2014 - In Transit by Tufts Traveler

Spring 2014

In Transit 1

4 Flight Plan 6 Pictures With No Boundaries by Lindsay Atkeson 16 #TuftsTraveler 30 Photo Contest Editor-in-Chief · Kwanki Tang · Layout Editor · Lindsay Atkeson · Kimberley Kok · Photo Editor · Sydney Char · Pier Nirandara Contributors · Aniket De · Guy Ah-Femme · Mathurshan Vimalesvaran · Soubhik Barari · Charmaine Poh · James Downer · Lilly Lu · Kaite Zhang · Andrew Ridge · Sabrina McMillin · Jenny Allison · Joy Chee · Norihito Naka Hello Travelers, A warm welcome to our new staff members for this semester! We have amazing pictures of Iceland by Pier, who is now one of our Photo Editors. We also received an overwhelming number of submissions for our spring issue—thank you to all those who contributed your work to our magazine! For this issue, we’ve put together articles ranging from reflective pieces of one of our Jumbo’s experience abroad, to short excerpts of our students’ journeys during their Spring and Winter Breaks. The wide variety of literary articles also includes a series of poems, and an introduction to a senior’s volunteer experience after her graduation. The different anecdotes put together for this issue bring us to various parts of the world. I hope you will travel along with these authors to see and feel the sights that they have penned down. I find it particularly insightful to read the entries in my travel diary, as it always reflects the thoughts and feelings that were running through my mind during my journey. This issue serves as both a travel diary for our authors, as well as an inspiration for all of you to start your own diaries. Perhaps when you relook at them in the future, you will find something you would not expect! As the semester comes to a close, I am sure many of you will be traveling somewhere in the US, or around the world. Be sure to make full use of that opportunity to soak in all the sights and sounds! You might even run into a Jumbo or two, who knows? Safe Travels, Kwanki Tang 2 Editor-in-Chief, Spring 2014

REFLECTIONS

08 Rite of Passage by Aniket De 12 Cityscape, Mindscape by Charmaine Poh 14 Titles are Overrated by James Downer 18 Look Both Ways When You Cross the Pond by Lilly Lu 24 Street Smarts by Jenny Allison 26 Definitions of Transit by Joy Chee SHORTS

10 On Being Here and There by Guy Ah-Fenne 10 A Fresh Trip by Marhurshan Vimalesvaran 21 On the Road by Kaite Zhang 23 In Transit by Sabrina McMillin 28 In Transit by Cailyn McIntire 29 Concrete Desert by Norihito Naka POEMS

11 Nightstream in Santa Lucia by Soubhik Barari 22 A Poem Concerning the Unpoetic by Andrew Ridge

Pictures With No Boundaries Lindsay Atkeson Rob Stefanik is the head manager at the Tufts University Dining Services, with over 30 years of experience in the food service and hospitality industries. In addition to his current occupation at Tufts, he currently serves on the Northeast Regional Council for National Association of College and University Foodservice. Apart from being both a skillful baker and cook, Rob is also an avid photographer and has extended experience photographing airplanes and other modes of transportation in different locations around the world. Robâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s interest in travel photography sparked our interest for this issue and provided us with the opportunity to showcase talent among staff members at Tufts.

Lindsay: How did you come to work at Tufts University? Rob: Well, I’ve been working in the dining industry all my life. I originally worked for a restaurant chain before joining the Tufts dining services team in 2007.

Lindsay: How did you get into photography?

Rob: Photography started as a hobby of mine. I started photography planes and

trains when I first started shooting. At the moment, I mostly shoot using my Canon 40D or 60D to capture the images.

Lindsay: What is your favorite subject for photography? Rob: I most enjoy shooting aircraft because of my passion for travel. Planes

especially require a lens that can generate a close, clear shot, so I often use a 150 to 500 or 1000 mm lens. Besides shooting aircraft, I also enjoy photographing stars and architecture, especially forms of architecture that are definitely unconventional. In July, I had the opportunity to shoot the annual sand sculpture competition on Revere Beach.

Lindsay: Have you ever pursued any other art forms?

Rob: Besides photography, I’m also interested in different forms of cuisine and bak-

ing. As one can probably see from my Instagram, I often do a lot of baking at home.

Lindsay: What is your ideal shoot setting? Rob: I’ve always dreamed of returning to the Swedish archipelago to photograph

the boathouses, lake, and surrounding wildness. Recently, I’ve been really interested in shooting star trails using long exposure methods. I’m also excited to use a new technique that I’ve learnt called “painting,” which involves illuminating the subject of the photograph—such as a boat—using a strong flashlight and leaving the camera on a long exposure to capture different moments in time in the same photograph.

Lindsay: Do you have any specific projects that you’re working on?

Rob: At the moment, I’m not doing any special projects, but I am contemplating

capturing more wilderness imagery. I would love to shoot more National Parks or the Washington State Islands, where I could get a view of the Olympic Mountain range.

Lindsay: Why, in particular, do you shoot planes? Rob: I have always been interested in planes. As I said before, I shoot planes due to

my love of travel. I am more partial to international flights, particularly Airbuses 340s or Boeing 747s and Lufthansa flights. I have shot in a variety of places including Frankfurt, Prague, Vancouver, Stockholm, Finland, and Germany. In the United States, I have photographed at many different locations as well, such as Winthrop, East Boston, South Boston, from the JFK Museum, and in Dorchester. Shooting from different places allows me to catch the surrounding scenery of each place as well.

7 Photo Credit:

A Rite of Passage Aniket De

On a sunny August morning, I found myself in the colourful streets of Selçuk, the medieval capital of the Turkish emirs of Aydin. The most famous destination around Selçuk was, however, two miles away: the ancient Ionian city of Ephesus, today certainly the best-preserved classical city in the Eastern Mediterranean. While incongruous coaches and rickety vans-we call them dolmuş in Turkish- ceaselessly transferred busloads of tourists from Selçuk to Ephesus, I decided to walk the extra two miles. It would save me four Turkish liras, and let me approach Ephesus like the ancient pilgrims rather than the selfabsorbed tourists in transit. Starting from the din of Selçuk, I approached Ephesus through lush green pear fields and abandoned cemeteries with a warm saline wind gently brushing against my face. The road was hot and eventless, and for a moment I regretted not taking the dolmuş. Ephesus was at least thirty minutes away, and I was exhausted already. Just as I was about to get annoyed with myself, I spotted a red signboard hiding behind a bush. Artemis Tapınağı. The legendary temple of Artemis? This was most certainly a joke. One of the Seven wonders of the ancient world: designed by Chersiphron, financed by Croesus, admired by Herodotus? You don’t discover a wonder of the world beside a dusty highway. Marshes, overgrown fields, a garden uncared for; a few blocks of broken marble lying here and 8there, and a tout trying to sell

me a brand-new Alexander coin. No vestige of tourists. But, I wondered, where is the temple? Circled by tall grasses, weathered by centuries of rain, shadowed by a rugged hill- stood the single marble column; its constituent blocks sat uncomfortably over one another, and it seemed that with one stroke the sole sentinel would fall like paper. This one column was all that was left of the original 127 columns that took 120 years to be built: â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;The arts of Greece, and the wealth of Asia, had conspired to erect that sacred and magnificent structureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, Edward Gibbon had lamented: burnt by vandals, weakened by earthquakes, and finally used to build the nearby city of Ephesus. Time had spared only that solitary limb.

Perhaps all wonders are in transit, and so are all empires. Who would have wondered around 330 BC that travellers would speed past to see the new settlement of Ephesus, sparing not even a glance to the temple of Artemis? The illusion of stability and magnificence blinded them, as it blinds us today around Broadway and Time Square. Superstructures stand as dedications to immortality, yet all that remains is one overlooked bare column amidst tall grasses. But there was no time to philosophize- the sun was getting higher, and I had to reach Ephesus early to avoid the coach parties. One can only give so much time to these unplanned in-transit discoveries that damage your itinerary. I quickly returned to the highway, dismissing the tout with the new Hellenistic coin. Whatever happens in transit remains in transit.

On Being Here and There Guy Ah-Fenne What does it mean to be in transit? Transit, noun. An act of passing through or across a place. I always think of being “in transit” as a kinder, yet melancholic form of waiting. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? You are waiting for something to take you from your current place. You are embracing a change, for better or for worse. And after a while, the airports and bus terminals, the old tracks and choppy waves, become old, familiar friends. The gentle rocking of the boat as it speeds along across the blue; the firm vibration of the train winding through the mountains – they inspire you to think and dream. You realize you never really stay in one place for long, metaphorically or otherwise. Always on to the next wonderful place.

A Fresh Trip Mathurshan Vimalesvaran A few years ago, I went back to visit my birthplace in Sri Lanka. My immediate family and I had left the country when I was only two years old. The civil war ranging on had left us in fear of our government and so we came to America for safety. My youngest years in Sri Lanka were based on pictures of birthday cakes larger than twice my body size, a black and red tricycle that I would sit on to eat food rather than ride, and a child suit that only the most mature of infants could wear. An older me could appreciate more of what Sri Lanka had to offer. My first steps there were on dirt and sand, barefoot. The environment was different than anything in the States. Houses were visibly older, rooftops and walls were colored more vibrantly, and cows roamed the streets. I initially struggled, shifting around, attempting to take in everything at once. Over the next few weeks, we visited untouched waterfalls where people were free to swim and explore, colossal temples where we prayed and admired the beauty of the location and architecture, and scalable mountains that overlooked villages, providing the most pleasing views. Although the streets were not always the cleanest, they felt natural. The strange hybrid between modern technology and nature in Sri Lanka is something I still admire today. There are more than enough motorcycles and rickshaws on the streets than necessary, but the lack of sidewalks and well paved roads offset the balance and give parts of Sri Lanka a much more natural feel. I look forward to visiting my home again. 10

Nightstream in Santa Lucia Soubhik Barari

In this city, the tour guides don’t lie about anything. You can conquer the Spanish Isles from the limestone flights by the morning, if you’ve got the feet for it. Here, the tower bells take their time, and everything runs in near slow motion, so sit down and unwind your passion strings on a travertine ledge, with cool soda pops and flat square margarita pizza tops at the Travola Calda, where the vanillas taste as yellow as they look. The taped on name for Tiramisu reads “AFTER HOURS” and the menus are photo albums; tonue-aching, I know. Douse your wildfires under gondola sunset, chapparal skies whispering the names of pretty half-tanned women you’d like to touch, or maybe it’s just the sound of you breathing, if you listen hard enough. The nine-thirty sliver of the moon falls beyond the attics of the villa terra cotta, and I’m walking through the inside calles, looking to get lost. Follow me down the canalways past the Rialto bridge and the whacked out American frat boys juggling alcohol. Watch the dizzying hip hop walls and their bad slang. The spinning Hitchcock lights falter, the jaded streetlamps are hard to trust at this hour. Stream your consciousness into mine and you’re home; forget your lane changing mind you left behind somewhere in the Venetian night to the striped boatmen or the streetside guitaristas. Swing three steps forward and step into the bridgeside tunnel where I’ve been waiting for someone, a stranger.

Cityscape, Mindscape Charmaine Poh Nothing is really planned out in Dhaka. It’s a city that seems to have been built haphazardly by spontaneous inhabitants - blocks upon blocks, stories upon stories. As a result, you get alleyways where street markets have set themselves up, or hospitals crammed next to houses next to schools next to restaurants, side by side, fighting for air. The city’s soundtrack is to traffic, and the various honks and beeps never cease.

The unpredictability of things is seen in the way events have played out in recent history – the BDR tragedy, bus accidents, assassinations, molotov cocktails, Shahbag protests – these incidents are disruptions in the everyday humdrum of a developing city, but are also expected components of life here. Yet the city offers its different shades to the visitor. The posh Gulshan and Banani areas are dotted with shiny buildings, towering new malls, and luxurious homes. It’s where the embassies are, and where you can find foreigners milling about (also where rickshaw wallahs try their best to rip you off ). My favorite parts, however, reside far from these areas of supposed comfort. There’s Dhanmondi Lake, where in the evenings 12

one can find all sorts of people drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. I was sitting there one evening when a group of guys beside me started playing the guitar. One of them sang so well that I secretly recorded him with my iPhone. There’s New Market and Shahbag, where crowds fight their way through, the mass forming a giant, tumultuous, meandering river. Shahbag is one of the focal points of Dhaka. Historical changes have begun from this square (although it resembles more of a circle), and I got to witness a tiny slice of it last week, when students held a protest, demanding a harsher sentence for an aging war criminal. University students, especially those from Dhaka University, are known for their political activism. Despite being too young to have experienced the 1971 Liberation War, they find that the war’s traces linger on, showing up in the memories of their parents, in their fierce love for Bengali, and in the jostling political parties that threaten an already unsteady democracy. Curzon Hall, now the university’s biology department, offers a quiet thinking spot, a rare and necessary haven in the most populous city in the world. Blushing couples and resting rickshaw wallahs gather here, the late afternoon light casting an idyllic glow. Further down south, and you’ll reach Old Dhaka, whose history can be found in its old

brick pillars and Mughal architecture. Chawkbazaar gets hectic, especially during Ramadan, where sellers, brandishing all sorts of ifthari, yell out to crowds, who yell back orders. They wave jilipi, eiaju and pakoras in my face, sweat dripping off their foreheads. I witnessed a fight break out in front of me on my first visit there, and didn’t think to ask why; people fight here, and then they move on. Shankhariabazaar, or Hindu Street, is its own world. Along its colorful walls are craftsmen making statues of Hindu gods, or conch shell bracelets, or musical instruments. In between these crooked streets are old housing compounds, with their stone courtyards and hanging clotheslines. Up creaking, decaying staircases and you’ll find rooftops that hold views of the city unlike any other. A short walk away is Saderghat, the city port, where piles of coconuts and bananas and pineapples are unloaded off boats along

the Buriganga River and carted to major markets. At night, the scene changes dramatically – the port’s workers sit quietly, heaped on top of their own goods, reading the newspaper, as others say their prayers. Fleeting moments can make up a city’s charm, as I have learned from the dock worker shielding himself from the rain with a bright blue polythene sheet, suddenly childlike in his demeanor, or from the surprising green eyes of a construction worker building a roof. I was in a rickshaw one late afternoon when I saw an elderly man, his briefcase in hand, laying on the sidewalk, sprawled out in what looked like either an effect of sunstroke, or a moment of desperate respite. Roadside tea stall conversations and billowing clouds of cigarette smoke

come to mind as I think of the people who have generously welcomed me into their lives. It’s probably fitting then that I decided to start my life after graduation here. My muddled mind finds quirky solace in a city that similarly does not know where it’s headed. If cityscapes are a reflection of one’s state of being, then Dhaka has been nothing less than a gift.

Charmaine Poh is a Tufts alumni who graduated in the Class of 2013. She is currently based in Singapore.

Titles are Overrated James Downer

Travel writing easily slips into the good bits of travel, but since when did easy life make for a good story? With that in mind, take a look into a recent bad day on the road: The stranger and I resigned ourselves to the unavoidable exchange of sweat between our clammy forearms as we clung to the steel pipe above for support. The hundreds around us sucking on the same musty air were eerily quiet. My shoes were soggy and my shirt clung to my back. It was getting dark outside. I was tired and like a cow packed into a truck for the slaughterhouse, I was focusing all my energy on just staying cool. A total quilombo of a day. ‘Quilombo’ ranks as one of my favorite new words—up there with the classic schadenfreude (pleasure from another’s misfortune) and callipygian (well-sculpted buttocks). It was appropriated by Argentinians to describe Buenos Aires brothels after it’s root as the term for slave’s quarters on Brazilian sugar plantations. It most literally means ‘a cluster fuck.’ With a symphony of minor misfortunes, the day that started with heavy clouds over Buenos Aires had gone steadily downhill.

My American companions and I had quickly advanced to the touching phase of our friendship. Me, Mike the wizard, Acadya the pretty blonde Waldorf educated Yale reject, and another girl who’s name escapes me with a romantic love for the idea of travel and travelers, stood in the train car with several hundred other people as we crept back from El Tigre—The Long Island of Argentina—to Buenos Aires.

The Delta of Rio Paraná (like the fish) rather resembles the suburbs of NYC as the escape for the wealthy from The City for generations. On the quaint wooden boat trip up the river, in addition to abandoned iron ships beached on the banks, we passed ex-president Sarmiento’s home, now in a glass display 3 stories cubed. Hundreds more weekend retreats poked out of the trees from side rivers that divide the islands like an overprotective neighbor. The islands packed tight around the delta are rich sediment deposits of the murky water of Rio Paraná before it reaches Rio de la Plata—the dividing line between Argentina and the southern side of Uruguay. With boats as the only manner of travel, the islands offer the perfect escape from city life to a place you can’t get to by driving. Nooks and crannies to hide in, rich soil from sediment deposit, and abundant shorefront. The origin of Rio Paraná stretches north all the way through northeastern Argentina, running the border between Paraguay and Brazil, and Bolivia and Brazil deep into the Amazon rainforest. The perfect place for a sunny day. Not the day we had picked. A couple hours before being squashed onto the train, we were crowded nearly as close under a leaky tin roof on the platform on the tail end of a thunderstorm. Soaked to the skin from the downpour that caught us in El Tigre, Mike spent that time teaching me basic slight of hand by repeatedly stealing my watch off my wrist while Acadya did her own magic trick— the Zoolander bathing suit bottom removal. The first train had broken down halfway to Buenos Aires, leaving us to wait for two hours standing on the platform without room to move. About an hour in

a train pulled up to the station and people braved the rain to eagerly crowd around the doors, only to watch it pull away again after ten anxious minutes. There were forty of us traveling with the group and today would just reinforce two life lessons I’ve learned from travel. First, never travel with a group larger than you can comfortably walk down a sidewalk with. The size of our study abroad group was a logistical nightmare and there’s simply no way to enjoy the company of all, or even have meaningful interactions with all. Given the choice, I’d pick real claustrophobia to the, itchy, anxious claustrophobia to being shepherded in a group that large. The other bit harkens back to Douglas Adams and the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. Don’t panic. Sometimes the train breaks down. Sometimes you’ll miss a meal.

Sometimes you get bedbugs. And sometimes you have to sleep on the side of the road. Simply: shit happens, don’t be a princess—it’ll only make it worse for you and everyone around you. By no means does this mean to be passive and to take life as it comes. Just the opposite. Be aware and responsive to live deliberately when you can, accepting that some things are just out of your control. When we returned to the Retiro train station, we learned that the entire bus system had shut down. The drivers of the thousands of buses that crisscross the giant city were on strike. A few hours earlier, an irritated passenger had shot and killed the driver of the 54. Someone is probably having a worse day than you and shitty experiences always make for better stories.

@nateyuen24: Kennebunkport, Maine.

#TU FT S T @sydchar57: Gondolas in Venice, Italy.

16 @wodaley: A plane in Honduras.

@Pierettadawn: Dyrholaey lighthouse, Iceland.

RAV E L E R @sydchar57: Seal Beach, California.

17 @tuftstraveler: Berlin, Germany.

Look Both Ways When You Cross the Pond Lilly Lu I never thought my 90s childhood would be relevant to my college life, but here I am, drawing a metaphor that would make my professors shudder: my study abroad experience, over the past few months, has undergone several Pokemon-esque evolutions. Like Ash, I have witnessed these changes with perpetual surprise, my preconceptions constantly overturned. Boarding the plane in September, I observed the first stage: justifiable fear. I was a small-town girl whose only idea of cities consisted of expectorating taxi drivers, sidewalks emblazoned with chewing gum, and carnivorous pigeons. To calm down, I reminded myself of what I had been told to expect of my impending year abroad: 1) Adaptation would be simple, as I’d be spared a language barrier, and 2) I would Find Myself. Neither of these was to be. While the English speak, of course, English, they have their own diction, spelling, sense of humor, culture, and education system. I learned soon enough that “pants” to them means “underwear” and that “chuffed” did not mean “inebriated” as I’d guessed, but “happy”. I also learned that there

are numerous variations to their accents—it isn’t simply the distinction between Eliza Doolittle and Julie Andrews. The second week here, when I asked my friends for travel destination suggestions, they mused about how American students were so strangely keen to travel. My concept of space was different from theirs, I discovered; if you ride a train for two hours in the US, you could still be in the same state. Taking a train from London for that amount of time, you could be in an entirely different country. The comedy that would arise from these moments assuaged my initial apprehension. But once school started, being overwhelmed eclipsed being afraid. My classmates had chosen their academic focuses at the age of 16 and could now take classes only within their major. The freshmen in my department were well versed in Old English, Middle English, a majority of the Bible, and ancient material sources. Suddenly, I felt unsure about my knowledge and writing abilities, and as the semester went on, my insecurities manifested in the quality of my essays. Amidst the deluge of information, the high expectations, and the abundant knowledge of my classmates,

I felt I had lost a significant part of who I was as a student, and soon began to question my individual identity. If I didn’t have writing, what did I have? In America, I was acutely aware of my identity as American-born Chinese. Who was I in London, and who was I when I traveled even more? The road to adaptation was arduous, and while I tripped here and there, I stayed on it. As I read more, I realized that for each passage of the Bible I hadn’t studied, I knew a word of French that made reading Middle English easier. For all of the Old English classes I hadn’t taken, I had experience in classes that enabled me to not only interpret Shakespeare in text, but also on stage. For each mistake I made, a lesson was learned. For each lesson learned, I saw my own resilience. As I traveled more, I realized that I collected and kept a shard of each place that illuminated what it meant to be me—not as an Asian-American, and not as an English major, either, but as Lilly. My Pokemon analogy isn’t perfect. Unlike Pokemon, studying abroad has been a circular, not linear, experience. Each endeavor I undertake leads me to the same question, and a new answer, to who I am.

But none of these endeavors have led me to merely Find Myself, for this is a dead-end phrase, a lofty, impossible, and inhuman expectation that ignores the beautiful complexities of experience. Instead, I have stumbled into new ways of thinking about my mutable self outside of boxes and beyond geographical spheres. I checked in with myself every so often until, one day, I realized that these experiences have illuminated and shaped corners of my identity. Who I was wasn’t to be sought abroad. It was to be discovered, its potential enlightened. I brought who I was with me to London, and London has helped me create a blueprint of what was already there, and what may be. Lilly is a Tufts-proclaimed junior studying English and Media, and a self-proclaimed aspiring writer with a (self-proclaimed) penchant for people, thesauri, and chai. She currently resides across the pond, finishing her year abroad at University College London.

20 Cars in front of Vesturhorn mountain in southeastern Iceland (left) and a road in Fairbanks, Alaska (right) by Pier Nirandara.

On the Road Kaite Zhang I grew up on a steady diet of airports and long car trips. Airports, although I love them, are all the same to me—going through security, rushing to the terminal, sitting in really uncomfortable seats until I was sore. But car rides are a different story. My earliest memory ever was sitting low in the backseat of an old, beat-up Honda, on the left side, my eyes barely able to peek outside the window. We were coming up on a large, white building in Indianapolis that seemed to glow in the sun. It was our first home in the United States and the first home I remember. From there, my second memory of a car ride was when my family moved from Cincinnati to Long Island (I’ve somehow forgotten our move from Indianapolis to Cincinnati) in a newer, larger Honda, packed full of suitcases and bits of our lives. I was a little taller, so my seatbelt fit a little better, and I had a slightly better view out the window. I remember in particular stopping at an old, sketchy gas station under a highway and daydreaming to the tune of the cars passing above me. And then we were one of the cars speeding down the highway, and every half hour or so, I would ask my parents, “How many miles left?” And the number slowly went from six hundred to three hundred to one fifty to none, and we arrived on Long Island. After that trip, car rides blurred into one, like my airports. I would sit in the backseat—on the right side now— and stare out the window, listening to whatever I have in my music library; it was all the same. Even the drive when we moved from Long Island to Worcester was nothing special. But I remember my trip to Tufts well. It was ridiculously hot at the tail end of August. I was strangely calm. Even though it was the last time I would see my parents in at least three months, we didn’t speak to each other very much. They spoke to each other—about meeting with friends that weekend and going on a hiking trip, something about finances and insurance…I wasn’t really paying attention. I just stared out the window and listened to Les Misérables on my headphones. (Hey, don’t judge.) We arrived at Tufts, and…well, here I am. This is my home now. But I wonder where my next car ride will take me. Some things are still the same. My seatbelt is still tight around my chest, and my music is keeps me awake, even on dull roads. But I’m in the driver’s seat now, and I am more than eager to see where the road will take me.

A Poem Concerning the Unpoetic Andrew Ridge I remember the night distinctly. I was traveling third class on a Eurostar train from Germany to Switzerland with my family. I was twelve. We shared the overnight compartment with a young German woman, who spoke to us of how the European Union would change all of Europe for the better. My parents respectfully disagreed, sensitive to the fact that she had devoted her life to promoting this plan.

I feel as though I live between the borders of two worlds. As the son of a Protestant pastor, I have had a wonderful upbringing that has given me values and disciplines that will serve me the rest of my life. However, I grew up in an area where liberal views dominate the political spectrum. As a moderate who tends to lean toward the left, I have often found that at home, I am the most liberal person in the room. My experiences—both traveling abroad and living in a small town in Upstate New York—have allowed me to be exposed to various ideas and points of view. They have allowed me to appreciate the conservative, while recognizing the radical. Some say this is indecisive—I respectfully disagree. I’d rather be wrong a thousand times listening to both sides, than be wrong once for only having listened to one.

“Concern for man and his fate must always form the chief interest of all technical endeavors. Never forget this in the midst of your diagrams and equations.” -Albert Einstein

The Transitory Life By Sabrina McMillin

When friends from far and wide come to visit me in a house on a street off Transit Road, they typically aren’t there to see the sites of Buffalo. No, a visit with me usually entails a journey of its own kind to the majestic wonder of Niagara Falls. The Buffalo wings don’t hurt, though. It’s quite fitting that I should live near a road called Transit, because it’s a state more familiar to me than both New York and Massachusetts. As a standby traveler, I have the immense privilege of moving with constancy and uncertainty. It is only my responsibilities, as a student, employee, friend, lover, and daughter, that keep me from wandering too far too often. However, these responsibilities are also what keep me in transit. I am often between two homes, the one near Transit and the one on the Hill, so that few family moments go uncherished. I have traveled to places as unusual as the coast of Newfoundland to the valleys of West Virginia for love, and I look forward to the place that insane feeling has yet to take me. I journey to D.C. and New York to marvel at potential career paths. And even when I’m not leaving on a jet plane, I am in transit when I explore Boston and become even the tiniest part of its history. People always have something to say about the way they travel, whether it’s a nickname for the Green Line, rush hour traffic, complaints about airport security, or flipping off a cab driver in a walkway. But I’ve found that Transit is not such a bad place to be.

Street Smarts Jenny Allison

I’ve always been a fan of corn. Grilled, broiled, or steamed, those plump yellow kernels always hit the spot. Now, I’ve eaten good corn, and I’ve even eaten great corn. But until I traveled to Ecuador in the summer of 2011, I had never had really divine corn. There, on a small street in the modest Andean town of El Chaupi, I came across what at first I thought was a simple street vendor. As I examined his cart, however, I saw something incredible. Fifty seconds and twenty-five cents later, I was the proud owner of a corn pancake, fried to bubbling perfection and stuffed with hot melted cheese. The game of corn had forever changed. What a discovery, what a steal! Suddenly, the streets of that little town took on a new glow. The vague din and clash of beeping horns, shouting street vendors, and barking dogs swiftly transformed into a glorious cacophony of opportunity. What else could I find on these streets? If the corn was this good, I could only imagine the possibilities! It struck me later that my fortuitous encounter with that street vendor was unique for another reason—it happened on the street. I’d hardly say that I traveled to South America so I could see what I could find on the streets. But as I look back, my most vivid memories are of the streets, lined with brightly colored houses and iron gates and crumbling billboards for foreign looking sodas called things like “Inca Cola”. Streets have no glamorous or lofty purpose. They are the public servants, built to connect the important areas of town that people actually want to visit. But somewhere along the way, streets became an attraction on their own. Around the world, avenues and alleyways alike are buzzing with activity, from whimsical designer storefronts in London, to glittering billboards in Times Square, to silver-painted human statues in Salzburg, to my very own corn connoisseur in Ecuador.

These spaces hold a special cultural significance, even beyond their engaging attractions. The way a society fills up its public areas, such as its streets, is telling of its values, its economy, and its culture. To be certain, streets around the world are drastically different. The dilapidated side streets that I walked in Curaçao this summer are hardly the broad cobblestoned boulevards of Bath, England. However, I’ve noticed that, despite these differences, streets around the world often show more similarities than anything else. Is not the man who sold me cheesy corn

pancakes comparable to a hot-dog vendor in New York City? Are not the wonderfully strange London window displays similar to the garish billboards plastered around Lima, Peru? So next time you step outside, take a moment to notice the streets. They’re not just means of accessing the real attractions—they’re a fresh way to examine a people and an entire culture. Take a good look and a good listen. You might be surprised at all that you find.

Definitions of Transit Joy Chee

Nine months is a long time to be away from home, so when my mother said, “pick the flight with the shortest transit,” I knew she was really saying, “I miss you.” When my father, with his old pilot’s knowledge, calculated the speed of the winds that would buoy my plane over the Pacific Ocean, I knew he was really saying, “We’ve been waiting.” I’d been waiting too. When I clicked Confirm and said, “It’s done”, when I waved at the grainy video of my parents sitting at our dining table, when I wished them good morning in their time zone and good night in mine, I was really saying, “I’m coming home.”

ii.

If the passage from one point to another unfolds as a play, then transit is the intermission. It is the momentary pause, a breath released, a body realigned with movement. It is a gathering of comrades, protagonists of a hundred different stories settled in the same dingy airport lounge, counting down the hours to takeoff. Curtains closed on tired eyes. Travelers huddled in the dressing rooms of phone apps and Wi-Fi. Outside, the lead actors drift across the tarmac, wings folded, waiting their turn to take the stage.

iii.

The journey home stretches over the ocean, and transit is the bottle in the waves, carrying a note from far away. “Halfway there,” say my text messages. “Ok,” say my mother’s, the laconic reply to a longwinded wait.

iv.

Airports are emotions compressed: a persistent goodbye, an unbroken reunion, the endless collision of departures and arrivals. Transit is emotion unwound, a dose of time meant to slow the heart and calm the brain. I watch a couple doze on each other’s shoulders. A mother lulls her baby to sleep. Evening dims the sky and lights the moon. My reflection slowly appears in the windows, a reminder of the hours, a step closer to home.

Transit is the comma in the middle of the last sentence. I already know how the story ends: the announcements murmuring over the speakers, the gates opening, the familiar whirr of the plane. The stars blink awake and beckon. I can’t tell the difference between the roar of takeoff and the roar of blood in my ears, but I know the sound of leaving -- the punctuation of seatbelts, a period clicking into place.

vi.

24 hours is a long time to wait, so when I reach home my mother doesn’t say anything, and I know she’s really saying, “Welcome back.” I think about the message drifting in the waves, the halfway point that was really the epilogue.

In Transit Cailyn McIntire

Halfway through my five-hour layover at JFK, I’d already sent over fifty texts out of sheer boredom. Exhausted by my incessant text barrage, my friend Dana challenged me to turn them into haikus. Original Text: “Today, the airport gods have gifted me their gentle smile” The airport gods’ red Eye, flaming dark, turns on me And gifts me their smile. “Your tribute?” My shoes, Too soon removed, I offer In a dull gray bin. Silent, rough, rubber Gloves pat at my breast. Silent, My socks pad the floor. Was my gift received? Does the eye still smile on me? Gates 1-18 Original Text: “Either they’re been playing this same song on repeat at my gate or I am actually losing my mind” “Sweet love, ooooooh! Sweet love!” The boy in the baseball cap Three times walks past me. “Sweet love, ooooo-“ ding. The local time is eleven thirty. ding “-oh! Sweet love!” Beside me, a man Asks excuse me what time is it. Eleven thirty-one. My heads turns. “Sweet Love!” Empty seats surround us two, 28

Day Three In The Concrete Desert Norihito Naka

It’s day three in the concrete desert, and the steel bird remains grounded. Food is of short supply: the peanuts and Poland Spring do little to quench the growing hunger that continually clouds my judgment. Delusional hysteria takes over. The backpack-lugging, suitcase-toting individuals hustle and bustle with an air of controlled lunacy. Pinstripe-clad men and women fiercely mark their territory with their briefcases and various chargers. The overly audible squeaking of rubber soles on the newly waxed floor occasionally warrants a ghastly scowl, which goes unnoticed by the excessively energetic younglings who seem to enjoy the unforgiving attention they inevitably attract. Their weary-eyed mothers or fathers, I observe, can often be found poorly groomed, though their survival instinct has kept their children on a tight chain ad nauseam. As I turn my head further to survey my surroundings, I see the many faces of the neo-dwellers pressed up against the clear glass that separates us from the rest of the world. The enormous “cameras” which they sling across their necks seldom leave their hands as though their sole purpose to explore new lands is to rhythmically tap on its button. Their beady eyes and strategically placed recording devices, surreptitiously tucked in front pockets, suggest a maniac-like desire to capture each and every moment. Do their homelands have such different water? I ponder to myself. Looking out from the corner in which I perch, I instinctively pull my knees close to my chest-perhaps out of fear of relinquishing my territory to another or to protect the little warmth left in my limbs. I adjust and readjust my den, positioning my head just high enough to see, out of the corner of my eye, to peer out into the world. The steel bird remains as motionless and dead as ever. As I, once again, get my bearings, I find it difficult to discern the wilderness where I plan to explore from the chaos of the environment in which I inescapably find myself.

Photo Contest â&#x20AC;&#x153;Planes, Trains, and Automobilesâ&#x20AC;?

Yiqing Chris Li - First Place Amtrak train makes five-minute stop at Ford Madison, Iowa

Vanessa Lin - Second Place This picture was captured from a cable railway in Switzerland overlooking Lake Geneva

Lucy Qin - Third Place Bangkok, Thailand â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Crowded lanes, open greetings

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