So, before I lose steam on this: I have a place to stay! I'm going to live on a small residential road across from the Episcopal church in Princeton. It's part of this large old-fashioned townhouse (fortunately in semi-decent condition) with about 4-5 other people. Who are these fascinating creatures, you might be wondering, inquisitive reader. Well, let's see. There's Reza, sort of the self-elected major-domo. He's a grad student at Princeton with a focus on biomedical engineering. He's Iranian, and strikingly enough, had a brief stint living in New Canaan back in 1994. Go rams!

Then there is Vanessa, a very chill and softspoken yoga instructor who recently relocated from the city. She's originally from California, which shows. She has been to India (rajasthan, bombay, delhi). Clara says that she has a chiropractor boyfriend who stares too much, but I expect I'll find that out for myself.

Reza and Vanessa are the only housemates I've met thus far. There's another science grad student called Yorgo, currently in Greece. Another new girl coming in is Kerri (sp?), a third year grad student. Hurrah! They sound young and friendly and I think this could all work out. Plus work is only a 10-12 minute walk away (through the gorgeous and austere Princeton campus). Of course, I'll be an utter pauper, living from check to check, but I guess it's how everyone starts their career.

When I start work I'll try and post a picture of my office -- the building is something else. I remember when I went there for my interview, I almost didn't find it because the street number was embedded in the metal trelliswork on this huge archway leading into a very English courtyard. It is perfect for me, utterly and completely perfect. There's this wonderful green/plum-coloured tree right at the center, and it's one of those trees that just makes you want to rush over and cast yourself at its base, eating cool grapes and reading something appropriately glorious. "The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam," perhaps. Honestly, don't think I'm crazy. I love trees so much. And this tree, well, if you ever see it, you'll understand. It's pretty diminutive but it's also the kind of tree from which you want to pluck wild apples, and for which poetry just seems to be destined:

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread - and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness-
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

You know, I don't know why these flights of fancy emerge. I've had a tiresome and stressful day and nothing is sorted out. But the tree and the poetry, the hope, really, of something good and durable happening to me, well...I have to try and believe in it, even if it's just in a moment of self-delusion. I suppose if I wanted to read symbolism into the whole thing I'd say that the tree is somehow linked to my idea of the new life I'll start soon: it's richer, more mysterious, and somehow finds itself in kinship with its surroundings.

Just watch, the tree will crack and die one week into work.