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“You have no idea. These should be the best months of the year. The band, high-stepping through the practice field in the bright afternoon, the drumline pounding out their rhythms.”
“Go on.”
“I am missing it all. The smell of burgers on the grill wafting from the cafeterias. The student orgs handing out ice cream cups alongside pamphlets and flyers. The great white event tents that should go up by midweek in preparation for the pre-game tailgates. This year, the music of student life has given way to the music of nature, to crickets and birds and the wind softly rustling the leaves. The library is all but empty, the fountains are drained, and the footpaths are deserted. So many signs, Nao Kao: keep your distance, wear your mask, complete your health screening. They are plastered everywhere.
“Only the shell of fall remains, the unbroken blue of the sky, the crisp mornings giving way to the sunbaked warmth of the afternoon, the green of the leaves yielding gradually to the yellows and oranges and reds, reminders that some rhythms, at least, remain untouched.”
“Thank you,” he said, “You made me feel just now like I was there again. Even after all these years, I miss it sometimes. It is still my second home.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
“Good morning, folks.This is your captain speaking. We hope you have had a relaxing flight and enjoyed the hospitality of our Delta crew. It looks like we will have a bit of chop heading into Incheon today, so I have asked the flight attendants to begin the final meal service a bit early and prepare the cabin for landing before we begin our final approach. Thanks for bearing with us and being with us. Enjoy the rest of your flight.”
The smells of breakfast filled the cabin, and the lead flight attendant was still translating into Korean when my friend Janelle appeared with my granola and poured me an extra glass of tomato juice. Like the sea-salted chocolates, it is another of those foods we are biologically programmed to crave in the high-decibel din of the airplane cabin. From her basket of warm bread, she offered me a second croissant. I accepted, happily.
I was still greedily eating in, quite literally, the experience of finally being back in the sky when Janelle appeared again.
“I’ve added it to my list, Miss Larkin. Liss. Vientiane and Luang Prabang, both. So whatever else happens, whatever you accomplish on this trip or don’t, I thought you would like to know that at least I’m sold on traveling there.”
It took me a minute to realize she was referring to my work, to the hearts and minds operation that is international education that I had shared with her, my belief in the value of global citizenship as an end in and of itself.
So many invisible threads bind the world together. Because of the little nudge I received to go to Michigan for grad school and because the paper pushers sent Nao Kao there instead of Minnesota, our lives had intersected. Because of that, I was on this flight; whenever she traveled to Laos, and whomever she met and touched along the way, Janelle would add her own invisible threads to the web. We think we control our lives and our destinies, but there’s a mighty fine line between free will and the work of the universe; in those moments when control appears in our grasp, it’s easy to forget that we are merely the momentary inhabitants of not only the planet, but the stars and all the great heavens, which are governed by forces unknown and unknowable to us. All of the matter that has ever existed or will exist is already here. We are but star dust.
I looked away so she would not see the tears that pricked my eyes.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Most of thecountry may have been in a daze in the fall of 2001, the jagged remains of the World Trade Center still literally stabbing skyward, but Nao Kao and I created our own world for one blissful moment in time. We explored one another hungrily from the afternoon we met at the museum through the falling of the leaves, like Adam and Eve and the forbidden apple – consequences be damned, the fruit was just too delicious. It had been a long time for both of us and, while I can’t say what Nao Kao thought, I can say he, at least, was good.
“Have you ever been to East Lansing, to Michigan State?” he asked one afternoon as we lay in bed.
“Of course, I’ve been to East Lansing! Why do you ask?” Though they had made their academic careers at the University of Michigan, my parents met as graduate students on the banks of the Red Cedar, and my childhood and adolescence had been polka dotted with afternoons on that sprawling, park-like campus.
“There is a workshop at the College of Education I might like to attend.”
I traced along his happy trail, tickling lightly to make him laugh.
“It’s difficult to get to East Lansing from here.”
That was true. No train, no bus, nothing but personal transportation conveyed students, many of whom had grown up together, between the rival schools.
“Mm-hmm.” I turned to look at him. Kissed him lightly, teasing. Enough of this beating around the bush. If he wanted a ride, he would have to ask.
“Who else is going? Which class is this for?” I finally asked.
I was certain our illicit relationship shone all over our faces, and I was grateful that in this final semester before I would collect my diploma and leave Ann Arbor, we were not taking any of the same courses.
“The workshop examines the question of higher education as a public good or a private good, but it’s not for a specific class.”
I was intrigued despite myself, as he probably knew I would be.
“I thought it might be interesting,” he continued, “and I’ve heard the campus is beautiful, especially this time of year.”
“Oh, it is. Ann Arbor is the better town, but there’s no comparison between the campuses – MSU wins that category every time.”
“Yes, I would like to see another campus.”
“It would certainly enhance your American experience.”
