos!

So here I am…writing in my journal and hoping someone upstairs will land on his or her head soon, so we can all get some sleep tonight. From the Boston Hostel in some shadowy corner of the city…goodnight!

Yesterday, it was raining cats and dogs on Nantucket Island--I think I even saw a cow or two drop. What began as a light sprinkle with wicked winds soon became a shower. What made it worse was the fact that I, along with a couple others, was running around Nantucket in the storm (called a "Noreaster") without a clue where we needed to go. It was by the grace of God that we found the Maria Mitchell Museum before I got soaked to the bone. If you would have given me a hate and umbrella, I would have resembled Gene Kelly singin' in the rain!

What the rain couldn't dampen were our spirits. Once inside and dried off, the group was back to its usual fun-loving self. Our living quarters for this leg of the trip are wonderful--a kitchen, large bedrooms, and even a leisure room with a TV, VCR, and SORORITY HOUSE MASSACRE on VHS!

Nantucket seems to be a world of its own, separate from the rest of the country. When about 90% of the homes on the island are empty (since they're summe residences), the only thing for the rest of the inhabitants to do is either shop, drink wine, or, as Dawn put it, "congratulate themselves on being Masters of the Universe." You get an idea about what type of people live here when you find plain sweatshirts for $54.00 and gloves for $43.00. ("Sir, how many kidneys and firstborns do these shoes cost?") Needless to say, my pseudo "college grunge" look is multiplied by thirty around these people.

I'm fascinated by the historic sections of the town. Main Street is essentially cobblestone--every car tire's bane. Alongside the street, wonderfully antiquated homes sit shoulder-to-shoulder. Someone mentioned that one of John Kerry's homes is on the island (SNORE!). Like Salem, Concord, and Plymouth, this place has a colorful history. Though I would never live here (whether as a result of high costs or personal choice), it's a fun place to rest, eat some fish & chips, and breathe in large gulps of ocean air.

Back in the day, witches were tripping over themselves to get out of Salem, MA. Nowadays, it seems all their wannabe cousins are flocking back into town and opening up palm-reading parlors or cheesy t-shirt stands. Most stores carry Halloween decor and costumes year round. All the while, the true aura of Salem lies in its historical buildings and aged streets, not the zany shopkeepers. Today seemed to have the perfect weather for seeing the town--thick, heavy clouds and a biting chill. It was enough to make us forget it's the middle of May.

We began at Hawthorne's House of Seven Gables. Thanks to a restoration architect, this home crawls right out of the famous novel, complete with its own secret passageway in the dining room and a one-cent store downstairs. About ten minutes into the tour, we began to feel like characters in the boardgame "Clue" and wondered where Colonel Mustard went with that candlestick.

This tour was much shorter than the others we've been on in the last couple of days. Our guide took us through about five or six rooms, only whetting my taste for the house. Sort of like the day before, I wanted to grab a book (this time, Hawthorne's House of Seven Gables) and read it cover to cover...well, maybe the SparkNotes. Amazing what a tour will get us to do.

Learning about the different phases of the house was pretty interesting. I can see how Hawthorne became so enamored with the home. According to the guide, the woman who owned the house was a good friend of Nathaniel Hawthorne and often spent long dinners describing the glory days of her home. Turns out she was a huge encourager of Hawthorne's writing, so after his surprise success with Scarlet Letter, he used her house as the subject of his next major work. Good stuff, huh? Forget Psychology and Broadcasting...now you see why it's so exciting to be an English major!

Following our romp through the Seven Gables, we passed through Hawthorne's birthplace home, which they had to cut in half in order to move it across town to the property where it now stands. The giftshop was quaint until a hundred middle school students moved through like a cockroach infestation. So we went out of Dodge and headed back to the main building.

One of the information panels within the Hawthorne birthplace talked about his years of seclusion. Around 1825, Hawthorne became a recluse and only left the house at night for long, solitary walks. It was a time of self doubt for him as he would often toss whole manuscripts into the fire when they received lukewarm reviews. The panel said Hawthorne had always wanted to be a world-famous author. For someone with such great expectations of himself, these gulfs of seclusion must have been unimaginably painful. I really empathize with Hawthorne's desire to have his work recognized. It's like...one day you wake up and all you can think about is sharing your work--your soul, your heart--with someone. You want to know why those thoughts keep you up all night...so you open yourself up. Laying your secrets out for someone else to discover comes with a mixture of vulnerability, nakedness, and an inexplicable thrill. You hope it will change the way someone sees the world and, ultimately, his life. It's a way to break down the walls we see boxing in our dreams. When someone you've never met before says you've affected him with your words, the struggle is worth it. I think Hawthorne wanted to outlive the time mortality afforded him. There's a sense of freedom in knowing people a hundred years from now will recognize your name and talent--like you're cheating death.

It's good to know these authors were human, too. You know what I mean... With someone like Hawthorne who's constantly referred to as "genius," it's hard to imagine the man having flaws like the rest of us.

Besides the silly manicans at the Salem Witch Museum ("Please, take us seriously! Don't use the stereotypes!"), the town was awesome. If you steer clear of the drab "New Salem" and stick to the historic sites, you'll really get a good sense of this cozy American city. (If that didn't sound like a cynical brochure blurb, I don't know what does!)

Call me Ishmael. No seriously, call me Bobby. We just got back from our whale-watching trip to Gloucester, MA, and are currently awaiting a delicious dinner of pancakes and eggs....yum! Honestly, if we had traveled all the way to New England and only did today's activities, it still would have been worth it!

Today's chapter of "Real World: New England" took us about 20 miles off the coast of Massachusetts looking for some big mammals-No, not the women on "The View"- real whales! If you're like me, your experience of whale-spotting begins and ends with that magical place called Sea World. Today was an opportunity to see these animals in their natural habitat without the glass tanks and the screaming children.

The trip out to the spot where the whales would be feeding took about an hour. The weather was extremely fickle; the sun would poke its head in and out, and we even had about ten minutes of fog cover. Our group was nervous about the forecast for the afternoon, but the day turned out to be ideal whale-watching weather.

First, we saw Fin Whales swimming at a distance. You just can't imagine how big whales are until you're floating alongside of them as they slide beneath the sinews of the waves. Our tour guide constantly pointed out the unique "Chevron pattern" on the backs of the whales, identifying that species. Everyone on the boat was just as excited about the whales as the seagulls were which hovered above them waiting for a chance to snatch up a fish or two.

After several moments of "oohs" and "aahs", the boat headed out for different waters, looking for a second type of whale common to the area-the Humpback Whale. According to the guide, the Humpback Whale is a favorite of watchers because they're so playful. They certainly lived up to their reputations. Once we came across a group of Humpbacks, the fun really began. The first real sighting of them happened when our guide pointed out a "bubble net" off to the front of the boat. Suddenly, three large whale heads rose up out of the waves, taking a big gulp of salt water and fish and sending the seagulls in chaotic disarray. Shortly thereafter, we were surrounded by Humpback Whales feeding. We followed a group of three as they chased down a school of fish. Every once in a while, they would dive down to the bottom and give us a flash of their massive tail fins, also known as their "flukes."

While most everyone was looking off the left side of the boat at the feeding, I happened to glance off to the front right where, in the distance, I caught a Humpback Whale actually jump up out of the water and come down sideways with a huge splash. That moment really made this trip twice as great-I've seen pictures of whales jumping like that but I never thought I would ever see it with my own eyes. Later on, a baby whale came up beside the boat and playfully shot mist out of its blowhole. Even as it dipped below the surface, you could see its characteristic white flippers flashing.

I immediately wanted to read the entirety of Herman Melville's Moby Dick (which is a near-impossible feat). Honestly, you can read a book like Melville's novel and get a tiny sense of its adventure, but without actually experiencing events like encountering a whale at sea, it's only as exciting as your imagination will allow. Now I understand why Melville saw this kind of expedition (even though our purpose wasn't the same as Ahab's) as worthy of a story of epic proportions. I couldn't help but feel the overwhelming presence of the ocean and these amazing animals that swam around us. Times like this can really bring out the poet in you.