Setback One (15:03): Sprinting back from a Starbucks with a full and open glass of ice water in -2 degree weather. Erin picked me up roughly half an hour ago and after jogging to the metro stop (literally) we made all the proper connections to 11th and G, without water. We have snacks and even season 2 of Gossip Girl, but no drinkables. So I full out run to the Starbucks a block down. Erin stands down the driver and I barely make it.

Setback Two (16:20): In Baltimore, MD, just passed the one-hour mark on the BoltBus from Washington, DC to New York City, complete with wifi and electric outlets (as well as over-chatty yuppies). The sun is setting over the numerous industrial complexes we are passing while Leon Ware sings to me via white earbuds. Construction or traffic ahead. Hard to tell which.

Setback Three (17:30): Snowing as we are nearing Pennsylvania. Ate some peanut butter crackers and applesauce to stave off the inevitable crankiness evoked by an interstate bus ride. Luckily I still find music amusing. Starting to get excited about our New York adventure. Especially if food is involved. Preferably Brooklyn pizza. Even more preferable bagels.

Setback Four (18:45): Cannot stop thinking about bagels. Passed Philadelphia, getting cranky. Although we have Cheetos and Peppermint Oreos from Trader Joe’s, it isn’t enough to overcome sheer boredom. It’s too dark outside to look out the window, so I resolve to try my best to follow Gossip Girl without audio. It fails pretty miserably.

Setback Five (18:57): Have decided Gossip Girl is about pretty people having sex every three minutes or they die. If they aren’t having sex, they must argue. Drama-loving, sex-obsessed pretty people where the over-thirty and the under-thirty look the same.

Setback Six (19:20): Erin and I review the plan. Dinner in Brooklyn, probably Italian, then a chill evening, maybe a bottle of wine and a movie to conclude Friday. Saturday brunch in the Village with friends, and the afternoon spent wandering through Hipsterville (aka: Bedford) and Hasidic Jew-town. Saturday evening Broadway show and delicious Chilean food at Pomaire. Play the night by ear until we eventually keel over to sleep. Saturday, more wandering and the afternoon bus back to DC. I look up and can see the skyline of NYC. We’re to the side of Newark.

Setback Seven (20:11): In New York! We arrive at the pickup point…and then leave it. No explanation. Allison calls Erin, “Your bus just pulled away! Why?” Driver comes on P.A. “Erm…We’ll be dropping you off at some other point.” Thanks for the detailed description. He goes once around the block and finally lets us off. Glad to be off the bus. Even gladder to be in Manhattan.

The weekend was fantastic. While I didn’t see everything the city had to offer, all our random wanderings and many cups of neighbourhood coffee left me feeling like I got a decent taste of the city’s flavour. As we munched down our Sunday morning bagels and schmear, I relaised It’s been about ten years since I’ve been here. Imagine. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to New York, and even though I’m minorly sad I have to board that bus back to Virginia, I get the feeling I’ll be back.

Setback One (15:12): Very very cold and windy outside. BoltBus back to DC is late…

Every window I have spent the day staring out of has been speckled with misty rain. My breath has fogged my glasses every time I step outside, not from the cold, but from the humidity. It has been a day of torrents and trials, and a few moments of respite I try in vain to dry off in. It has been a day of three cups of tea.

It is a strange thing to experience history made in one’s homeland from abroad, like I am far removed from both my country and from my life here, where Scotland overtaking Fiji in the Rugby World Cup (and the Melbourne Cup results) were of greater urgency than something like the presidential race of another nation. For the most part no one knows I’m American until my tongue gives me away, and even when the accent’s out of the mouth, we rarely talk of my heritage; people politely ignore the fact that I am a Yankee and I politely let them. Not today. Today we toast in a random bar downtown, they more for the abatement unity provides from loneliness, I because at the crossroads in history one as impassioned as I cannot sit passively without tipping her hat to some cause. To me it was not a question of whether or not we could, it was a question of whether we would. Well yes we can, and yes we did.

Today was a momentous day, not just because we did, but because it was my last day in Australia. Today I took my final exam and said my final goodbyes, and cleaned my room one last time. Today was the end of the first presidential race I followed astutely from beginning to end (for it was the first election I was to vote in), and the day I decided to heed the call homeward. It was also the first time in a long time I was proud of my country. As I watched the race to 270 from the television in the library, sandwiched among a throng of curious students, I felt an overwhelming urge of longing, a swell of pride, and for a moment I was given a brief glimpse into the potential my country and my life have. It occurred to me that it is not just Obama who will usher in a new era after the old, but me and my friends and enemies and acquaintances. The time has come for our generation, which has today fully matured, to step forward and take the place we have been promised. We are the youth that “will one day be the future.” And that day is today. For the first time I feel ready to take on that role.

Maybe it’s just youth speaking. Perhaps those of us on the cusp are just waiting for a cause to move us, willing to take anything that smells of revolution to push us into action. It’s possible. But it’s also possible that every ideology, yes, even America’s, is fueled by those spry enough to man it with our hungry minds and untarnished spirits. It’s possible that every generation has something they arm themselves at, and it is simply our turn. It is no coincidence the greatest revolutions of history start with the students, with the university protests and the demonstrations of those both intellectual enough to see it through but young enough to be idealistic. We would hate to be the only ones to sit idly during our watch. And I, I would like to say more on the subject, but I am tired and have a long journey ahead. The rain, long since a symbol of cleansing and clarity, will lull me to a deep sleep for sure. But let it be noted that I wish to sleep not only because I will need the strength for the months ahead, but because today has promised me a brighter tomorrow.

Between finishing my final exam and papers, packing up my room in Australia to leave for Los Angeles in two days, and still trying to keep my word count up for NaNoWriMo, I am surprisingly unbothered by the hubbub that should surely be stressing me out. instead I am excited, and diligent, and the only thing I really wish for escape is another trip to the beach to cool off in the country’s sizable waves one last time. After all, when I will be returning it will be to winter, and I have so enjoyed the sunshine. Here spring has clearly had its way with Brisbane: the city is crawling with students on Christmas vacation, the Melbourne Cup is everyone’s topic of conversation, my mates are all griping about how fast Big Day Out sold out, and the jacarandas around the city are in full bloom. You can see the gardeners waging fruitless war trying to contain the tiny purple blossoms. And if it wasn’t a breeze-free 27 degrees out I’d be lying on the grass, grateful for my newfound tan.

Unfortunately I’ve been cooped indoors writing away, attempting to finish my last three papers before I land in Fiji. I’ve been playing possession tetris with my belongings, assured that if I rotate them in the right way, everything will fit in my tiny suitcase. I’ve consumed an entire jar of Peanut Butter and about fifty packets of strawberry jam during my many lunches in, stooped over a computer. I’ve been sweating in my sweltering dorm room while glands I didn’t even know existed excrete sweat in amounts I didn’t think were possible. I’ve piously followed Manchester United’s run up the tables and avoided all news of the election since I dropped my ballot in the box a month ago. And I’ve been trying my best to keep my room clean is I rifle through my drawers one last time and pitch the graded papers I don’t think I’ll need, but even with my good intentions, my desk still remains a mountain of paper rubbish the size silverfish dream of. My bed is the worst, hosting snippets of dialogue, character profiles, and difficult to remember quantum physics formulas I occasionally nest in when my chair is otherwise occupied by laundry. I’ve lost about three pens to the carnage. It looks like this:

The college cleaner, Marie, comes in to clean every week, and usually teases me a bit about my neatly made bed, my unblemished writing desk, and my separate piles for trash and recycling. Generally, when she comes in I kindly go take a shower (we take four-minute army showers here to contribute to drought relief) so she can hoover and dust without me getting in the way. When I come out, trying my best not to drip, she always says the same thing,

“You make it too easy. You’re room is too clean!”

I’m probably the only person in the whole wing who keeps her room so tidy. It’s a matter of prinicple. But the last time Marie came in it was a different story. She opened the door with her usual good morning greeting, a slack rubbish bag in one hand and hoover in the other, and stopped dead. Her eyes get wide. I grin sheepishly and start stammering apologetic explanations about how I’m sorting through my stuff before I leave, a date which is about two weeks earlier than anyone else. And Marie, bless her, turns to me and exclaims,

“Now that’s more like it. I was beginning to wonder if you were a student after all!

More bashful facial expressions, more scattered attempts to form coherent piles that reveal there is indeed carpet underneath all of this. How can so little stuff take up so much space? I probably turned pink, but Marie was laughing. I realise she will probably miss me at college next year if for no other reason than the six minutes I shave off her work clock and I will certainly miss her looking out for us. Goodbye, Marie. Goodbye, Australia.