The Caves of Inwood Hill Park

There’s a big park 20 minutes north of my home. It’s called Inwood Hill Park, and until a couple of months ago, I hadn’t even heard of it. But a warm Saturday in an unusually frigid March introduced the perfect opportunity to venture outside of my usual go-to places in the neighborhood. On first glance, it doesn’t seem like much. Just another green splotch on a map. An escape from the concrete jungle.

An 1870 map of Upper Manhattan

But there’s something in particular that caught my attention - a landmark called the “Indian caves”. A cave system that, allegedly, was inhabited by Native Americans prior to the Dutch and English colonization of New York.

I soon found out that it’s something no other public park in New York City has - living, breathing archaeology.

To understand why Inwood Hill Park is unique, we need to go back to its roots. Its prehistoric roots.

Thousands of years ago, shifting glaciers cracked and split what is now Inwood into fragments, creating ravines, valleys, and importantly, caves. Over time, a large forest - now the last natural one in Manhattan - formed next to a salt marsh. Today, it’s a reminder of tidal marshes that once surrounded the island. But the combination of a temperate climate, lush vegetation, and a thriving ecosystem meant that this place was perfect for human occupation.

Millennia later, Inwood Hill Park saw its first human inhabitants - the Lenape Native Americans. Wedged right between the Hudson and Harlem rivers, Inwood was an ideal location for a seasonal camp. They fished, hunted, built, and found shelter in Inwood, leaving behind artifacts that amateur archaeologists centuries later would unearth.

And it’s the activity during this time period, around the 17th century, that places Inwood on the map - or, at least, our maps.

Because soon after, European colonists (see: Americans) took over. Records show that it was a relatively peaceful takeover, and considering that Inwood was only a seasonal camp, it’s hard to imagine that this particular transaction was exceptionally harmful to the Lenape.

The Treaty of Penn with the Indians, Benjamin West (1771-72)

Under the Europeans during the Revolutionary War, the Inwood area was transformed into a military base. It thankfully didn’t see much bloodshed, and over the years, developed into a quiet, peaceful residential area.

In 1890, an engineer named Alexander Chenoweth stumbled upon an interesting rock formation not far from his house - huge, slab like stones piled on top of one another. In the following weeks, he dug beneath these rocks, uncovering pottery sherds, stone tools, and remnants of campfires. The stones, he concluded, were in fact an ancient cave system once inhabited by the Lenape.

A drawing of the Inwood caves

And that brings us to today. A simple online search of Inwood Hill Park reveals that its most popular attraction are the caves - labeled “Indian caves”. Visitors to the park don’t have to walk too far or search long and hard - you can find them right off one of the main paths.

The caves are next to a path, though it somehow took me 2 hours to find them

So my curiosity got the better of me. A few hours later, I came across these fabled caves.

Aside: if you remember, the park is a 20 minute jaunt from my apartment. I overestimated my ability to use Google Maps - which is literally a foolproof software. I looped around the caves 10 or so times before sheepishly following two men in their late 60s, after overhearing their conversation about “Indian sacrifices” that took place in the caves. I have my reservations about those facts, but their navigation was spot on.

Anyway, back to the park. Excited, I climbed up a gentle slope to the entrance of the rocky outcrop. But I was greeted with nothing more than a few large rocks piled on one another, with just enough crawl space inside to fit a few kneeling people. Trash, clothes, and cigarette butts littered the floor. Calling them a disappointment would be an understatement. These weren’t the pristine historic caves I was promised - this was a local hangout spot for truants.

Vandalism or desecration of a historic site isn’t uncommon. Usually when I come across something like this, my first reaction is disgust towards the people that do things like this. But this time, its treatment didn’t bother me as much. Because these caves weren’t what I was sold.

These caves… aren’t really caves at all, but merely hollowed out burrows underneath these stones. They’re more akin to crawlspaces than actual habitations.

Now, the underwhelming nature of these caves shouldn’t be reason to dismiss their historical importance. However, superficial history and bad archaeology can lead us down incorrect conclusions.

Inside one of the "caves" - large enough to fit one adult lying down

The name “Indian caves”, without any context or background information, none of which is provided in the park itself, creates a narrow yet vague definition - only these caves were inhabited by Native Americans. This, combined with destructive archaeology that strips away all context from the scene, sets a precedent - that Native Americans in the 17th century mostly lived in these naturally formed, rudimentary shelters. That we owe the current infrastructure built in Inwood and around the New York area solely to the Europeans who settled after.

This form of tourism forgets the wigwams, longhouses, and intricate compounds created by the Lenape. It ignores the problematic archaeology of the area, and dilutes historical truth. It erroneously sets up these conflicting cultures as stark contrasts: primitive Native Americans to advanced Europeans.

The Town of Pomeiooc, Theodor de Bry

In reality, this is harmful - not only to the Lenape and their descendants, but to the general public’s overall perception of the violent and whitewashed history of American genocide. It sets us up to believe that the cultures and peoples lost had overall little effect on the country. That the new wave of Europeans, with superior technology and smarter infrastructure, ultimately pushed America in the right direction.

Maybe that is the case. It’s easy to say what if, but hard to come to meaningful conclusions. But shallow history and inadequate archaeology will only propagate biased narratives. With Columbus Day celebrated every year, we don’t have to look too far to see what happens when we choose to ignore nuanced history.

And that’s precisely why Inwood Hill Park is so important. Not just because it’s home to an active archaeological site, but also because it serves as a reminder that the key to deciphering the past - and ultimately grappling with the present - is context, context, context.

Virtual Realizations

Close your eyes and picture this. Stone archways, vaulted ceilings, and gorgeous stained glass windows. Angels suspended high above you, arrows nocked, wings aloft. Beautiful, rainbow tinted sunlight streams in from the East casting a warm, inviting glow onto the wooden pews. Soft chanting accompanies the bold notes of an organ, reverberating through the halls as you wander through the halls. You run your hand across the cool marble slabs, the click of your heels as it hits the floor echoing loudly. St. Andrews Cathedral is truly, without a doubt, one of the most stunning buildings you've been in.

Open your eyes, and... it's all an illusion. The unfortunate reality is that war, weather, and neglect has ground the famous St. Andrews Cathedral into nothing more than a pile of rubble. There's a wonderful facade, some nice foundation walls, but the heart of the cathedral has been gutted. You are simply standing on a well-maintained patch of grass.

All that is left of the cathedral is a facade

For the archaeologists and ruin-lovers of the world, this isn't a problem at all. In a world of noisy construction crews and exorbitant maintenance fees, it can be a fresh change of pace to embrace something that is utterly demolished. And even outside of those of us who are especially passionate about the dead and destroyed, ruins are one of the most sought after tourist destinations in the world.

January isn't exactly the most pleasant month in the northern hemisphere, and Scotland is no exception. In fact, it's tough to find a pleasant day in Scotland at all - moody clouds, harsh winds, and a 50% chance of rain constantly looms on the horizon (pun intended). By sheer dumb luck, the second day of my life in Scotland happened to be sunny, clear skies, and low winds. A charming 16°C. A day destined for exploration.

I walked over 11km that day, which in a town that spans a grand total of 2.5km end-to-end, is quite a feet (bad pun? should I stop?). Among the quaint coffee shops, cobblestone streets, and cute museums lies a bustling town, spread across three streets. At the end, where they all converge, stands St. Andrews Cathedral, overlooking and protecting the town under its watchful gaze. As I mentioned earlier, the cathedral is in complete ruin. The very structure that the town, university, and people have built their lives around is no more.

Fast forward a couple of months, and I receive and email about a digital archaeology workshop. Some team in the university is asking for a couple of beta testers to try out their new app. I wasn't sure what it was, but it was enough of an excuse to get out of the house. After the excitement and novelty of living in a historic town dies down, braving the cold and the rain just to see some broken buildings can be quite a challenge. So I popped on my jacket, laced my boots, pocketed my external phone battery (because god forbid Apple decides to manufacture a phone that can last more than a few hours), and trundled off to the cathedral.

A small group of about 15 had assembled at the cathedral entrance. After a quick introduction and a round of names (I had forgotten who was who mid-activity), we were each handed a folder of historic maps, blueprints, and photos, dating back until the 14th century AD. Though puzzled, our curiosities were piqued. Still, no mention of the app was made. We were in the dark.

A few compound walls still stand. Most, however, are in ruin.

A few minutes later, we found ourselves right underneath the tall facade. A black cloth bag magically appeared from one of the project members, and she reached in to it and handed me a small cardboard object in the shape of a bulky, ugly pair of spectacles. She then handed me a phone, slid it inside the glasses, and prompted me to wear it. As a technophile, I knew what I was wearing - a pair of Google cardboard "VR" glasses, supposedly to simulate a cheap Virtual Reality experience. I was hesitant.

Within a second, my world had changed. No longer was I staring at the ruins of a 700 year old building. Instead, as I moved my head from left to right, up to down, I was at the threshold of a menacing, gargantuan cathedral. I gingerly took a few steps forward, and I was inside. Inside one of the oldest cathedrals in the world. Inside a building that had been through centuries of turmoil. Inside a building that, only a few seconds back, was a soulless, lifeless creature. It was surreal.

For the next hour, I played around with a technology that can - and will - change the way we interact with history. I saw folks with the headset strolling through the cathedral grounds as if it were the 1400s. They stepped through non-existing doorways and around pillars that were ground to the dust. They stopped at walls that, to the naked eye, were nothing more than stones piled on top of each other - the app, however, told a different story. The altar had been long gone, but within that virtual world, it was very much alive. A narrator pieced together the story of St. Andrews Cathedral, telling us tales about objects and structures that were not present in the modern day.

That virtual world became a reality. I had physically been transported to another era, an experience like no other. Before, virtual reality and augmented reality was a cool way to play video games or new platforms to improve productivity. Now, I can see it becoming the premiere educative tool. Visualizing history - literally. Experiencing the past in ways that had never been possible. A lifetime of infinite possibilities.

I generally think of history as things that happened in the past. Now, however, is it not in the future?

Visit Open Virtual Worlds for more info on VR archaeology

On Binary and Hieroglyphics

Pyramids, sarcophagi, mummies... they're the stuff of legends. Which kid didn't want to travel the world, uncovering hidden secrets and discovering buried treasures? At six, I was no different. It was a step further for me, however. I not only wanted to be knee-deep in jewels and gold, but also furiously excavating a booby-trapped tomb, translating hieroglyphics, and showing people the beauty of the ancient world. There was even a point in time where I insisted that I be mummified when I die. I was obsessed with history and archaeology.

2004 might have been the best year in my life. For four years, my mind had been colonized by Ancient Egypt. Everything I did in school, after school, and by myself was related to it somehow. Well, it was history in general, but Egypt held a special place. If the TV was on, it wasn't on Nickelodeon, but on the History Channel (this was before the days of "Ice Road Truckers" and "Ancient Aliens"). So on one fine day in 2004, my parents surprised me with something - a trip to Egypt, this December.

You can imagine my elation.

Now, I'm not known for my expressiveness, and even less so as a child. Some might have pegged me for a spoilt brat when I didn't jump with joy or run around the house squealing. But my parents knew me well enough to know that on the inside, I had died and gone to heaven.

Come December, our army of eight assembled in Cairo. We were in the land of the ancients. Masr, as they would have called it. The next 10 days were a dream come true. Cairo, Alexandria, Giza, Luxor, Memphis. Boats, cars, buses. Museums, hotels, shops. Camels, crocodiles, cats. Pyramids, tombs, ruins, temples. Gold, jewels, amulets, necklaces. Mummies, mummies, and mummies.

The funerary complex of Djoser, near the famous step pyramid at Saqqara

The day we left, my heart broke more than any woman could have. I had visited the past and in doing so, seen a glimpse into my future. My future as an archaeologist, a historian, a lover of all things old. I was going back to America, back to school, back to numbers and grammar, back to Tamil class and cricket coaching.

But I brought Egypt back with me. At six, it had embedded itself in my mind. Now, it was in my heart. And even today, 15 years later, it hasn't left.

The whole gang, assembled outside the Great Pyramids of Giza. Notice the blacker hairs and smaller bellies.

Things today, however, are quite different. I'm 21 now, fresh out of college. I can't travel to Egypt on a whim. Hell, I can just about get out of bed every morning. The dream of a life among the dead (erm... this sounds darker than it actually is) seems further and further away. Instead of a pile of books and documentaries on Ancient Egypt by my bedside, just a solitary laptop rests, its screen harshly illuminating the dark room. Of the 21 tabs open, 17 of them are related to job searches.  I'm not on campus any more - no friends 24/7, no food at the ready, and most of all, the dearest Xbox isn't with me any more. It's not an exciting period of life.

So you can probably understand my euphoria when, at the annual E3 games conference in LA, a video game set in Ancient Egypt is announced.

My eyes are bugging out, mouth slightly agape. Here I am, sitting in front of a puny 13" screen, watching a video game rendering of Ptolemaic-era Egypt. The developer on stage is talking about new gameplay mechanics, updated draw distances, and technical improvements. But I don't care. I couldn't care less about any of this right now. This could have the graphical capacity of a potato and I wouldn't care.

Assassin's Creed Origins, set in Ancient Egypt
Image courtesy of Ubisoft

All I'm seeing - no, all I'm feeling is that same feeling of awe and exhilaration as when I stepped out of Cairo airport in December of 2004. When the bumpy tour bus drove us out of the city and suddenly, like a tsunami breaching the coastline, the Pyramids of Giza emerged. When I skipped between the towering columns in the Temple of Luxor. When I entered the tomb of Tutankhamun and breathed in the air that had been sealed for thousands and thousands of years.

These few thousand lines of code reinvigorated a passion in me that I hadn't felt in a long time. I love history. I love archaeology. But it seems like the past few years had done its best to make me forget about this. Suddenly, I was alive again.

It has been drilled into our heads that television and video games are only good for dumbing down the mind. Maybe some of them are. But if a video game has the capacity to make me think, to draw my breath away, to allow me to relive my past and inspire me to pursue my dreams, and to - most of all - create magic... is it really a waste of time?

Digressions

"Yes, very happy he's gone now."

"Who?"

"My husband. Wouldn't have approved of all this. Drinking. Socializing. Stay in the kitchen!, he'd say."

"Ah. Well, congratulations on getting rid of him then. Cheers!"

John, a born-and-bred Londoner, knocked back another Guinness as the old lady walked away. It was his fourth of the hour. Going by his composure, I would have guessed it was his first.

"Who... who was that?"

"Some batty crone. Came up to me a few hours ago grumbling about her dead cat. Now she's moved on to her husband. I don't care to hear what's next!"

Here I was, sitting at the pub of an inn in a tiny Scottish village, listening to a senile lady discussing her deceased family to an an insurance salesman - a complete stranger - who downed beers like they were M&Ms. What on earth was happening?

. . .

The night before, I had arranged plans to wake up early, buy a bus day pass, and head off to Dunfermline, a small Scottish city. Well, when I say small, I mean it in terms of India. 11 million in Bangalore can make pretty much anything seem small. Dunfermline's population is a mammoth 50,000, which in Scottish terms, is essentially a civilization in itself. For me, I think that's about the size of my apartment complex.

I digress. I was ready to head out to Dunfermline, camera battery charged, alarm(s) set, exact change for the bus driver in hand. I sent out a quick text to Sam, asking if he would be interested in joining. It was a Saturday, after all, and for two study abroad students looking to see as much of Scotland as they could, it was an opportunity worth taking.

At 8:30 sharp, we greeted each other at the St. Andrews bus station. A small little shack, with some brochures, a nicely laid out map, a paid restroom, and weird semi-chairs that are common around bus stands. What's the point of those? I can perfectly well lean against a wall, and don't need some sort of implement to figure out how to rest my weight on my bum, without completely sitting down. I mean, which genius decided that instead of installing some nice seats, they would fix a series of plates four feet off the ground, at 45˚ angles? Useless.

I digress. There we were, waiting for the X24 to show up, on its way to Fife's largest town. Why Dunfermline? Well, the city is home to Andrew Carnegie, one of the world's most prominent philanthropists, and a big name across the pond. The gorgeous Pittencrieff park is home to multiple museums, a gazebo overlooking a water feature, and a local peacock, who wanders around the city much to the ire of vehicular traffic. No, I'm not lying. There's an actual resident peacock who will walk around Dunfermline until he is tired. Or bored.

But if I'm honest, there is one thing that draws me to a place more than anything else. No, it's not fudge donuts. That is high up on the list, however. Speaking of, if you ever make it to St. Andrews (or Cupar or Dundee), go out of your way to grab a fudge donut from Fisher and Donaldson. It's not just divine - you'll start to see the world in brighter colors.

It's a nice, juicy castle. I want to see crumbling stone stacked on top of one another, walk through broken archways, and smell musty cellars. I want to stroll through the courtyard and breathe in the crisp air. I want to run up and down the spiral staircases, running my hand along the ancient walls. I want to feel like a King.

Dunfermline Abbey was on my list. Yes, I have a list, created when I was in the 10th grade. I was going to check that one off today, even if it meant waking up at an ungodly hour (any time in the AMs), braving the infamous Scottish weather, and dodging a highly territorial peacock. And by god, we made it.

Dunfermline Abbey, in all its glory

The abbey itself was nice. The walls were nice. The stones were nice. The receptionist at the ticket office was nice.

Overall, it was nice.

And then we sat down for lunch at a local pub. The food - not so nice. But it was good company. Generally, I'm a lone wolf. Friends know me as a person who likes his space. Enough so that some people tend to avoid me if I'm in a mood. Today, however, I was happy to have another friend accompanying me. Somehow - and I don't quite know why - it makes it easier to appreciate the history when you can talk to someone about it.

It was just past noon, and we had explored the entirety of Dunfermline. A nice walk around the park, a look at the Abbey, and a pitstop at some vendors who were selling some fresh fish and local cheese. Scotland, if anything, is pleasant. Despite the volatile weather and raging alcoholism, it has this annoying ability to just make you feel... happy.

So we sat down, finished our meal, and decided that we weren't going to go back home. After all, we had spent a whole £8 on day passes, and neither the Indian kid nor the Jewish kid was going to let that go to waste. Apologies if that's a bit racist. It's true though.

A quick Google search later, and we found out about a tiny village close by called Aberdour. This time, I really mean it. It was tiny. 1,600 people. That's less than my extended family!

So off we went. The bus dropped us off at the village centre, a large metropolis that spanned 50, maybe 60 yards, and it was bustling. A grandmother hobbled out of an antique shop, her tote bag hanging from the elbow. A motorcycle whizzed by. A few birds chirped. Yep, this was Scotland all right.

A large sign pointed us towards Aberdour Castle. Ah, you see, I told you. I can sniff out a castle from a thousand miles away. It's no coincidence that this village that we landed up in also had a castle!

One thing I don't like doing is spoiling things. So I won't spoil Aberdour Castle for you. If you care enough, you'll find information and pictures online. A little over an hour later, the two of us walked away with grins plastered on our faces. Some things you just need to experience for yourself. A chilly ocean breeze, two huskies running around the open fields, and a castle. What more do you need?

The grand hall at Aberdour Castle. You've seen grander.

There was time to kill. A lot of time. In Scotland, time moves slower than normal, and it isn't a bad thing. Every stone has history to it. You can feel it as you walk down the streets. The buildings are trying to speak to you, their whispers lost in the stiff winds. The stories are everywhere. My walking slowed. This wasn't New York, where you walk with a purpose, head down, headphones in, arms pumping. Scotland changes you. Eyes up, ears open. Listen closely, and you'll start to learn something new every second.

I digress. Next to the castle was a church. A little hut, more like, with a well-kept cemetery and trimmed hedges. Sam and I pushed the old wooden doors aside, stepping into the cool, dark room. Shafts of crimson, gold, and violet streamed through the stained glass window near the altar. Three rows of pews sat neatly in line, enough to seat a small gathering. A crucifix stood at the front, modest, majestic.

The ancient church. Modest, but stunning.

"1200 AD, it was built. Isn't it beautiful?"

The light Fife accent cut through the silence. The lady from the castle had joined us here as well.

"Sometimes I like to end my day here. Not praying, but just out of respect for our ancestors."

Goosebumps. It's not often that you are in an 800 year old hut. And to think, this little room with a small wooden cross at the front and wooden seats, would have been so important for Aberdour. We were visitors in a holy place. It was our pilgrimage of sorts. Traveling thousands of miles, enrolling in a foreign university, hopping on a bus, wanting to waste some more time, ending up at this church. No, it was more than just a church. It was a portal. A connection between us and them. A fracture in linear time.

I digress. We headed out of the church, made our way to the stunning beach, underestimated the cold, and ran back to the village. Fingers frozen, noses runny, and itching for some hot tea, we hurried over to the closest pub we could find. Turns out, at 6pm, every resident of Aberdour gathers at Foresters Arms to have a pint. Not a chance we could squeeze past the entryway, never mind reach the bar.

20 minutes later, we reluctantly walked into the Aberdour Hotel, the only facility that wasn't packed like a tin of sardines. As we walked into the bar, our faces fell. Yet again, the room was packed. Slowly, we turned around, when right at the moment, an angel from heaven tapped on my shoulder.

"Do you lads need a seat? Pop down over here, there's plenty of room!"

In five minutes, we felt at home. John introduced us to his friends, who were having their university reunion party in Fife, far away from their school in Aberdeen. Aberdeen, Aberdour, I guess someone messed up the invites. The names in Scotland are truly weird. You'd think that they'd be somewhat similar to their English cousins, but nope, not even in the same realm. Also, they don't appreciate it when you call them their "cousins", especially after a certain... ahem... exit.

I digress. So here we were, crammed into a booth, steaming coffees in front of us, a fireplace crackling at our side, and a bunch of drunk 40 year olds shouting at the top of their lungs. John, an insurance salesman, was trying to shoo away an old lady who had crashed their party, while ordering his fifth Guinness since we had arrived. It was as if we were part of their gang. We talked politics. We talked travel. We talked London, we talked New York. There was laughter, banter, yelling, and singing. It was magical.

And then we asked them why they chose Aberdour. After all, what can this small village offer than Edinburgh, Glasgow, or Aberdeen couldn't? John's face turned solemn.

"Our friend... she isn't feeling too well. Not well at all. We thought we'd have one last get together before- you know, it just isn't possible any more. Here, in her hometown... it just felt right. Out with a bang, they say."

. . .

The night before, I knew how my day was going to pan out. A scenic bus ride, quick stop to eat some breakfast, and tickets to Dunfermline Abbey. Walk around the town, snap some pictures, come home.

I didn't realize that it would be one of the most memorable days of my life.

I didn't meet any celebrities. I didn't win the lottery. I wasn't chased by a dozen Brazilian models.

Instead, I had interacted with history in a way I didn't think was possible. Usually, I focus on the stories that the walls tell me. The bricks and mortar, the rotting wood, the rusting metal. This time, it was the people of today, the alive, the well, the present. The ones whose lives were intertwined with Aberdour's history. The fabric of time had been torn and stitched together. Each seam and each thread wove a new story.

My interactions with this small village in Scotland had began with an ancient structure, and ended with the lives of the people who gave the village its identity. Dunfermline, in my books, went down as a pretty town with a nice abbey. Aberdour's story... is surreal. It is one of history, adventure, experiences, people. What had begun as an innocent trip transformed into a humbling, haunting day.

The memory of Aberdour is more than a polaroid. It has affected me, changed the way I look at travel. Yes, the castles are old, and the abbeys are ancient. But at the end of the day, it's just a date. What if that number - 1200 AD, for example - can be paired with a tale? A tale of adventure, happiness, and sorrow? One that makes you question, think beyond the village as just another village?

This happened a year ago, almost to the day. I learned a valuable lesson that chilly February evening. History is not about the past.

History is about the memories of the past, the people of the present, and the stories of the future.

Urban Spelunkers

From the Office of the Vice President
Vassar College

May 1917

My fingers weave their way around torn edges and a fragile spine. Ever so slowly, I pry apart the booklet, dust spitting upwards. Fluorescent white from my phone's flashlight bleaches the page, and squinted eyes make out "Section 11: Finances". I am holding a slice of history.

This is the basement of Main Building at Vassar College. It opened its doors in 1861, and was at the time, the largest building in the United States. Once a prestigious home to classrooms, offices, and the rooms of the Vassar girls at the time, it now stands... decaying. That's not to say it isn't a sight to behold - not at all. From the moment that we drove into campus in August of 2013, it was the center of attention. Proud and graceful, like an aged philosopher. Arms by its side, a glorious bed of flowers in front of it, and filled with grand parlors, decadent halls, and cozy nooks, Main Building has a certain charisma that you can't ignore. The hallways are wide enough for a 7-aside game of gully cricket - which means that they can easily fit two simultaneous 40 over matches played at Shivaji Park.

An aerial view of Vassar's quad

Main's charm wears off quickly. The parents depart in a few days, fresh with the memory of the luscious green campus, stunning architecture, and beaming faces, but us students have to reconcile with poor plumbing, cramped quarters, and dining hall meals that, contrary to modern science, actually manage to extract any flavor the raw ingredients might have had.

Down in main basement, things have taken a turn for the worse. It's a scene straight out of a dystopian fiction, the types where nuclear bunkers are raided and left to rot. We're greeted with a fresh assortment of cobwebs with every five steps - all while daintily stepping on wobbly, makeshift floors and avoiding rusty, dangling pipes. Oh, did I mention that the ceiling caps out at 5' 8"? Makes it hard for two 6-footers to navigate, not to mention the ridicule we get from the short one accompanying us. It's ok - it's the only time she gets to make fun of us for being tall.

A welcoming sign

So we're down in the basement, which, by the way, is out of bounds for students. Not that students don't find their way down there - clearly - but security can allegedly get you in trouble for messing around there. But they have better things to do than go on a wild goose chase underneath a 150 year old building. God forbid, there could be 20 year olds drinking alcohol somewhere!

After about 20 minutes of scurrying around, ducking beneath low doorways, sliding through narrow openings, and dodging broken glass, we stumble upon a room with things in it. Boxes, crates, machines, lightbulbs... the place is a mess. My head brushes against something hanging from the ceiling, and with a yelp, I leap back.

Hello there

I sheepishly turn to look back at the disapproving faces of my friends as one of them reaches over my shoulder and pulls the string. An incandescent bulb flickers to life, illuminating the chaos around us. For a hoarder it is heaven. For a neat-freak, it is hell frozen over. I frantically begin arranging the boxes properly, shoving the antiquated machinery aside and stacking the files into appropriate crates. Once that project is done, I characteristically poke my nose into everything. There are academic records, microfilms, magazines, and contracts. We find Meryl Streep's report card for her freshman year. We find my friend's dad's academic record. We find GPAs far better than ours.

And then, I find this pamphlet.

There's nothing really remarkable about it. It's just a year-end report. Updates, finances, recaps... the usual.

But I can't put it down.

I try to put it back, but I just keep going back for it.

So I slide it in my pocket and walk out.

I'm no Bonnie and Clyde and it's not exactly an Ancient Egyptian grave robbery either. There's no thrill of the steal... not that I'm really stealing anything - how can you steal something if it isn't worth anything at all? I'm probably the most attention it's gotten in years! But then, it's forgotten again. Back into the abyss.

* * *

Weeks later, I open my drawer to pull out a folder. I dig through to find the right one, but what do I see? A small, grey booklet staring right back at me. Hmm. I cock my head and gently pick it up. I peel apart the first page and dive right in. It's either this, or homework.

"In prison, a man'll do most anything to keep his mind occupied."

College, at times, felt like a prison. All I needed was to escape it.

Within the hour, I was up-to-date on all the Vassar news... of 1917, that is. As up-to-date as an aspiring archaeologist can be. I had traveled - not far, not long - but traveled all the same. To a time where only girls attended. Where electricity bills were a bigger concern and torrenting movies wasn't an issue. Where Vassar was busy trying to figure out where to build its next building while the country, thanks to a simple telegram, was embroiled in the bloodiest war the world had ever seen.

I don't think that the 1917 report and the 2017 report are all too different. There are budgetary problems. There are buildings to take care of. The US is involved in global conflict. Professors heartbreakingly bid adieu to one batch of students while gleefully accepting the next. Times change, but people don't... or something like that.

We all say that history is just another form of stories. Some of it real, most of it fake, and the truth - well, in history, there's no such thing as truth, is there?

This booklet proved to me that we can interact with history beyond the bounds of some far-off stories. It alters our present-day experiences and interactions, even if it's only 100 years apart. In those hundred years, we saw two of the most horrific displays of brutality and bloodshed. We saw people sent to their deaths based on their race. We saw nations collapse and dissolve. But we also saw man ascend new heights - quite literally. We put a man on the moon. On the moon! We built machines that allow us to see each others' faces in realtime. We cured the deadliest diseases. We came together against acts of inhumanity to save each other.

I have a flair for the dramatic, but you have to admit - if a silly little pamphlet has the ability to break past our conceptions of history and time, what can the monuments, artifacts, and people do?