Another name for peace

Hello readers :).

I’ve little stories for you today, because so much has happened. My life normally moves so slowly when I experience it, but this week has gone by in a flash.

Monday: Darn it, no internet. Scurry over to a Dunkin’ Donuts, a backpack slung over one shoulder, my laptop perched precariously on the other arm. Nope, not here either. I stare upwards, squinting at the Chicago O’Hare airport signs, then stride over five gates to a Starbucks. Internet, yay! … An hour later: Darn it, out of power. Swivel my head around: no outlets. Back to Dunkin’ Donuts. I’m soon crouched on the floor besides a pillar, at knee level and being stepped over. Darn it, no internet…

Monday night: I’m glancing out the plane window for the fifth time in a minute. Unfortunately, it’s still dark, expected given it’s 11pm in Boston. A debate is raging in my head—I do technically know how to get to this frat, because I’ve looked it up and printed out directions. However, these directions involve three transfers and two blocks down some streets I’ve only seen once in daylight. I look out the plane window again: so dark. Who knows what’s lurking out there waiting to grab me, my luggage, and my massive backpack (if it’s not packed to capacity, it’s not worth packing. This philosophy often gets my bag checked at airplane checkpoints.) I give up as I’m walking down to baggage claim: taxi here I come…

Saturday night: I’m wandering Boston at 11pm again, this time reassured that walking is safe; I’ve been advised by Galina that anytime before midnight is fine. As long as I stick to lighted roads that I’ve heard the names of, that is. However, I didn’t walk to Galina and Kaitlin’s house by roads I know the name of, so I’m swearing to myself quietly as I speed along. Two guys ask me where to find a Seven-Eleven; I tell them I have no idea where I am as I go on my wrong way. Eventually, I stop at a restaurant; the waitress looks at me kindly and directs me to walk approximately forever in the direction I’ve just come from. I thank her profusely, walk 10 blocks that way, then ask a waiting where to go again. I feel like I’m on a treasure hunt, and people just keep telling me little hints to get to my destination. I’m looking for a third person to ask when I finally recognize the gigantic Cisco sign that signals the beginning of the frat houses: thank goodness, and I collapse in my room just in time for bed.

Tuesday night: No, nonononono—that was my stop, you’re supposed to stop! Well. Now we’re going across the river to Cambridge. I really should have pushed the button, but I thought they stopped at all stops. I’m definitely pulling it now. Huh. I’m at MIT. I suppose I could walk back across the river… or hey, I could use the pool! They’ve a lovely pool. Hm, must consider expenses. I plop down on a bench, pull out my laptop, am delighted to find MIT’s internet. Googling: sports clubs, exercise plans, Boston…

Thursday: “Hello again! How are you?” I smile at the guy at the front desk at the MIT athletics center. They do have a wonderful pool. “I’m fine, how are you? Is the printer working yet?” He tells me it is not, so I take my blank ID card and get ready to go lift weights. I’m hoping to acquire an MIT ID, to accompany my Harvard and Wellesley ones… I take great pleasure in my little collection.

Saturday night: Upon entering the room, I immediately plop down in front of our largest fan. My roommate Iulia is sprawled across the couch in front of the other. Brennan, the guy who lives next door to us, walks past our open door on his way out and laughs. He has air conditioning, he tells us. We are also invited to use his air conditioning whenever we like. Iulia and I take him up on his offer immediately, and gasp at the difference. We must make good friends with Brennan this summer, I whisper to Iulia. She nods fervently.

Saturday morning: I’m slathering on sunblock for the first time in a while when I consider that I haven’t actually done a roommate event with Iulia yet. We were paired together at Theta Chi somewhat randomly, though I was acquainted with her from my first organic chemistry class. “Hey, Iulia, want to go to Haymarket with me?” I ask. Haymarket is Alice (my roommate arriving on Tuesday), Erin (she just spent a year abroad in France) and I’s cherished weekly summer tradition. Super cheap fruit and veggies, and all you have to brave is the crowds! Iulia would indeed like to accompany me, and we come back laden with strawberries.

Tuesday morning: “Welcome to the Wellesley Summer Research Program! You will all be working for 10 weeks with your research professors. After this, there are biosafety and chemical safety training programs, so make sure to attend if your research involves animals, cells, or chemicals. Now, let me say some things before I turn it over to JoNan…” I tilt my head sideways on my elbow, looking at all of my labmates this summer. Galina, our lab manager, has had quite the adjustment as the Conway lab at Harvard Medical School (HMS) has ballooned from one to two daily occupants to eight. There’s me, a rising junior, Yiing, a rising senior, Jane, same, Erin, just graduated, Galina, graduated last year, Rosa, graduated two or three years ago, Cleo, same, Mela, our new post-doc from Spain, and Professor Conway himself. Some of us will be relocated to Wellesley, some to other rooms at HMS. But we’ve got the whole lab here, for the last year before Cleo and Rosa leave to advanced degree programs, and I grin inside to be part of the clan.

Tuesday evening: Made it, finally, to Trader Joe’s. I practically stalked a blond-haired college student to get here (I have a tendency to walk three steps behind other pedestrians) but I arrived safe and sound. I have cranberries, arugula, almonds, and… the brie stares enticingly at me. It’s going to make the whole fridge smell. It’s going to be expensive. It’s staring at me, surrounded by its fellow cheeses, longing to escape from their moldy hold. I had no chance, really.

Friday morning: Journal club at Harvard Medical School. Brilliant PIs (principal investigators: they run the research labs—Prof. Conway is mine), great questions, a powerpoint dealing with a complicated subjects which I actually understood because it was so well presented. A ring of Prof. Conway’s undergrads and mostly male graduate and post-doc students filling the rest of the room, awed or absorbing. It was fabulous. Enough said.

Friday morning: Kaitlin and Galina walk into the lab. “We’re heading to Wellesley for the reception!” It’s graduation day at Wellesley, and one of our labmates, Erin, is partaking. I turn to Mela, who is my point person (who’s basically in charge of me, in Prof. Conway-speak). “Can I come in on Sunday instead?” I beg. She agrees, and Galina, Kaitlin and I leave in Kaitlin’s car. In the backseat, I shake carrots in my water bottle to wash them; Kaitlin and Galina argue about how slushy iced coffee should be as they share a bagel.

Friday afternoon: Enjoying a gorgeous picnic with Erin’s family, sitting by the lake. It’s hot, everyone’s in dresses, the water looks lovely. One graduate searches for pennies in the shallows—it’s a Wellesley tradition to throw a penny in as a first-year. She finds one, poses for pictures. We eat cheese and brownies and apples.

Friday evening: I’m sitting in the car with Shaheen, who was a senior (now an alum!) on the swim team with me. I’m messing around with her iPod (“Do you recognize this one? Who’s this by?”) and she’s watching the temperature tick up on the thermometer. 96 degrees. 97. 98. It hit 102 on the way to her grad party, and we ate Chinese food in the cool.

Saturday afternoon: More food. Taco lab party at Kaitlin and Galina’s. I bring fruit, and we have ice cream on the back porch. They have two cats and a kitten. I told Iulia I’d be back by 6pm; I’m back by eleven.

Saturday night: on the roof, looking at Boston. A communal pot of homemade sangria; college students sitting around a picnic table lit by a single lamp. The wind almost blows it over, and we’re invited to sit at the table. It’s cool; we can hear the river, and see the little white flicks of waves. Next time I’ll look for the stars.

Today: “Brand-new users who’ve never programmed before will find that they’re learning three things when they start using the toolbox: Matlab, how to create stimuli and measure responses, and how to organize an experiment. There’s almost no overlap between those three topics.” http://psychtoolbox.org/PsychtoolboxOverview. I laugh when I read this—today research has been rather unsuccessful. I think back to all that I’ve done this week, and sometimes it seems there’s little overlap in my life. But there’s food, and friends, and fear, and little braveries. Quirks, failures, smiles. There’s me, living it all.

All these little stories.

Monica

 

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