It really isn’t about being there. For me, and perhaps others, experiencing something as great as this doesn’t really feel that important when actually doing it. For us, many of the days we traveled at least an hour in two minivans full of mini-scholars and cunning leaders in order to make it to our destination of choice. After piling out of the cramped quarters, ever the nerdy tourists, we would begin taking pictures of the signs, houses, and every lilac bush that graced our presence (they were enormous!). Most of the time, our tours would begin a few minutes after our arrival. We would be ushered into a woodshed or backroom that had been converted into a modest gift shop, clearly not made for holding 14 adults carrying backpacks (the staple of student travel). The tacky tourist in all of us would wake up to the smell of books, t-shirts, magnets, journals, umbrellas, posters, and trinkets. Before we could lay a finger on the silver-plated bookmark with a small scrap of the original copy of Little Women enshrined in a plastic tube dangling from the end of the hook (modestly priced at $30), we would be whisked away to our tour.

Without exaggerating, I can say that all of our tour guides were excellent. It seems that we were being led by scholars of the respective authors. Our tour guide at the Longfellow estate wins the prize. During his tour of the great American poet’s house, our guide quoted Longfellow’s poetry, told anecdotes about his and the poet’s family, and shared with us his encyclopedic knowledge of the house and its former inhabitants. After his tour, I don’t think there was one in our group who hadn’t fallen in love with Longfellow and his poetry.

Even with the amazing guides, inevitably we found ourselves standing on a runner of carpet or plastic (the kind that my grandmother inevitably has in her house every time I visit), shifting our weight from one foot to the other, attempting to absorb at least one third of what the guides were teaching us.

After the tour we would be dumped out into the gift shop to consummate our imagined and desired purchases. Of course, we bought too many books, too many trinkets, and too many t-shirts; much of which left us sitting on our suitcases in a spectacular effort to shut the resistant beasts. I can confess, the seams on my high-quality duffel bag were tried due to my recent acquisitions. Once purchasing our mementoes, we were inevitably whisked away to another destination, as many as four a day. By the end of the day, we looked like dogs after a good walk: tired, but smiling because of the adventure.

But did we know how exciting it was at that moment? Most of the time, for me, the excitement comes when regaling the stories and moments with those who could not be there. It is then when I forget the soreness in my feet, the cramped feeling of the van, the damp smell of our clothes after the encounter with the Nor’easter, the slight queasiness in my stomach after the high-speed ferry ride, and the jumbling of facts after three literary home tours. The gift that memory gives is a slight amnesia of less-than-ideal moments. Memory allows us to focus on the adventure, the awe, and the excitement of seeing what we saw.

Perhaps that is why coming home can be sweeter than embarking on a journey. It is the feeling of accomplishment and finality that allows us to reflect on our amazing journey with happiness, pride, and a touch of sorrow. We are happy because of the experiences we were afforded; proud of ourselves for surviving without fighting, complaining, and accomplishing our journey; and sorrowful because there is a small part of us that misses the cramped vans, the funny moments, and the sense of community that we created within the fourteen of us.

Would I do this again? Absolutely. What are you doing tomorrow?

Next to Emily Dickinson’s house is the Evergreen House. Belonging to Emily Dickinson’s brother, Austin, the house remained lived in until a very recent 1988. The last private owners did little to alter the house, including preserving the room of the deceased little boy whose clothing is still laid out on his bed. In addition to maintaining the houses original wallpaper and much of the furniture, the owners did not throw much away. Among the items saved were magazine subscriptions, old letters, and an old wood-burning stove. Derek, our fearless graduate assistant, promised us a “haunting” experience in the house. Before we embarked on this trip, he informed us that on his last excursion to the northeast, the Evergreen House was amongst his favorite places. We couldn’t wait.

After touring the Dickinson house, we walked next door, anticipating a house, virtually unaltered by time. When we entered, however, we quickly found out our expectations and anticipations were aimed too high. The old wallpaper drooped from the walls like flowers in the late summer. The ceiling was an old man’s face: deeply creviced and cracked, slightly sagging. The musty furniture and damaged floorboards gave the house the opposite effect of hauntingly old; it was just old. The kitchen had been preserved in its original state (with the addition of a gas stove next to the wood-burning one); however, it looked as if no restoration efforts were being made.

We climbed upstairs, clinging to the hopes of seeing the child’s room. In the narrow hallway we were able to peek through to see the clothing neatly pressed and laid out on the white damask bedspread, but the other rooms were in bad need of restoration. We ended our tour in the parlor, listening to an old radio program that broadcasted from the very room we were sitting in. When the tape stopped, our guide asked us if we had any questions. Derek, ever the brave soul, told about his visit six years ago and innocently asked what had happened in the short time to the beautiful landmark. Our guide, a former history professor at Yale, sighed and all at once looked sorrowful and tired. She explained that certain restorations would require the removal of the original wallpaper, the reupholstering of certain furniture pieces, and the re-vamping of the structure of the house. She explained the dilemma. Leave the house and it is destroyed; restore the house and it is not the same.

While I could never make the decision for the society in charge of the preservation, I can say if the house were to be left in the condition it is in right now and remained untouched, it would certainly crumble around the feet of its admirers. The other houses we have visited featured, many times, re-created wallpaper, rugs, and even artwork. The neither the integrity of the houses or the effect the literary homes had on our group (and I’m sure others) was altered because of the changes. My vote: Save the Evergreen!

Mark Twain’s Steamboat House sits majestically on a gentle hill, seemingly aloof from the neighborhood that has grown around it. It’s neighbors, the modest dwelling of Harriet Beecher Stowe and a mansion once belonging to a lawyer, have been spared the wrecking ball as well, but its Twain’s house that commands attention. As Mr. Rutledge explained, there are essentially two faces of Twain. There is the “Huckleberry Finn” Twain: one who has a disregard for “sivilization” and materialism. Then there is the “Tom Sawyer” Twain: one who loves a great adventure and extreme grandeur. The Steamboat House, commissioned by Twain at the height of his wealth, represents the Tom Sawyer in him. In lieu of giving a verbal room-by-room tour, I shall highlight the room I found most intriguing: the library.

Upon entering the blue toned room, visitors are greeted with an indoor atrium at the opposite end of the room. The guide explained that an atrium attached to the house was, in Twain’s day, a sign of wealth and prestige. The beautiful half circle, glassed room was no bigger than an average walk-in closet and was filled with plants in a semi-circle pattern around a gurgling fountain. It was as if the plants were worshipping the moving water. I asked the guide if the fountain would have been a working one in Twain’s day. He replied that it would have, but what we were looking at was not the same one, only a replica. I remembered from the beginning of the tour that the Clemens’s not only had indoor plumbing, but they also had both hot and cold running water. The atrium provided a brightness and Zen-like quality to the library that I felt would have been conducive to writing; however, Twain found the library’s features, including large windows and the presence of his daughters, too distracting and moved his craft to the upstairs billiards room.
A small anecdote: attached to the billiards room was a small, wooden deck that Twain had dubbed “The Stepping Out” deck. Twains wife, an ardent Christian, disapproved of lying for any reason. In the event of an unannounced guest at the Steamboat House, Twain would consider his day’s work. If he found the visitor worth his time or he was at a stopping place, he would descend the stairs and receive the guest. However, if the author was hard at work and unavailable, he would step out onto the deck. His butler would then apologize to the guest, informing he or she that Mr. Clemens had just stepped out. This way neither Twain or the butler had to lie, the guest would not be offended by a shun from the author, and his wife could have a clear conscious.

Another highlight of the library was the fireplace. The mantelpiece was acquired from a trip to Europe and was originally crafted for a castle. The ornate wooden piece was too tall for the height of the room and the very top piece was placed above the doorway to bring the room together. Nevertheless, the integrity and craftsmanship of the gigantic wooden edifice still takes breaths away and commands the attention of the room. Upon the actual mantel, Twain kept various mementoes and pictures. When his little girls would visit him in the study in the evening, they would demand a story from their talented father; however, it was not just any story they wanted. They had rules. First, the story had to begin with the painting of a cat wearing a ruffle around his neck. Then Twain was to incorporate each and every item on the mantel, in the correct order in which they appear, into his story. The scrupulous listeners would not accept any detail or plot line borrowed from a previous story; they wanted new stories. It is details like this that bring these authors to life as we tour their former dwelling places. It is difficult to see where someone slept, ate their toast, and went to the bathroom without feeling closer to them than ever before.

The view of the white-capped mountains that the window in Melville’s study afforded provided, without question, a wealth of inspiration for his best works, with extreme emphasis on one in particular. The gently rise and fall of the mountains provided a constant reminder of the grandeur and size of the great white whale. I know I myself am particularly pleased his view wasn’t that of perhaps his best-known antihero (second only to the elusive Captain Ahab) Bartleby from the short story “Bartleby the Scrivener.” In the short story, for those who haven’t had the pleasure, Bartleby’s view consists of the broad, gray side of another building. In sparing a great and lengthy discussion of one of the great American crises, I will note that the view from Arrowhead provided Melville freedom from the “job as prison” motif that has been omnipresent in American life since the birth of the Puritan work ethic. Sometimes a mere view can be the difference between sanity and madness; a lesson I learned from Melville and his Bartleby.

But what kind of view am I discussing? To be clearer, allow me to introduce to you, reader, the unnamed couple that joined our tour, completely oblivious to the facts that (a) it was a private tour and (b) Arrowhead was, in fact, still closed for the season. For as elitist as I am sounding now (you will understand my disgust in a moment), our group was kind enough to invite the tourists along for the guided tour. As our lively (and a bit flirtatious) guide led us gracefully from room to room, she excitedly blurted out facts about Melville’s life at Arrowhead as if they were secrets that she could only share with us. We were soaking it all in, when suddenly, from out of nowhere, the grating voice of skepticism and utter conspiracy theory filled the room. Upon discussing one of Melville’s sons who did not marry, our guide was interrupted with a harsh question.

“So he was gay, right?”

I thought I was going to have to peel Mr. Rutledge’s bottom lip from the floor. Luckily, Mr. Rutledge was not our guide. Our graceful lady leader, however, took it in stride. She must be used to leading groups of ill-behaved, obnoxious children around the farm. She answered in that tone that all adults (and most children) know. It’s the I’m-only-answering-you-to-prove-that-you’re-ignorant tone. The “No, Tommy, you may not have a cow for a house pet” voice. Our guide answered, “No, he just didn’t marry.” I secretly thanked the unwanted guest for that blast from 1982 and we moved on with our tour.

Just as we were recovering from the awkward blurt of a woman, the guide entered the subject of the death of Melville’s son. She, as most historical scholars do, pointed out that the gunshot wound that killed Melville’s son was self-inflicted and it may have been an accident. Scholars are torn on this subject. The guide was merely protecting herself, I assume, from self-important, quasi-literary buffs that claim one side or the other. Even her well-placed tact was not enough for the likes of the inquisitive lady.

“So he shot himself, right?”

This time it was my lower lip that needed adjustment.

In this case, the views of the guests are quite different. One group, the majority who arranged for the special tour, is decidedly open-minded and eager to learn about Melville. The other group, the self-imposed minority of two drifters, is, quite frankly, looking for the National Enquirer tour of Melville’s farm. I find the former method more savory. Upon embarking on this adventure, I felt ill-prepared. I had not read enough of these great American authors to even begin to understand the importance of seeing their dwelling places. Perhaps the purpose of the tabloid tourist was to show me that my seemingly meager preparations for these tours were exponentially more than many of the guests these places receive. Beyond feeling better about myself, I felt sorry for the guides. What a waste of amazing talent. The majority of our tour guides were wonderfully passionate about their landmarks. From the Longfellow-quoting romantic to the heavily accented Emerson scholar, these people make it their life’s work to share these authors with the world in the most real settings only to have people show up looking for a scandal. Perhaps I am basing my observation on limited experience. I only hope it is my skewed notations and not the reality of the situation.

When we entered Harvard University’s Houghton Library, we were greeted by a strict disciplinarian whose main job, so it seemed, was to protect the priceless works housed in the building. She instructed the group to place ALL belongings in the lockers. The only thing we could bring with us was our hungry minds. I can respect that. Others in the group scoffed at her seemingly rude demeanor; however, it was her job to make sure these works were not disturbed. I would rather have a cold shoulder than a lax one, in this case. Once ushered into a room off of the lobby, we met our guide. A librarian who has worked at her craft for 27 years, our guide had an intellectual air about her that made her pause before speaking even the smallest of sentences. After a short introduction, she led us into our first room: the Dickinson room.

In the center of the small, mauve-painted room stood a nondescript bureau. For those who are either amateur Dickinson scholars or at least know a bit of literary legend, I know you are getting excited for me. For readers who may not know the story behind the chest of drawers, know that American literature would be extraordinarily altered if this piece of furniture did not exist. For in this simple set of drawers, Emily’s sister Lavinia discovered over 2,000 poems written by the recently deceased poet. In her will, Dickinson instructed that these works, as well as any letters or other writings, were to be destroyed. Sometimes not respecting the wishes of the dead is better than following their orders. While Lavinia did, in fact, burn the letters received by close friends and family, she saved the poems, believing that one day, they might become a part of history. The single act of saving Dickinson’s poems might have been, in some opinions, be the greatest moment in literary history.

Once gawking at Dickinson’s bureau, piano, library, and horrid needlepoint, we moved on to a meeting room. The librarian informed us that she had pulled a few items from the stacks. We first encountered a Bible written in a language no one in our group could decipher. We learned it was one of the Bibles that John Eliot translated into a Native American language. The next piece was a small folio of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s notes. We then read from a journal describing a sea voyage. We learned that Herman Melville, who had stopped working on ships to pursue other interests, still kept journals while traveling to Europe on the high seas. The next piece seemed discuss nature in great detail. We knew immediately that Henry David Thoreau kept a multitude of journals filled with observations and notes on the natural world that surrounded him at Walden Pond. Next to the notes on nature was Bronson Alcott’s journal detailing Christmas with his daughters and, among other things, reading Walden. Then came the gem.

In a red cloth-covered book was a hand-written manuscript of The House of the Seven Gables. There, in Hawthorne’s hand, was the story of Hepzibah and her cent shop, the helpful family members, and the stranger upstairs. As we flipped through the pages (we actually got to touch them!) we found ourselves at the end of the book looking at a poem. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote an elegy for the occasion of Hawthorne’s death. Not only did T.J. Fields, in the interest of posterity, save the manuscript (most manuscripts were recycled and used for other things, as paper was rare), but he also attached the poem (written in Longfellow’s hand) aptly titled “Hawthorne.” It is difficult to describe how haunting it was reading the author’s pained words:

How beautiful it was, that one bright day
In the long week of rain!
Though all its splendor could not chase away
The omnipresent pain.

The lovely town was white with apple-blooms,
And the great elms o'erhead
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms
Shot through with golden thread.

It was as if Longfellow’s emotions traveled through the ink of the pen and on to the paper. The effect was powerful.

Seeing the casual words of the authors displayed before me brought them to life in a way that no textbook, biography, or novel could ever do. The experience was incomparable to anything I have ever done in my life.

When the first settlers came to Nantucket Island their intention was to raise sheep.  With the island's ample grasslands, lack of natural predators, and the fact that it's surrounded by water (sheep cannot swim), the settlers felt that raising sheep was the best method of survival.  Unfortunately, the island's lack of moving water made refining the wool impossible.  In lieu of the docile work, the men turned to the Native Americans to learn the craft of whaling.  The island's main source of income was born.

Whaling, after a period of refinement, exploded in the early 1800s; and Nantucket was in the center of it all.  Men would leave for years at a time, gathering over 3,000 barrel of oil from sometimes over 60 Sperm Whales.  The art of hunting a whale is a sloppy and evil one.  A man on the perch of a ship would spot a whale, notify the Captain ("Thar she blows!"), and watch as most of the crew man boats less than a third of the size of the main ship.  The men in the boats would row after the whale, sometimes for hours.  When they would finally catch up, the man in the front would harpoon the vast surface of the whale's black, leathery skin.  Then the boat with the men in it would be taken on a Nantucket Sleigh Ride (as the locals call it).  This consists of the whale pulling the small boat along, faster than these men h ad ever been before.  When the whale finally tired out, exhausted and tired of fighting, the man in the front would send a spear directly into the life of the whale.  Penetrating the whale's heart or lungs, the spear would direct a fatal blow.  Gallons of bright red blood would burst from the defeated beast, showering its killers with the life they took.  The fight was over, and the harvesting of blubber, oil, ambergeis, and bones would begin.

For many years the by-products of a whale were used for anything from lamp oil to perfume base; however, with the discovery of petroleum and its uses, the Civil War, and advancements in technology, the trade of whaling declined quickly.  With the island's main source of income demolished, its citizens turned to tourism in order to supplement their incomes and ensure the island's survival. 
   Nantucket has now grown into a posh hangout for the rich, sometimes famous, and always yuppie crowd.  This amusement park for the upper class is home to "reasonably priced" $10 million houses, restaurants serving $40 fish platters, and stores touting $300 blouses (I saw it with my own eyes).  While the proprietor of our temporary house has ensured us that the culture on this island is, especially in the winter, wonderful, I have found nothing but surfaces on Main Street.  

I entitled this blog "Necessary Evil" because it seems that the citizens have turned to certain methods of earning money as a means of survival.   From the awful whaling industry to the high-class tourist traps, Nantucket and its locals have thrived on the lowest means of living, even if covered in a gold-flaked gloss.

Today we were granted a "free day" in order to explore Nantucket and all the island and its inhabitants have to offer.  A few of us (the heartier souls as we were dubbed) decided to rent bicycles and explore 18 miles of paths on one half of the island.  It was invigorating, to say the least.  We anticipate sore legs, weak knees, and tender shoulders; but we can handle it.  The weather gods smiled upon us as it did not rain; however, the sharp breeze and misty atmosphere was less than ideal.  On an island whose citizens (both temporary and permanent) tend to worship the real, we found the natural beauty and wonder that remains on this small piece of land.  After a day of walking and bicycling, all we looked forward to, in my opinion, was a quiet evening of journaling and bonding; however, we were scheduled to attend an astronomy lecture.

Our instructor, Vladimir, was everything one hopes for in a teacher  In his thick Russian accent, he talked about astronomy, Maria Mitchell, and what the students do every summer with the most fascinating exuberance.  While most of what he was attempting to discuss with a bunch of English majors was above our heads (both literally and figuratively speaking), he brought the sky and history to life in more than a few ways.  A few things about the hour and a half spent with this interesting man stand out.

He began by praising the woman for whom the association is named.  As a teacher, I listened very carefully as he discussed how wonderfully gifted she was as an instructor.  She inspired her students not by bribing them, but by challenging them with an unsolved problem.  Vladimir explained that the adrenaline of being challenged and the drive to find the answer was enough to motivate the students to do their best.  This seems like the most ideal teaching and learning situation.  From a teacher's perspective, the students are directing their own learning with the instructor acting as a guide of sorts.  From a learner's perspective, what learning occurs is self-discovered.  The most authentic learning that occurs is that which is self-discovered, but how, then, can it be measured?  Vladimir explained that Ms. Mitchell never assigned a grade to her students.  She felt that the human intellect, potential, and learning experience could not be measured by a single number.  I couldn't agree more.  Unfortunately, teachers and even college professors are bound by institutions, students, and parents, all of whom are looking for a definite measure of success or material learned.  I couldn't imagine the how different our education system would be without grades.

There was one other moment that I know I will never forget.  I'm sure to our instructor the comment is commonplace, but to me the reality is clear.  He was discussing life on Earth and he said that humans only have but a short time here.  He claimed that if planet Earth was in existence for one day, then the time human beings spend inhabiting it would represent one second. 

How significant we think we are.  In actuality, our existence will be a mere moment in this planet's memory.  The reality, put into context, is at once the most frightening and logical thing I have ever been told.

We have arrived at the Maria Mitchell Association on Nantucket Island after a very cold (37-degree wind chill), wet day at Plimoth Plantation (correctly spelled).  I must say that the actual plantation was amazing.  The three sections of the main site included the following:  a Native American gathering which included people discussing their heritage and lives, a settlement where role-players told us about their daily lives and dwelling places, and a crafts building where present-day artisans practiced their craft using only primitive means.  Then it was on to the Mayflower II and Plymouth Rock.

With the gale-force winds, stinging rain, and soaked clothing, we were looking for something big to justify our insane drive to see everything Plymouth had to offer.  What we got was a nondescript boulder (maybe just a mid-sized rock) that was surrounded by an open-air, Greek-revival building.  Needless to say, we looked, snapped some pictures, and bolted over to the ship.  The ship provided a mild respite from the weather; however, we were soon driven out by the ubiquitous school children whose natural curiosities tended to cramp our languid style of learning. 

Once back to the vans, we sought shelter at the Cape Cod shopping mall.  While neon lights and modern-day commercialism probably goes against all that Thoreau and Emerson believed in, the warmth of the indoor facility, as well as the opportunity to purchase warmer clothing, was tempting.  We ended the day with a grand feast at Olive Garden and a sickening ride on a high-speed ferry to the island that almost took out half our students and our fearless leader. 

We are now settled in our rooms and are feeling rather cozy in the small, but intimate living room.  Tomorrow offers a break from the inclement weather, as the forecast is calling for clouds, but no rain.  Keep your fingers crossed, reader, for we need your wishes and prayers for the trip back.  I don't think Mr. Rutledge can handle another choppy ride.

"Da dum da dum da da da da dum, dum dum dum dum da." 
  In case you didn't notice, that was the theme to Harry Potter; and if you did notice, hello fellow Muggle or Squib.  I am writing to you from the deliciously wicked Salem, Massachusetts; home of no less than 19 interred fallen, accused witches, a covenant of real-life Wiccan followers, and many liberal people who love the fact that it's Halloween year-round in their home town. 
  
It seems fitting that the reading that I brought along with me includes two books filled with Harry Potter critical essays in preparation for a fantasy literature unit I'm planning, the last installment to the aforementioned series, and the fifth movie, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.  So, I'm a nerd...what's wrong with that?  I was subtly devouring my entertaining, yet intellectual essays until I caught the attention of more than a few of my fellow travelers.  One of them, in fact, has borrowed one of the books...but I won't name names. 
  
My closed mouth, however, seems to be uncharacteristic of what we learned at the fabulously tacky, yet educational, Salem Witch Museum. It seems that naming names is the thing to do when you're looking for some action in an otherwise mundane life.  Learning about the Salem Witch Trials was right up my Diagon Alley (ba-dum-dum).  I love hearing about times in our country's history when our ancestors made complete fools of themselves.  The knowledge gives me a false security that the same thing won't ever happen again.  I'm always wrong, of course.  At the museum they had an interesting formula for witch hunts: fear + trigger = scapegoat.  For instance, during World War Two the fear of Japan as an enemy, plus the attack on Peal Harbor, equaled Japanese-American internment camps.  The curators applied the same formula to the actual witch hunts, McCarthyism, and gay bashing.  I found the formula simplistic, yet effective in order to explain a complex and horrific process in shorter terms.
  
But I'm still not naming names.  In the true spirit of my rebellious sisters of the darker cloth, I am mum.  To those closet Harry Potter fans who choose to remain anonymous, I'll watch for your sleepy eyes after a post-midnight-release-party marathon read of the final installment and laugh (quite like the Wicked Witch of the West) as you attempt to hide it

You don't see them at first. You see bubbles. You see the deep brown-blue of the ocean turn a frothy green. The sound of the splashing waves and wind whipping around the sides of the boat is interrupted by the expulsion of air and water. Then...she breeches. It's slow at first; just a hint of thick, salt water-saturated skin. Her body rises from the rippling waves, the water falling in beads down her vast back. A dorsal fin comes next. Not as fast as you'd expect. It's slow moving with these giants of the ocean. Finally the tail, or the fluke as the masters of the ocean called it, rises from the water as she dives deep for the next feast.

We left the dock at 10:30 for our voyage with Captain Bill and Sons Whale Watching crew. On board was a crew that consisted of a few oceanographers, the Captain (Sean), and the Galley Girl. We shared our berth with few other passengers, with any more people, we might not have seen what we did. After we left the harbor, those with weak stomachs and dry faces sought shelter in the cabin, while those of us harvesting the feeling of Ishmael and Ahab stayed up front and let the wind massage our facades. We were rewarded for our stamina with a brief glimpse of a seal. It was enough to keep us in the front of the boat until we had arrived at our destination.

They took us out to a part of the sea where the depths rise from three hundred feet to one hundred feet and the whales enjoy the surplus of food the space has created. Once we approached the space, we began to see the beautiful creatures. There is no way to describe the feeling of seeing these animals. Having been studying Thoreau and his quest for finding God in nature, I can easily see where he was coming from. You can find God in the depths of these waters.

The details of the trip (i.e. how many whales we've seen, what the Captain wore, and how exciting it was) are almost overshadowed by the sheer amazement of the voyage. Perhaps it will take tomorrow-- the removal of one day and renewal of the new--will bring details back into my mind. Right now my reflections on the day are forming the memories that will last my lifetime.