I come to Amherst for a week of writing, reading, thinking. I make the two-hour drive in bright sun. It is a warm, glorious afternoon.
I pull up to the dorm and there are two men sitting on a bench in front of the building. One has gray in his hair, in his beard. The other is smoking. They are wearing t-shirts and sneakers. Pants cut off mid-calf. I recognize them immediately: writers.
I unload my bags and bring them up to the third floor suite where I will spend the week. There is a small kitchen, a common area with a couch and two chairs, a low coffee table. My bedroom along the hallway has a lock and a key. A narrow bed, a desk, a wardrobe closet.
On the bed, there is a thin wool blanket, flat white sheets and two white towels folded flat and wrapped in plastic. I tear this packet open, spread a sheet across the mattress.
I tell my husband: I am here. I have arrived.