She had never been to Ithaca before.
But there was no way she could turn down this opportunity.
Cornell.
The Ivy League.
Of course, she wasn’t one of them. She was a City College of New York gal.
That’s how it all got started.
Then grad school. A postdoc. Some awards. A grant. A faculty job.
The little girl from Queens wasn’t doing so bad.
A far cry from the restaurant. Her parents were still there, reeking of masala, even more with the rent hike.
And now she was a guest speaker.
The same place that had heard Feynman and Sagan would hear Sheila.
Getting there was confusing though.
A lot of options. None too great.
So she flew to Rochester.
One of her friends got a job there a while back.
It was traumatic at first.
But he adjusted.
A few farms never hurt anyone, he would say. And Triple A baseball is fun. Intimate, was his favorite description.
She would kill two birds with one stone. Catch up—and hitch a ride to Ithaca.
She landed just in time for sunset.
Nothing like looking west over a Great Lake, he said.
She agreed.
And then they pushed off.
90 miles.
An hour and forty minutes.
He told her about his struggles.
Nothing major.
Just the usual midlife battles. The stuff that comes with gray hair.
She noticed the highway rest stop.
Fast food. A convenience store. Gas. Just like the Jersey Turnpike.
Less people. Same concept.
And they kept going.
The smell of manure.
She had been warned. No worse than the stench of the city.
Just different.
And she remembered what her friend had said. No farms, no food, he would usually add.
The conversation changed to silence.
They had known each other long enough that it wasn’t awkward. Just comfortable.
They took an exit.
Must be getting close, she thought.
Not that close.
A right turn.
Then a left.
Then darkness.
Miles of it.
She felt her heart rate rise.
What was that movie?
Children of the Corn?
More darkness.
Was that roadkill?
At least the roads are paved.
Eyeballs!
Phew.
Deer in headlights.
Not just an expression around here.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Trailer home.
Rusty truck.
Old tires.
Roadkill again.
Darkness.
She had read about the gorges and the waterfalls and the parks. All she saw was black.
Maybe that’s what inspired Sagan.
She looked up.
Just clouds.
Maybe not.
Then a patch that was even darker.
A Finger Lake.
She heard it was beautiful.
She’d have to take their word for it.
Another turn.
And another.
Finally.
A building. With accent lighting.
Her heart rate dropped a bit.
She saw a traffic light in the distance. More comfort.
A person walking? Or a statue?
Either way, progress.
They drove a few blocks.
Storefronts. Houses. Maybe a school.
And then the hotel.
It looked like a house. An inn.
She got out.
A hug and a thanks.
She punched in the code they had given her.
The room.
And then the bed.
She put her head down.
Had she been sweating?
A rush of relief.
Tomorrow, the sun would rise over Ithaca.
And after her talk, she’d be back in Manhattan.
