The Harvard Crimson's Summer Postcards

Rózan, Poland — Pot of Gold, by Ellen C. Bryson

Mon, 21 Jul 2008 14:14:37 -0400

Rózan, Poland — Pot of Gold, by Ellen C. Bryson

WHAT THE BUCK?CAMBRIDGE, Mass. — Construction continues in...

Mon, 21 Jul 2008 14:13:37 -0400

WHAT THE BUCK?

CAMBRIDGE, Mass. — Construction continues in Harvard Square where it now takes a little longer than forever to cross Massachusetts Ave. This morning, however, one guy seemed to have no problem getting through: Around 10:30 a.m., a young buck charged past Out of Town News, heading towards Cambridge Common, quieting the loud intersection into confused silence. The folks in JP Licks said it seemed to have come from Central Square.

Send future animal sightings to mglenn@fas.harvard.edu. —Samuel P. Jacobs

TOKYO — The Tokyo Underground, by Kerry A. Goodenow

Mon, 21 Jul 2008 14:02:24 -0400

TOKYO — The Tokyo Underground, by Kerry A. Goodenow

PORTLAND, Ore. — Of Bears and Beers, by Jake G. Cohen

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 14:02:33 -0400

PORTLAND, Ore. — Of Bears and Beers, by Jake G. Cohen

NEW YORK — Fro-Down, by Clifford M. Marks →

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 14:01:46 -0400

NEW YORK — Fro-Down, by Clifford M. Marks →

NEW YORK — Welcome to the City, by Emmeline D. Francis

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 13:59:57 -0400

NEW YORK — Welcome to the City, by Emmeline D. Francis

WASHINGTON – An American in D.C., by Brian J. Bolduc

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 13:18:21 -0400

WASHINGTON – An American in D.C., by Brian J. Bolduc

SHANGHAI, China — A Comedy of Language, by Vidya B. Viswanathan...

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 13:17:51 -0400

SHANGHAI, China — A Comedy of Language, by Vidya B. Viswanathan →

BARCELONA, Spain — Time Out of Time, by Molly M. Strauss

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 14:37:27 -0400

BARCELONA, Spain — Time Out of Time, by Molly M. Strauss

[Part 2 of 2, continued from earlier post]Apologies to The...

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 14:36:11 -0400

[Part 2 of 2, continued from earlier post]

Apologies to The Stable Boy, but I was beginning to ache in muscles I hadn’t even known existed. My safari-mates failed to offer any distraction. They were trendy British girls who had already cocooned themselves behind their iPods and aviator sunglasses. They were probably playing their special Desert Mix.

Focus on the scenery, I told myself. The ground was hard and sandy, broken up by the occasional spiky bush. Once in a while we plodded past a mangy goat or a few unfluffy sheep. Against the gray horizon, I could make out the distant, graceful arc of a power line.

So much for the “unspoiled desert” they had advertised. I felt like I was caravanning across someone’s backyard.

My nameless camel was the only other thing in my field of vision. I watched two joints in his back rise and fall in circular motion as he moved his legs. I admired the dinosaur-like curve of his neck, the heart-shaped tuft of hair on his nape. He appeared to have an anal fixation: every time he got close to the camel in front of us he would bend his head and start licking his companion’s tail. It took me a while to realize that this might not be okay; once the biting stopped both of the camels calmed down.

This excitement got me through the first hour. Hours remaining: 35.

Finally, it hit me. This was it: the first, great test of my General Education. I had been schooled in seven ways of knowing. I had absorbed three-quarters of a liberal arts education. And what was it all for, if not to give me the Inner Resources to endure two days on top of a camel?

I would not mentally replay the episodes of The OC I had watched in high school. I would not wallow in inner drama. I was the proud owner of a General Education. I could do better than that.

So I gave it my best shot. I pondered the economics of camel safaris, but could conjure no curves of supply or demand. I looked at my camel, and at the rocks on the ground, and wondered if I would have been better off if I had taken anatomy or geology instead of “Molecules of Life.” I thought about replaying the French Revolution.

All I came back to was a scrap of poetry, picked up in no class. It was Theodore Roethke: “She moved in circles and those circles moved.”

This sounded lovely. But the more I thought about it, the more it reminded me of the camel’s joints and the slow jolts and how my whole body was rolling back and forth, accumulating pain.

I wondered what would have happened if they had let the Gen Ed committee sojourn in the desert. With great effort, I crossed my legs in front of me. The camel didn’t seem to notice. This position was uncomfortable, but in a different way. I took a drink of water. I adjusted my hat. Zen, I thought, staring at the tail of the camel in front of me. I will think….of absolutely….nothing.

“Two more hours,” one of the guides announced, “then lunch.” We lapsed again into silence. —Lois E. Beckett

SHANGHAI — Creating My Own Culture Shock, by Robert T. Hamlin

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 13:53:38 -0400

SHANGHAI — Creating My Own Culture Shock, by Robert T. Hamlin

CAMBRIDGE, Mass. — You never know what craziness you’ll...

Fri, 04 Jul 2008 16:17:00 -0400

CAMBRIDGE, Mass. — You never know what craziness you’ll encounter in Cambridge Common—hula hooping, kickball, indecent assaults—so it always pays to pack a cell-phone camera. On this rainy Independence Day, a cadre of “Minutemen” in colonial dress were firing a cannon every 15 minutes or so. The artillery was provocatively aimed at Harvard Yard, but fortunately for Massachusetts Hall, no cannon balls were used in the exercise. Between blasts, a modern-day Asa Pollard explained the historical significance of their reenactment. Cambridge Common—and just to be clear, we’re talking about the public park, not the half-decent restaurant or short-lived student blog—was the site where George Washington first gathered the Continental Army. Most Harvardians know it better as a decent shortcut between the Science Center and the Quad. —Zachary M. Seward

A Dose of Comfort

Fri, 04 Jul 2008 14:23:27 -0400

ACCRA, Ghana — When my brother shot heroin into his pulsing arm, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his mouth wound in a tight, but content, grimace. He then picked up a needle from the grimy floor and extended it to me—my own brother!

Upon leaving the dank lair of the unmercifully graphic dream, I was crying and shaking. A few minutes further into reality, I promptly shot up in bed, pumped my fists in the air, and celebrated the magic of mefloquine.

Nightmares and hallucinations were small costs to pay for avoiding malaria, and I rejoiced at every piece of evidence that I would leave Ghana alive. I still long for my next dose of mefloquine, and never have I felt as panicked as the morning that I realized I was a few hours behind in my weekly dose. After running to the nearest market stand to buy bread and stuffing thick swathes of it into my dry mouth, I popped the pill with trembling fingers. —Esther I. Yi

One of the many ineffective signs peppering the streets of...

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 14:11:00 -0400

One of the many ineffective signs peppering the streets of Avignon. (Translation: I love Avignon. I love my dog. So I pick up after my nasty flea bag.)

AVIGNON, France — After 3 weeks of living here, I would have to say that the biggest problem I have run into has nothing to do with your typical study-abroad troubles. Communicating with the natives has been fairly easy, apart from the occasional ancient Avignonnais who only speaks a sing-song Provençal. Foraging for food has proven to be far less of a challenge ever since I discovered the 15-flavor selection of Special K in the neighborhood Marché Plus. Even surviving the 38°C weather without the comfort of air-conditioning has become less unbearable. My only complaint may seem trivial to the unsullied reader, but trust me, it will stink up your day.

Two words: dog poo.

Coming from a place where sidewalks and roads are as wide as airplane runways, I’ve found navigating the narrow, crooked streets of Avignon extremely difficult. (Did I mention that I’m also a bit claustrophobic?) When I’m not falling off the sliver of a sidewalk, I am flattening myself against the brick buildings pressed up against the streets so as not to get run over by a city bus thundering down the block or the environmentally friendly electric Baladines humming past me. I have taken to walking in the middle of the streets when automobile traffic is less heavy, only to hop back ever so often on the uneven cobblestones when a wheezing rickshaw driver tinkles his bell in feeble protest as he pedals by. (I have yet to see someone actually get around the city in one of those contraptions.)

So believe me when I say that the last thing I need in the dewy mornings—while running the 15-minute tortuous trek to class in flip-flops, tripping over the flea-infested doberman splayed across the sidewalk, and skirting the hungover town drunk’s advances—is a fresh pile of dog poo. —June Q. Wu

Postscript: Israel Cuffed

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 10:16:04 -0400

NEW YORK — Law-abiding citizens everywhere can breathe a sigh of relief: America’s most wanted fugitive, whom I wrote about this week, has been brought to justice. Or rather, he brought himself to justice. All justice had to do was slap the handcuffs onto Samuel Israel III when the no-longer-missing former hedge fund manager showed up at a police station in Southwick, Mass. yesterday, bringing an end to a three-week long manhunt.

The utter lack of romance that has pervaded Israel’s flight lasted to the end. There was no car chase. No heated hostage negotiation. No shootout. Instead, when the not-so-smooth criminal got tired of living out of his RV in a campground, he unceremoniously rode his scooter up to the nearest police station he could find and told the cops he’d had enough.

What made him finally surrender? Perhaps he discovered that debilitating chronic back pain and pacemakers don’t mix well with a life on the run. But more importantly, he talked to his mom. Right before turning himself in, Israel called his mother, who encouraged him to end to his flight, and then alerted federal marshals that her son was done even before he could get the scooter over to the station to do it himself.

What an appropriate conclusion to this peculiar tale. Israel, a man who has blundered through life in a futile attempt to live up to his prominent family’s formidable legacy, finally called an end to his last hurrah when mommy told him it was time to go home. —Daniel E. Herz-Roiphe

Lend Me Your Ear

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 09:50:01 -0400

BEIJING — In a 9-week program during which we’re only allowed to converse in Chinese, hearing is—oh, I don’t know—crucial.

It started with an annoying itch, then weird swishing noises (even though it wasn’t raining, for once, in Beijing), and then sharp, jabbing pain, like chopsticks were being shoved in my ear. Pain enough to cry out loud, to cause tears. I went to the “American-trained” doctor and came back with three oral medicines. One of them was for colds. Hello, I have a middle EAR infection.

Now I’m running a fever, I can’t lie down, sleep, eat, or do occasional homework (activities which basically sum up my usual life at Harvard) because it hurts too much, and I’m reduced to a thirty-degree-angle continuous sit-up position at which I can type with my unnecessarily big, thigh-numbing laptop on my lap. Apparently having your laptop on your lap can kill sperm. I wouldn’t know.

One plus? I find out that Chinese television is awesome. Dramatic shows of epic old times, lots of intense eye contact and music, and subtitles using Chinese characters that definitely don’t correspond to the words being said. In contrast, MTV in China is full of young, skinny-jean wearing guys with interesting hair or girls who give soulful looks into the camera—a blend of Chinese pop that all tends to sound the same after a while.

As the day goes by, I miss 5 hours of class, writing an 8-minute presentation in Chinese, and studying for a test—not to mention walking around in gray-skied Beijing (yes, you can see the pollution). You’d think I’d be happy, but I’m actually mourning the insistent shriek of my teachers, the melody of speaking Chinese, and being able to go to the corner store and buy sketchy fruits (all must be peeled for safety reasons—even grapes) and yogurt.

Well, ear drops have been administered. I will wait. Otherwise, I can always try acupuncture. —Vidya Viswanathan

MONTVILLE, N.J. — A Life of Crime, by Juli Min

Tue, 01 Jul 2008 20:28:01 -0400

MONTVILLE, N.J. — A Life of Crime, by Juli Min

SAN FRANCISCO — At the Pride 2008 parade, there was one word on...

Tue, 01 Jul 2008 18:55:00 -0400

SAN FRANCISCO — At the Pride 2008 parade, there was one word on everyone’s lips: marriage. Brides of all genders donned wedding dresses ranging in style from fashionably regal to delightfully wacky. Besuited but bare-chested grooms strutted alongside scantily clad dancers. Beaming couples marched with children in tow, holding signs that declared, “Just Married.”

This year marked the 38^th LGBT pride celebration for the city, and it came on the heels of a landmark decision by the California Supreme Court to allow gay couples to marry. However, the decision may be short-lived as opponents have introduced legislation to ban gay marriage through a constitutional amendment, which voters will consider in November.

But the optimism in the air was palpable as the festivities got underway. I joined the hundreds of thousands of onlookers who lined the streets to cheer as politicians, advocacy groups, celebrities and drag queens—a lot of drag queens—made their way down Market St. With more than 200 floats, the parade stretched over three hours. —Jamison A. Hill

Click here for the full photo-essay.

NEW YORK—Take the Money and Run, by Daniel E. Herz-Roiphe

Tue, 01 Jul 2008 12:32:08 -0400

NEW YORK—Take the Money and Run, by Daniel E. Herz-Roiphe

JAISALAMER, India — The best part of riding a camel is that...

Tue, 01 Jul 2008 12:30:43 -0400

JAISALAMER, India — The best part of riding a camel is that calamitous instant when the camel heaves itself from the ground. For a moment you’re hanging parallel to the sand, certain that you’re going to fall out of the saddle and suddenly aware that even a halfway-standing-up camel is very, very tall.

Then the knobby knees straighten. You take a breath. You look down at the distant sand and feel an unfurling majesty. Let the world take note: you are on top of a camel. Your placid steed turns to look at you and blinks its long, flirtatious eyelashes. You unclench your fingers from the pommel and untangle the reins. You do this with an exquisite boredom. Lawrence of Arabia’s got nothing on you. Reigns in hand, you try to imitate the clicking noise the camel drivers use to get the animals started. You clack. You tsk. You make kissy sounds and tap your heels tentatively against the camel’s sides. It’s probably not a good idea to make it angry. Then one of the camel drivers, a local guy in flip-flops who would rather work in a hotel, comes up. He takes the reins back from you and starts walking. The camel follows him. You’re off!

The worst part of riding a camel? Unbruised reader, let me count the ways.

Everyone I knew who had been to India had ridden on a camel. So when I got to Jaisalamer, a desert town in the far reaches of Rajasthan, I signed up immediately. And, I’ll admit, the first ten minutes were great. Think of the photos! My Facebook friends were going to be so jealous. Then I realized that the ride was not ending. This was not a theme park. My next 36 hours would be spent here, somewhere in the desert between India and Pakistan, doing exactly what I was doing now: lurching left, then right, each time with a little jounce that made me intimately aware of each step the camel took.

Marco Polo, I realized, was a masochist. Fuck the Silk Road. Who would do this to themselves? Xanadu—whatever. With camels as the only means of transport, I would never have left my village. (TO BE CONTINUED…) —Lois E. Beckett