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?