What are words worth?

I had walked down the passage many times, narrowly missing rushing students and their bulky backpacks as I dawdled, reading the notices pinned on the soft boards along its length or the announcements sliding across the display screens at every archway. It seemed to me like just another corridor where no one lingered, apart from under the tallness of the Great Dome at one end or midway down in the sudden, imposing expanse of Lobby 7 before it narrowed again to lead you decisively toward East Campus. So when students casually kept referring to "The Infinite" I had to ask, "But what is that?" It is--only somewhat fancifully--referred to as MIT's spinal cord, this 825-foot corridor that runs east to west through some of MIT's main buildings, passing by the administrative offices and student affairs and several departments and labs. Apart from the fact that it is among the longest (but considerably shorter than that of Freie University, says Wikipedia) uni...

I drink it all in greedily. The greens, the browns, the golds, the reds, and all those indescribable shades in between and beyond. And the blue, blue sky overhead. The nip in the air only serves to accentuate the sharpness of the colors, and adds a quickness to my step as I crunch across the leaf-strewn pathway of the arboretum. Arboretum: a place where trees and plants are grown to be studied or seen by the public (Merriam-Webster dictionary, online) I would amend that definition to include: a place that offers a sanctuary from the chaos and confusion and the intense pressure to achieve order that marks urban life. Of course, temples and spas also offer that. But you know what I mean. Chants and bells and low-key piped music and strange aromas do not quite match the abundance of the woods. Even if it is a cultivated copse ( not a typo, the r has no place in this wood/word ). I took a few hours off on what promised to be the last perfect day of the New England fall to find my ...

Sometimes, a walk through rainwashed and puddle-ridden streets can lead to unexpected joys. When my friend Mariel asked if I’d like to accompany her on a field visit, to observe a youth organization at work, I agreed, welcoming the opportunity to go beyond the rarefied environs of Cambridge. Getting off the train at the somehow appropriately named station of Maverick in East Boston, Mariel and I traverse a couple of blocks (stopping briefly at a Brazilian Bakery to munch on small cheese buns— pao de queijo ) to reach a small doorway set into a brick building whose impassive exterior belies the youthful effervescence that bubbles through the moment you enter. Mariel tells me it is an old fire station that the organization has renovated. In the foyer two young men, engaged in a serious discussion, direct us to the basement. The path downstairs takes us first through a large room filled with instruments and a cluster of chairs, and laughing teenagers. “Brittany’s in the radio station,” ...