Spring Break Journal: Kevin T. Wittenberg
More valuable than the breathtaking vistas and the time spent with friends around the campfire was the rekindling of childhood spirit, of instinct, of passion.
Clambering around nature’s jungle gym evoked a sensation I hadn’t felt since childhood. It came from some part of me wholly disconnected from the intellectual rigor of college; it was something visceral, something I’ve only felt when risking my life. It was a fearlessness that throughout my childhood was curbed by my parents’ fears; now it was tinged with unadulterated freedom. There was nothing but handhold after handhold. Foothold after foothold. The abyss. The sky.
Spring Break Journal: Indiana T. Seresin
On my first day in Miami he tells me it’s important to be by the sea. I nod. I’ve never seen him looking so old and sad.
A few days later, he apologizes for being in a “weird mood.”
All my ideas fall straight out of my mouth without making a sound. I’ve never been married, and I don’t know what to say. In the end I figure there’s nothing I can tell him that can’t be better said by my hand on his arm.
We order cocktails and watch the sun fall into the sea.
Spring Break Journal: Alexander J.B. Wells
Last year, I went away for spring break, and when I came back in through the gates I thought, Ah, suddenly it feels like home.
This year, I stayed in the dorms for spring break, and I had the whole bloody place to myself. And then I thought, Hey, I’m going to put $1,700 in cash in my mouth. So I did.
Spring Break Journal: Michelle B. Timmerman
A cursory survey of bridges of sighs yields:
1. Between Allegheny County Court House and Prison, Pittsburgh, Pa.
2. At Hertford College, Oxford, U.K.
3. Between Old and New Courts of St. John’s College, Cambridge, U.K.
4. Connecting the Tombs and Criminal Court Building, N.Y.
5. Between prisons and interrogation rooms in the Doge’s Palace, Venice, Italy
And then, a sixth. James Torrance is no Lord Byron—he didn’t name the bridge, just designed it. But there’s something poetic in the fact that his bridge connects Chelsea Market—the former headquarters of cookie-mogul Nabisco—with an photography studio called Milk.
Spring Break Journal: Emi F. Nietfeld
On the ferry from Tallinn to Stockholm, a very drunk girl grabbed my wrist and demanded to know where I came from. “Fuck yeah, America!” she yelled. She reached up and ran her hands through my boyfriend’s hair. “I fucking love you guys!” We danced with her Estonian friends at the Ibiza Disco on deck.
My boyfriend danced with a blond who had a pock on her arm from the polio vaccine, until a skunk-haired girl yelled at them. We only got two photos with the drunk Estonian girl before Skunky tore her away, too, and bought her another drink.
Spring Break Journal: Lingjin Zheng
The view of Montreal from Mount Royal was supposed to be spectacular, so like good American tourists we dutifully climbed the mountain. We were broke, and climbing was free. The snow was beginning to melt, trickling down paths it had carved through the dirt. It soaked through my cheap boots and chilled my toes. We walked alongside old people with canes, small children in wool sweaters, pink-nosed joggers, dogs. When we got to the top, we took some pictures of the mist-covered city, searched in vain for the veiled landmarks, and then we climbed back down.
Spring Break Journal: Abigail K. Fiedler
Sitting on the steps of Trafalgar Square with my roommate and appreciating the view made me feel like a tourist in my home city. This time last year I would walk through this area to work every day, far too busy to look up at the beautiful sights around me.
