You may remember seeing one of the updates about our undergraduate research journal, Papers and Publications, recently—and for that matter, an update about CUR (Council on Undergraduate Research). If not, browse through the posting category for Undergraduate Research on the left side of the page (it’s ok; I had to check too). The journal in particular is important for students or recent graduates; even though we’ve already published this year’s issue, we’ll call for submissions again later this fall, so it isn’t too early to start thinking about it.
I mention the journal and CUR because I recently presented the former at a conference for the latter, along with the Director of the University Press, Dr. Bonnie Robinson. Her portion was more for the education of other attendees who might want to start a journal of their own, while I went to advertise Papers and Pubs. This trip marked several new experiences for me, and I’m told it was a success. We were the only interactive session chosen to present twice, so if nothing else, the material appealed to the conference organizers.
The important thing, though, is that I got to fly for the first time. That alone was enough motivation to go. Some of you might not see it as a big deal, of course. Not if you’ve flown regularly. After all, even soaring through the air in a metal tube at thirty thousand feet gets routine eventually. Boredom is one little quirk of being human (and in this case, probably for the better, since it prevents every passenger from screaming constantly because over the course of our evolution we couldn’t even consistently stay in a tree, much less rocket past the clouds at speeds that emasculate even the fastest eagles). I, however, went into it feeling excited, and I wasn’t disappointed.
Well, at least not by the actual flight. Getting to the plane took some work. Everyone’s heard about the various security measures, so I’ll just launch right into that. We had to pass through multiple checkpoints, which started to seem redundant by the end of it, and the process can either be inconvenient or something designed by H. P. Lovecraft, depending on how closely you resemble certain unfortunate stereotypes or how bad a day the security officers are having. Fortunately for me, the TSA people were feeling charitable. I just had to submit everything I owned to the standard checks and spend about thirty seconds standing in an open-sided, glass-plated cylinder with my hands over my head while they pelted me with radiation to see if the metal detectors missed anything. I didn’t complain, either; it’s a small price to pay to avoid the horrifying sight of a man walking towards you putting on an oiled latex glove. If my children are born with six fingers on each hand now, then they’ll just be better at typing (and starting blood feuds with orphaned Spanish swashbucklers).
The take-off, when it eventually got around to happening, felt surprisingly smooth. All I had was the sense of driving quickly over a steep hill. I’d made a point to get a window seat to have the best view, but some woman stole it before my zone was allowed to board the plane; I decided not to argue about it for fear that an air marshal would tackle me for spooking the other passengers. Still, I got to lean around and see the ground, which looked about like Google Maps said it would (Atlanta, for the record, is astonishingly green once you’re beyond the downtown area, with far more trees than I’d expected; the many, many, many suburbs are just isolated roads with a row of houses to either side, swallowed up by the expansive forests like stitches on the back of a giant furry frog. …That analogy made more sense before I wrote it down, but I don’t have a better one, so I’m keeping it). The next two hours or so had only a few minor bumps and shakes. Landing, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as soft as taking off; the plane dropped down a little at a time, and whenever it happened, my stomach hit my lungs and threatened to complain with my pre-flight hamburger if I didn’t quit whatever stupid thing I was doing. Actually coming down to the runway feels about like you’d think. The plane bounces a bit before it slows down enough to keep the wheels on the ground, the change in momentum pulls you forward slightly, and then you stop and get to fight with the other passengers over who leaves first.
Thus, we were in Newark (prior to seeing my boarding pass, I thought Dr. Robinson was taking me to New York and couldn’t properly pronounce it for some reason), New Jersey. I’ve heard all sorts of jokes about the state (mostly from Futurama, and who am I to argue with them?), so initially my hopes were fairly low. It turned out to look about like any other place, naturally, but that isn’t very funny. The only complaint I can actually make is one about the weather: someone turned up the cosmic thermostat and snapped off the knob, which, admittedly, was happening all over the continent, but I was sure that it’d be cooler than Heat Stroke Georgia. Farther from the equator and all that. I’ll hold onto that grudge for a little longer, regardless of how poorly justified it is. The two hour bus ride from Newark to our hotel didn’t put me in a forgiving mood.
We checked in, wandered out again to register at the conference, went to Pennsylvania for pizza on the recommendation of our driver (no, seriously), came back for the second time, and that was that. Between the heat and having to wake up before noon for our first presentation, I wasn’t in the best spirits (I’m not a morning person, or indeed a person at all before lunch, but rather a walking grumble). Still, I talked about Papers and Publications, Dr. Robinson discussed undergraduate research, and I listened to other CUR attendees from all across the United States, with the general consensus being that finding funding for a new journal these days is incredibly difficult and our Press is quite lucky to have made it work. The next day we did it again, in a different room with different people and the same blistering, eye-crossingly-angry heat waiting outside our little bubble of air conditioning.
Between the two presentations, something did happen to take my mind off the weather, however briefly. We had our driver take us to Princeton and drop us off for the afternoon, and let me tell you, even if all the jokes about New Jersey were true, Princeton would make up for it. New Jersey could be one giant portal to Hell (and in that heat, I had my suspicions), and I’d still invent a fireproof canoe to paddle my way over the burning seas and visit Princeton again.
Discounting the university for a moment, Princeton the town is a beautiful place that somehow manages to seem small despite housing a giant Ivy League school. It’s full of little, privately owned shops and restaurants, only a few of which we had time to see (bless those wonderful cooks at the place we visited for lunch, who showed me what real Italian ravioli tastes like). The houses off the main street are older and individually styled, scattered with some space of their own, rather than rows of identical buildings sharing the same sliver of yard between their doors and the sidewalk. Some of the alleyways had cobblestone (I thought that was cool, anyway). After touring the college campus, we stopped at a little pub to wait for our driver; I’m sure it had been renovated several times since the original construction, judging by the low ceiling and the overall structure in relation to the decorations. Everything but the newest buildings, like the chain banks and one or two of the shops, just has this sense of historical layers, altering or adding to what came before without bulldozing it.
Princeton the university has the same feeling. Someone who actually understands architecture would’ve wandered around for a while, drooling, before having a seizure and falling into a coma. Even I could see a timeline by the different styles. One or two of those huge, gothic tributes to human engineering had actual towers on them, making them a drawbridge away from holding back the Vikings (no, that probably isn’t historically accurate for this brand of architecture, but don’t get sensitive). We went into a cathedral big enough to host a football game, its arched ceiling three stories tall. We visited the art museum and saw a bible from the 1200s. We passed the building where Einstein taught. We looked at letters from F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway on display at one of the libraries, right down the hall from a collection about Jimi Hendrix.
The point I’m trying to get across is that flying is fun, but Princeton is better.
This has gone on for longer than I expected, so I’ll just end with that. Take a look at Papers and Publications if you haven’t already; we’ll have print copies available for order soon, through print on demand, and you can see it online now at http://digitalcommons.northgeorgia.edu/papersandpubs