PiP (Person in Progress, aka, me) has once again returned the snow-lined, ice-filled pathways of College. It is 10 after 5 on January the 22nd, over a full month since my last posting. For the past 2 1/2 weeks, I've taken a half-assed fast from the Internet. I left my computer behind, you see, but not my phone. So you couldn't see me, but I could see you.
I'll let that creepy thought percolate in your brain cells for a moment.
Where did I go? To a hermitage, to cower away from the crowds of people and snowflakes and begin cat collecting? Far, far, from it, my (presumed) friend. I joined an expedition of the most fantastic sort: a literary expedition. Not without trepidation, I boarded a coach (bus) for the overnight journey to Massachusetts, where I would study New England writers, particularly those of the nineteenth century. Wasn't that a fun sentence?
We began our expedition a bit earlier in time than that, disembarking from our coach near the much lauded Plimoth/Plymouth Rock. Lauded in verse only, I presume, for nothing but the finest poetry could lend drama to a chunk of rock repaired with a seam of cement. The iron bars of its cage and the "1620" carved into its surface leant its only difference from the other boulders strewn about the beach. But, as dutiful, if rather bus-stiffened tourists, we took photos and waved back to the condescending early-morning joggers.
To reconstituted our shriveled consciousnesses, we retired to the All-American Diner, where we tucked in with more than a good will. The pancakes were as big, or bigger than one's head, depending on one's physiology and ego. This repast gave us the strength to wander through the collection of the charming Plimoth Hall Museum, whilst caffeine fumes and maple syrup began to warm our blood and wake our brains.
We would need our strength for what was to come: Plimoth Plantation itself!
