Spring 2017

MIDDLEBURY

GEOGRAPHIC

Spring 2017

Two collared Aracaris enjoy a game of catch with a bunch of palm fruits in Tikal, Guatemala (Photo by Michael O'Hara) 2 2

MIDDLEBURY

GEOGRAPHIC Spring Edition 2017

FEATURES 8

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Summiting in the Sierras Sierra Nevadas

By Eliza Smallwood

Looking Through the Mirror India

By Isabella Epstein

Ode to Cape Brenton Cape Brenton

By Tom Dils

Respect to Scale Alaska, Arizona and Utah

By Liam Fowler

The Freedom Tunnel New York

By Leo Stevenson

Wild Cider Vermont

By Lucy Reading

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Northern Iceland Iceland

By Abbie Hinchman

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Fire and Ice Iceland

By Alex Newhouse

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Danke Berlin Berlin

By Fiona Mustain

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Polar Night Norway

By Sebastian Zavoico

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On Track to Myanmar’s Dystopia Myanmar

By Pyone Aye

Photo by Michael O'Hara

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From the Editors Each one of us is gifted with a lens through which to view the world.

With our own eyes, we see differently the earth that we inhabit, as one.

Drawn from many different backgrounds, experiences, races, ethnicities and cultures, Middlebury College students are encouraged to look through those lenses as individuals in order to create something of a photograph, a more comprehensive understanding of the world we live in.

In this, our thirteenth edition of Middlebury Geographic, we aim to capture the human essence—to comprehend the incomprehensible. Through our personal endeavors and explorations, we move one step closer to holding in our hands the answers to some of our most pondered questions. From the depths of the oceans to the summits of the mountains, we search endlessly for those answers. The photographs and articles featured in this issue offer perspective, possibility and inspiration.

Sometimes, you have to get lost before you can find yourself. Come along on our journey. Lose yourself within these pages.

You never know what you may find‌ We hope you enjoy, Pyone, Isabella & Liam Hanoi, Vietnam (Photo by Amelia Howard)

Photo by Andrew Maritan 4 4

Our Editors Pyone Aye ’19

Pyone is a culturally-confused BurmeseKiwi who has never lived in one place for more than 3 years. She hopes to capture her (hopefully exciting) life in an infinite series of photos. At Middlebury she is an Economics and Architecture major.

Liam Fowler '20

Liam's a New Englander from Portland, Maine. A gap-year showed him the world was bigger than the Northeast. His dad's old film camera gave him his first lens to capture it. Liam plans to study Geography and Global Health.

Isabella Epstein ’20

She's passionate about food, photography, dancing, long talks, singing and adventure.

She's infected by wanderlust and dreams of traveling the world. If Isabella wasn’t at Middlebury, she’d be off exploring the world, turning strangers in to friends.

Our Contributors Alex Newhouse ’17

Tom Dils ’17

Eliza Smallwood '20

Fiona Mustain ’20

Leo Stevenson ’19.5

Lucy Reading ’17

Alex lived most of his life in Colorado and now is preparing to move to sunny California. He has a fascination with the extreme North, whether that’s Iceland, Canada or even Vermont. He’s a joint English and Political Science major.

Eliza is a freshman from outside of DC who will probably double major in Environmental Science and Film. Since she was a kid her family prioritized traveling over everything because it provided perspective and experience.

Leo Stevenson is a sophomore feb philosophy major. He grew up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Leo enjoys woodworking, climbing, playing music, cooking, and roadtrips. He enjoys a lot of things, actually.

Abbie Hinchman ’19

Abbie Hinchman is a sophomore Political Science major from Maine who loves hot sauce, Bob Dylan and traveling to new places with her twin sister. She is an aspiring attorney and a travel agent in another lifetime.

Tom is an English and American Literature major, Global Health minor, adventurer and storyteller whose thoughts never stray far from nature. He can often be found on the trails of the Adirondack Park, working towards becoming a 46er.

Fiona Mustain grew up in Colombia and has lived in Austin and The Netherlands.

Living in these different places has given her the opportunity to travel, eat great food, and meet amazing people. Fiona is an Architecture and Political Science major.

Lucy is a Hong Kong kid, who enjoys confusing everyone with her Australian looks. At Middlebury, she majors in Political Science. Lucy enjoys exploring Vermont's hills and trying its wide array of fermented products.

Sebastian Zavoico '17.5

Sebastian loves wandering, taking pictures, laughing, and observing the heterogeneity of the world. At Middlebury, Sebastian is a Conservation Biology major, but his most recent adventure was studying arctic biology in the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard.

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Photo by Andrew Maritan 6 6

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SUMMITING THE SIERRAS “It was just the two of us”

Last summer I flew out to California to see my brother and go backpacking with him for three nights in the Sierra Nevadas. I see my brother around three times a year, and since regaining an actual connection with him a couple years ago, I’ve really begun to look up to him because he lives the way that I want to live someday. But if I never do, he’s at least something I can strive towards.

At college, Harvey Mudd, every weekend he avoids the parties, the alcohol and drugs. Instead he goes rock climbing, canyoneering, backpacking and mountaineering. He plans trips constantly, always taking advantage of everything that there is to offer outside. I want to be like him, someone who doesn’t care about being successful but cares about being able to go on adventures. Being happy.

Someone so responsible and independent that he is fine living out of a truck for a few years with no one but a dog.

For most of my middle and high school years, my brother and I lived separate lives, independent from each other and without much interaction. When he went to college I was devastated and realized the presence he held in my life and the emptiness in the house without him and for the first time in my life we exchanged emails in which he told me how much I meant to him and how much he loved me. For a portion of my life, my brother and I were two very different people who had different habits, passions, friend groups and so on. But in the past couple years I’ve noticed that we’re almost one in the same, or at least that he’s the type of person I want to be one in the same with.

My brother planned this backpacking trip so that we could just do it the two of us. We did ridiculous elevation, insane distance, and on the third day we woke up at sunrise to summit Mt. Whitney - the tallest mountain in the lower 48 states. Our goal was to get to the top before the sun hit us. My brother and I never have much time just the two of us, much less in the middle of the mountains without any electronics. We made memories and insides jokes, and it was the best experience I’ve ever had with him and the closest I’ve ever felt to him.

I took this photo standing with my back against Mt. Whitney so you can see somewhat into the valley from here and the sun rising up over the mountains, but the pond still in the shadow of Mt. Whitney. After hiking for an hour and tirelessly slowing my brother down though he respectfully allowed it, I paused, turned around, and stared at the moon and the reflection of the cloudless sky in the water - water that my brother was fine drinking from without filters sometimes and water that he jumped into willingly despite its frigid temperatures. He’s ballsy and risky and though that’s something I do want to be, I know that’s unlikely to happen. But he at least showed me the lifestyle that he lives, and it was nice because, it was just the two of us.

He was the only person I knew out there in that valley of mountains. What we created I will never forget because for maybe the only period in our lives, it was just us against the world.

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This is a shot my brother took with Mt. Whitney in the background; I was in my sleeping bag ready to pass out at 7 pm after hiking up 5,000 feet that day.

By ELIZA SMALLWOOD 9 9

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Looking back at the valley we slept in as we begin the long hike up and down Mt. Whitney, racing the sun 11 11

Technically the highest lake in the US; my brother took his sleeping pad and sledded off the glacier into the freezing

The sun peeks through as we traverse across a ridge to make the final ascent up Mt. Whitney 12 12

The first tree signaling tree line as we exit the Mt. Whitney trail on our last day 13 13

A lone fishing boat emerges from the fog in Cape North on Cape Breton Island

CAPE BRENTON

by THOMAS CHRISTOPHER

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Commencing

(inspired by a road trip to Cape Breton Island in May 2016) It is late spring and I roll down the windows of my rusty vehicle as I throttle towards Cape Breton.

I have wrapped myself in a veil of adventure to cover my loneliness, and tell myself that I have wanted this for quite some time.

The exits have grown fewer, and with each a few more cars depart until I am one with the stretching expanses.

Now the signs say “Beware of Moose” or are hand-painted and tacked in warped angularity to stout pine trees— now I settle into my seat, the temperature dropping around me— and I exhale deeply in what feels like the first time in months.

I am rolling back time by driving north, trading a full summer bloom for the prepubescent buds of early spring— a second chance to return in my mind to the darker moments, to break the cycle with a moment of pause, of rewind—to observe the world around and within and discover something new.

Sometimes, there is really no choice but to go.

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The Mist

(An Ode to Cape Brenton) On good days in Cape North the sun seeps through the mist in an ethereal glow— those are the days for memories.

Cold and cheerless darkness, storm clouds low on the sea, fog so thick it tastes at best of a salty brine, at worst of sulfur and dead fish— those fade with the breeze and the years. Below my vantage point a child plays in the sand, the Atlantic lapping at his bare toes.

He knows this place from one week stints in the summertime, the black sandcastles he built on black sand beaches, the ice cream shop in town that used to serve sandwiches in tin canisters to the men on their way down to the shafts. He is child who never smelled the fog dense with coal dust, but he has known for as long as he could know that his father was once a miner He knows and he doesn’t know— the glowing mist, summer after summer — the warmth of compounding memories from a place he never needed to called home, and the wisdom and anguish of nine generations before him that did.

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RESPECT TO SCALE

by LIAM FOWLER

I realized driving through the less traveled roads of Alaska, Utah and Arizona, I had underestimated the expanse and diversity of the U.S. landscape. I once believed a new country or continent was the only escape to a different world, the glaciers of the last frontier and the red rocks of the wild west brought me to another planet. Little did I know, Mars was just across the river and Pluto, just up the coast. Although these can be as grandiose and vast as the mountains, scale is relative.

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Above the Clouds: 20,308’ (Denali, Alaksa) 19 19

There’s an eagle on that rock and a whale somewhere underwater (Seward, Alaska)

Caution: Frequent Alien Sightings (Bryce National Park, Utah) 20 20

Everything is Melting (Kenai Mountains, Alaska)

Wake Up - Climb a Mountain (Zion National Park, Utah) 21 21

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Immortality: You’ll Never Find the End (Grand Canyon, Arizona) 23 23

THE

FREEDOM TUNNEL

“The tunnel is such an alien space” by

LEO STEVENSON

Nun Kun (23,217 ft), seen from Pensi-La, a 15,000 ft pass that must be crossed to reach the valley.

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Art like this is illuminated by most of the regularly spaced vents 25 25

Jack and I get going around 10 A.M. on a Tuesday. line for almost three miles, then built promenades and artificial We figure that Amtrak police are less likely to be around in the hillsides over it. Today the sycamores they planted look like middle of a workday. We wear good boots and layers we can they’ve always been there. If it weren’t for the occasional gust run in if necessary but that will keep us safe when we need to of air from the grates in the ground when a train passes, you’d climb rusty fences. We pack a good camera, our headlamps, and never know. our knives, because you never really know what you’re going It only really hit me after I turned the paper in. This to find underground. tunnel was actually there, We walk uptown and right now, right next to "This was a space I’d never been to, the duck through the fence home. I’d always known underbelly of my most familiar place." at the second tree after there was some kind of the 125th street overpass, train activity under the then move down the tracks near the West Side Highway until park, but never thought much about the tunnel itself. This was we see the mouth of the tunnel. There’s graffiti everywhere. A a space I’d never been to, the underbelly of my most familiar razor-wire-topped fence, once sturdy and impassable, lies on its place. It was on my mind now: I had to get down there. Time side. Someone, at some point, really wanted to keep you out. for some exploring.

Apparently they don’t care anymore.

I enlisted my brother Jack while we were home for

Some context: last fall, I wrote an essay for my U.S. winter break. We did some research. Going into the tunnel is Environmental History course about the development of New considered trespassing on Amtrak property, but that’s usually York City’s Riverside Park. Riverside park was my backyard unenforced. In the 1970s there were some colonies of homeless growing up. I knew every piece of it. What I learned from that people in the tunnel who got cleared out when trains started paper, though, was that the parkland I ran around on for so running again. It became a kind of street art haven and got long was mostly built on top of a giant tunnel. In the 1930s the informally renamed the Freedom Tunnel after Chris “Freedom” parks department built a roof over the Hudson River Railroad Pape, a NYC graffiti legend who did huge murals there. We 26

A train exits the tunnel into daylight

scouted out the entrances on either end, then set out on a cold and sunny morning.

There are no signs of life as we walk through: no cops, no artists, not even a rat or a bug. We don’t talk much. Walking down the tunnel brings odd feelings of contradiction. The place feels dilapidated and run-down; layers and epochs of decay and restoration and further decay are all clearly visible. There are light fixtures that haven’t held a bulb for half a century, rusted-out gas tanks, trash piled up in nooks in the walls. It has the cold, dripping stillness of a cave system and the haunting feeling of abandoned post-industrial America– rolled in with the brilliance and eerie emptiness of an art gallery after hours.

We pass bright new tags, faded old murals, colorful paintings of many-eyed partying aliens, a portrait of Ed Koch. Yet the place is still a fully operational massive piece of industrial infrastructure. Trains run in and out of the city through the tunnel all day. We see two go by in the couple of hours we’re down there.

The contradiction feels personal, too: the tunnel is such an alien space, but so impossibly close to home. We pass by signs marking 111th street, 96th, 86th, the places we grew up playing. I know the landscape over our heads in detail.

What feels so uncannily strange is that this place was there the

whole time. For my whole life. It just took me this long to find it.

We emerge into full daylight at the southern end around 72nd street. The coast is clear. We hop a fence, creep through a gate, and we’re back on a regular park path. We walk

“Walking down the tunnel brings odd feelings of contradiction. The place feels dilapidated and rundown; layers and epochs of decay and restoration and further decay are all clearly visible." up a hill towards the street and the rest of the city, passing people walking dogs or playing with kids. We’ve been on a subterranean trek through the cold and dirt, the unpolished part behind the curtain, and now it’s just a normal day in the park. Probably none of these people, we realize, have any idea what’s right underneath their feet.

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Jack with art, girders, icicles, and the tunnel’s scale.

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Puddle reflections of the tunnel’s southern supports.

Jack climbs a wall to get a look out to the surface 29 29

Colin casting some yeast into pressed cider

WILD CIDER

by LUCY READING

“I think it’s gone off,” my friend tells me with a look On a crisp, sunny January morning I head out to of disgust on her face after sipping some of Shacksbury’s Shacksbury’s production facility in Shoreham, Vermont. traditional-style hard cider for the first time. “I promise it’s Shacksbury works out of a large room at Vermont Refrigerated one of those things that grows on you over time,” I continue Storage, with high ceilings. Every wall is stacked with huge, nervously. “This is so bitter! Ew.” She is unimpressed. My filled plastic tanks of fermenting cider. reaction wasn’t too dissimilar from hers the first time I tried While there, Colin explains the story and philosophy traditional hard cider, which is distinctly less sweet than behind the business to me while I help him with his various tocommercial hard cider. But after trying it now and again at do’s of the day. “It wasn’t like either of us were overly big wine social occasions over my last two years at Middlebury College drinkers, or cider drinkers, or home brewers. It would probably in Vermont, I have become addicted to the fizzy, dry, and be more romantic if we were,” admits Colin about himself earthy qualities of this fermented drink. and his co-founder, David Dolginow. Colin has a short red I have been beard and is wearing a curious about how “It wasn’t like either of us were overly big wine drinkers, bright wool hat, a blue fermented drinks like or cider drinkers, or home brewers. It would probably be Patagonia jacket, light hard cider and kombucha brown trousers and more romantic if we were" come to taste the way Bean Boots. We cast they do for a while now, some yeast into one of but I never engaged in that interest beyond a slight daydream the tanks of cider, but he makes sure I understand that he and or side-thought as I sipped on them with friends. This January, David prefer whenever possible to use wild yeast over packaged I decided to finally delve into my interest in fermentation yeast. Wild fermentation is the method used in medieval by learning about the history and production of traditional Europe and early America to make the traditional cider that hard cider in Vermont. I met and learned from local expert Shacksbury is trying to emulate. All you have to do is let pressed and Middlebury alumnus Colin Davis – the co-founder of apple juice sit out for a long period of time, and eventually Shacksbury Cider. Shacksbury distinguishes itself from most different yeast varieties in the air will work their magic, commercial ciders by making traditional styles of cider that use converting the liquid to alcohol. Colin explains that when you wild cider apples, wild yeast, and a long ageing process. use wild fermentation, the successional process of different 30

Trying some of Shacksbury lost apple cider using wild fermentation

strains becoming dominant gives a lot more complexity and flavor. I ask Colin why more cider-makers don’t make cider using wild yeast. “They’re so terrified of spoilage and bad stuff going on that they just want to use super-yeast that goes totally clean. They’re not willing to have the patience or leap of faith to let something go a little funky so it can get even better.”

Colin passes me a Shacksbury-printed snifter and we begin to taste the ciders in the tanks. “So…I don’t know if you know this about our business but we actually import a lot of our apples from England and Spain.” Shacksbury’s goal is to make a world class product, and most of Vermont’s apples are dessert varieties, rather than cider, and are thus not up to their standard. I am intrigued that Shacksbury outright rebels against the “Buy local! Support your local farms!” philosophy that is so central to Vermont’s pride. But during prohibition, nearly all of Vermont’s cider apple trees were cut down. They’re not nice to eat by them self – they are extremely bitter and high in tannins.

We walk over to a big, almond-shaped tank to taste some of his “wild” cider. This tank is full of Shacksbury’s “lost apple” cider and has had no packaged yeast added to it. These apples are a rare exception to the rule of thumb that Vermont’s apples are not up to par. They come from Michael Lee’s farm in Cornwall. Michael is a cheesemaker, but he has a few traditional cider apple trees left that have been growing on his property since the nineteenth century. As he turns the tap he

double checks, “you 21?” and laughs. He then tells me about what I am about to taste. “This is fermented completely dry.

You’ll notice there’s no sugar at all. The aromas are definitely a lot more complex and it’s got a lot more tannins so it’ll have an astringent, kind of more bitter taste and a lot more complexity.

Try it.” I draw the glass up to my mouth; the flavor is indeed intense, but I do really like it. Colin tastes a little and nods his head, “This is, in my opinion, world class cider.”

I have to head back to class and thank Colin for his time. As I drive back, I look at every tree that I pass, searching for that distinct apple silhouette. Colin had said they’re more common than you think – abandoned, forgotten, “lost” – across New England cider trees still grow where pre-prohibition farmsteads used to stand back when one in ten farms had their

"My mind drifts back to when I brought the tasting glass to my lips and the aroma comes into focus." own cider mill. I look at the air in front of me, and imagine all the microscopic yeast floating, waiting for their moment to feed and multiply. My mind drifts back to when I brought the tasting glass to my lips and the aroma comes into focus. I can’t hold back my smile as I think of everything that goes into that sweet smell: acids and sugars in unrelenting motion.

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Yangon Central Railway Station was first built in 1877 by the British and is now classified as a heritage building. On the ground is a woman asleep, waiting for her train

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ON TRACK TO MYANMAR'S DYSTOPIA: NAYPYIDAW

BY PYONE AYE

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This young woman is transitioning to her new job in Naypyidaw, Myanmar's new capital city.

She leaves behind her entire family in Yangon

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During the train ride food vendors hop onto the train in the hopes of selling food and beverages to passengers. An old man indulges in baya kyaw (deep fried chick peas)

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She looks out in anticipation of the 9 hour journey ahead

An image of King Bhumibol hangs amongst a mechanic’s tools.

Beneath calendar King Bhumibol, a boy Looking aout for theofnext stop plays on a mobile phone in a slum in Bangkok.

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Traffic everywhere, always

Surprisingly, the trains in Myanmar are almost always on time 37 37

Out the window watching people walking on the tracks 38 38

Bago Station 39 39

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Shop vendor at Bago station.

Snacks for every hungry passenger

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Washing hung on tracks not lines

Morning walk to work 42 42

Living on the edge

Housing behind the tracks.

No sound proofing here 43 43

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Train stations are also the playgrounds for many children 45

Looking through the mirror:

FACES OF INDIA It's the simple things—I always try to remind myself. And yet I found myself stunned as I traveled through India in the summer of 2014 and saw everything but those. For one month, I lived in the mountainous region of Dharamsala, where I taught English and “life skills� to young children from the slums. But ultimately, I learned more than I taught. I learned that even my simple things, are perhaps, too complex. Rich in love, culture, color, liveliness, and kindness, the faces I encountered in India were impoverished in every other aspect. But maybe not all surprisingly, they were the happiest people I had ever met. As each of their eyes met mine, they pierced my soul, paining me with their past but giving me hope for their future. And mine as well.

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A window to the world

by ISABELLA EPSTEIN 47

This teacher of slum children invests her entire soul into her students, knowing very well that even her soul can't save their lives

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A young girl fights for her future; education is the most powerful weapon

And he'll never really know how much she gave up for him

A man with a heart of gold. Richer in love and kindness than he could ever imagine in money

The strength of her body is incomparable to that of her mind 49 49

"Sister," she called me. I looked deep into her eyes.

"Sister," I responded

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It's all fun and games for this little boy. But when it comes to school, it's down to business

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Two shades of blue

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Soul piercing eyes

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Hiking the Himalayas

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The boy towards the front of the boat couldn't resist dipping his fingers into the crystal waters of lago petnitz flores, Guatemala (Photo by Michael O'Hara) 56 56

NORTHERN ICELAND

by ABBIE HINCHMAN I know I am awfully young to be steering this beat up rental car along the precipice of the known world, armed with nothing but a bag of pretzels and a spare sports braagainst the all-encompassing blue.

Its emptiness is a vacuum and I feel its pull, tugging me over the edge.

Up here— days away from history and gas station hot dog stands— the road disappears into the sky and the people are gone.

The mountains— chiseled with waterfalls springing from forgotten plateaus— are not of this world.

They belong to the realm of the old gods, dead everywhere but here.

I pull to the side of the road and stand stark against the universe.

Here, father north than I’ve ever been or will ever go again, I witness the world the way it was before we were here— the way it will be long after we’ve gone.

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Water fall in Icelandic fjord, near Myrdalshreppur and Skaftarhreppur 57 57

From the Reykjavík shoreline, Mt. Esja, covered in snow, is visible across the harbor

FIRE & ICE

Over February Break in 2017, I traveled to Iceland solo, spending a full week in Reykjavík. I arrived in the city, exhausted and fairly disoriented, stumbling into my hostel on Laugavegur, a street dominated by high-end Icelandic fashion boutiques rubbing elbows with shops selling any manner of cliché bric-a-brac. Over the coming days, I had to dig past the ultra-metropolitan and touristy exterior to find the country behind this commercialized veneer, as Ikea-like and postcardperfect Viking as it is.

It’s all too common now to hear of a college student heading to Iceland for their break, but it would have seemed strange only ten years ago for anyone to travel there. What was once an oft-overlooked European backwater is now the crown jewel of environmental tourism. Within the next year or two, the number of tourists visiting Iceland per year will be ten times higher than its population. This has created a new, commercial Iceland.

If you ask Icelanders what they think about all this -and I did- they’ll tell you that it’s all part of being a small island. They’ll tell you that without tourism, Iceland would be much worse off. But then they’ll also often stare off wistfully and remark that Reykjavík is now more tourist than citizen, pretty much year-round.

But there is still a core of the old Icelandic identity there, in Reykjavík. The old fishing town still retains its 58

BY

ALEX NEWHOUSE

character, but it is buried deep. Iceland is a frontier nation, and the frontier remains in the capital. But you have to search for it.

I walk down Laugavegur, into downtown, and then out into Old Harbor. The sky, gray and weighty with the perpetual precipitation of the winter months, tumbles and soars past. It is cold, but not bitterly. The ships in dry-dock stand out against the backdrop of ocean and, in the distance, tall mountains covered in glaciers. The massive vessels are painted vividly in greens, blues and reds, the bright colors invariably splotched with rust.

I pass one hulking blue-and-red ship in dry dock and, with a jolt, recognize its name: Polar Nanoq, out of Greenland.

Only a week prior, its crew was arrested on suspicion of involvement in the murder of a young woman. In a country where it is not unusual for entire years to pass without a single homicide, the murder of Birna Brjánsdóttir shook the nation to its core and galvanized an outpouring of support and solidarity. And now, the ship sits here, framed against the gray of the clouds and the stark white of the snow across the bay, innocuous and innocent, while its crew awaits its fate.

Here, in Old Harbor, is Iceland. In the reminder of the industry almost exclusively upon which a nation was built, and in the reminder of an event that seems so commonplace to Americans but casted this entire country into grief and unity.

HallgrĂ­mskirkja, a Lutheran church and one of the tallest structures in Iceland, highlighted against winter clouds

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The view toward the east of Reykjavík, Iceland, from Hallgrímskirkja after several days of rain 61

A view from the Giralda Tower in Sevilla, Spain 62 62

DANKE BERLIN

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Empty Potsdamer Platz at 3 a.m

As dusk fell and our last day in Berlin was coming to an end, I realized how easily I had fallen in love with this city. Perhaps it was the company (I did have eight incredible people traveling with me) but Berlin’s architecture, its people, and its ambience fascinated me.

Over one week I got to experience the multiple sides of Berlin, from the ultra-modern to the Stalinist, the super clean to the grungy. They all now come together to create a multicultural, diverse, tolerant, and vibrant city embedded with deep layers of history that are still very present today.

I was lucky enough to have a friend with whom I traveled, who spent much of his childhood in Berlin, and knew the city quite well. Our days ranged from visiting historical buildings, modern museums, to tasting incredible kebabs, to drinking in traditional German taverns and then going down the street to dance to the heavy base of “Euro-hipsters” new sound cloud track.

As corny as it sounds, I got to experience how the diversity of people define Berlin. The mixture and variety of food, art and music is all there and it’s welcomed.

People don’t shy away from the weird and the different. Berliners embrace it and have created a hub filled with youth, innovation and creativity.

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A couple reunites in front of the Brandenburg Gate as the sun shines on Berlin for the first time in days

Empty Potsdamer Platz at 3 a.m 65 65

Reichstag Dome at sunset

Sahar on the metro on the way to see her uncle whom she hadn’t seen in years due to distance 66 66

The Small Burger restaurant which is filled with flashing lights and a punk rock atmosphere

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Views from the Reichstag as rain approaches the city 69

Polar night by

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Sebastian Zavoico

The aurora borealis dances above the mountains, just outside of Longyearbyen, Spitsbergen 71

The coming of polar night is a systematic shutting down of the senses. It starts with smell. Or rather, the lack of smell. The cold summers and frigid winters of a thousand years lock all death in an icy grip, and nothing but the tiniest flowers bloom despite the endless days.

The rest of the process begins at the end of the summer, when the sun sets for the first time and starts making its way lower and lower towards the horizon. The tundra sets fire in golds, reds, and browns, and the tips of the mountains turn white, and the unencumbered autumn winds howl. To keep the heat, jackets are pulled out. Gloves come on. Scarves are wrapped around cold necks. Sense lost: touch.

As temperatures drop, the glaciers stop melting and the rivers dry up. At the same time, the hoards of geese, ducks, and song birds collect to make their journey south. What follows the roaring summer rivers and the playful honking of geese is an almost palpable silence. Sense lost: hearing.

Then, of course, the sun. The tops of the mountains glow in a visceral orange-pink for the few hours the sun is above the horizon. The rest is hours and hours of what is called “The Blue Time”. The sun, still closeon tohis thearm, horizon, shines Tarim sitsbeing with Layla all night, as onto the sky and she slowly becomes accustomed to him.

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clouds high above, ultimately reflecting a blue light that envelops everything. When the sun finally sets, the tops of the mountains stop glowing, but nothing else is different. Since the sun still comes close to the horizon, it feels like daytime from mid-morning to early-afternoon.

Finally, the most momentous occasion. The sun continues its slow retreat south until there is but a brief glow at mid-day. Then, stars become visible even at noon. Then, northern lights are out all day.

Phrases like “today it’s going to be sunny” feel strange, and they become “it will be clear today”.

“Day” and “night” become arbitrary. Sense lost: sight.

What results is that every single sensual stimulation is a moment of clarity, of amazement, an addicting, jaw-dropping, unbelievable state of wonder.

It comes unexpectedly at the most random moments: a cloud parting to show a green vein of undulating northern lights, the sparkling of a planet, a shooting star, snowflakes glittering as they fall under the street lights. is handled by humansea for the time.cry Needless Layla Sometimes a astray gullfirstwill or anto is freightened by these pink, squishy giants. arctic fox say, willsheyelp.

The smallest things will stop you in your tracks, and you will never have felt so small or so humbled in this great big world.

To catch a Red-Tail. Tarim explais to Chiara Lawrence ‘16 how she will help in the capture.

Timmy Macrae ‘16 keeps his eyes on the sky.

The early snows of the fall grace the weathered mountains in the mornings, but by noon they begin to melt in the most elegant of patterns 73 73

Fancy leather shoes. Tarim crafts anklets and jesses from kangaroo leather. The bells afixed to the anklet helps the falconer locate his companion. Below: Jesses, the final product.

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As the sky opens, Layla decides she is unimpressed by the water.

Above: Layla and Emily Vicks ‘16.5 meet for the first time.

The sun has long set in Longyearbyen, Svalbard, but the sun’s light still makes a scant appearance around noon, bathing everything in blue, purple, and orange 75

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My friend Dan sits in a kayak on the forereef of the Belize barrier reef at sunrise on a clear day (Photo by Michael O' Hara)

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Editors-in-Chief

Pyone Aye Liam Fowler

Isabella Epstein

Editors & Designers

Alanna Brannam Bryce Belanger

Chloe Ferrone Abbie Rosenbaum

Photo & Art Contributors

Amanda Whiteley Andrew Maritan

Michael O'Hara

Front Cover

Pyone Aye

Back Cover

Amanda Whiteley

Advisors

Jeff Howarth

JOIN THE ADVENTURE If you are interested in submitting travel essays and photographs to MIDDLEBURY GEOGRAPHIC or in being part of the magazine’s editing and design team, please contact us at mg@middlebury.edu Every issue of Middlebury Geographic is available at www.issuu.com/middgeog

Lower Antelope Canyon, Arizona (Photo by Liam Fowler) 79

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