In Which A Meeting of Some Import Is Attended
At long last, your scribe, after an extended absence from the pages of this electronic memoir, which he would be greatly pleased to attribute to something fascinating and romantic–such as an expedition by airship to chart the legendary lost continent of Atlantis, followed perhaps by a convalescence at a Tuscan villa to recover from months of endless vistas of sea and sky and Professor Arronax leaning out of windows trying to spot the precise bit of water the Nautilus once passed under and periodically shouting “There! Right there! Don’t you see it?”–but the blame for which, in all honesty, can only be laid before his own recalcitrance as a regular correspondent . . . in short, your scribe once again has something to report.
Recently, as the heading of this journal entry might suggest, I attended a Meeting of Some Import. For those who are familiar with my current academic circumstances, the venue of this meeting–the Semitic Museum at Harvard University–will give a fairly strong clue as to the agenda. Indeed, it was a rare opportunity to escape my exile in, as Coleridge described it, this “strange place . . . where Time and weary Space / Fettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing, / Strive for their last crepuscular half-being.” So it was that, with a sense of boundless optimism matched only by a case of the jitters roughly the size and shape of the RMS Titanic, I set off for the far horizon.
Or Boston, rather, slightly closer than the mythic distance. It felt good to be on the road again, with apologies to Mr. Nelson’s attorneys. Even a brief expedition such as this is made more enjoyable by comparison to my extended confinement in the enshadowed vales of central Pennsylvania. Bernard, my automobile, still performs faithfully and well (curses upon General Motors for depriving me of any future Saturns), and Emma the Satnav was only moderately sniffy about having depleted her batteries over months in standby mode. I even procured an Infernal Device–that is to say, a cellular telephone–so that I might remain in contact with the parentals and deliver any good news swiftly to friends and family. The meeting, Gentle Reader, was That Important. I had been in communication with Prof. Peter Der Manuelian, the first professor of Egyptology at Harvard in sixty-eight years, as excellent a researcher as that first qualification would lead one to expect, and a good friend of my mentor, Prof. Redford. The opportunity to speak with him in person in order to discuss the possibility of joining his program at Harvard was well worth an excursion to Boston, or indeed to Outer Mongolia.
The drive was pleasant and uneventful, but provided no good opportunities for photography or commentary. I did stop at a couple of promising scenic overlooks, but haze and pollution conspired to ensure that they fulfilled the promise of their title only to devotees of the indistinct. The hotel room, with its warped and unlockable doors, noisy patrons and facilities, and astonishingly stoned front-desk clerk, has been rendered amusing by the salutary effects of distance and a refund. The journey back was remarkably similar to the journey there, so here endeth the travelogue.
On to matters of interest. Emma led me right to my destination–I’m of a sufficiently archaic generation that I still find such technological marvels marvelous–in good time, in spite of delays setting out, to arrive at the meeting only mildly puffed. I even had time for a brief nose-about in the collection of the Semitic Museum, which looks quite interesting. Sadly, most of it was cordoned off, and as signs warned of security cameras, alarms, and Dire Consequences, I felt no desire to disturb the peace of the day by attempting to peer beyond the cordon. I hope one day to return for a more proper perusal.
The meeting itself went very well, indeed, better than I had hoped. Prof. Manuelian is a true learned gentleman, very pleasant, welcoming, and helpful; he even took a moment to suggest a hieroglyphic text editor which seems to be superior to the one I had been using, as well as a number of reading recommendations. I dasn’t make too free herein with the minutes of a private meeting–one doesn’t wish to perturb the other party, nor to seem as if one is composing trumpet sonatas in one’s own honor–so suffice it to say that my hopes have not been dashed. I believe I am not overstepping the bounds of propriety if I suggest that the question of whether the arrangement under discussion would be desirable has been settled, and what remains is the question of whether it will be possible.
Needless to say, I fervently hope that it shall be possible. The very idea of being permitted to study at Harvard–at a real university–is one fraught with wonder. Updates, should any make themselves known, will of course be presented here.
The Hallowed Halls seem a step or two closer than once they did.