At the end of last Fall semester, my English professor, Daniel Schwarz, concluded our class with C.P. Cavafy’s poem, “Ithaka.” It begins, “As you set out for Ithaka / hope your road is a long one, / full of adventure, full of discovery.” Shortly after I graduated this spring, I decided to retrace my own four-year odyssey through Ithaca.
I start at the top of my freshman dorm, High Rise 5. There, you can see some of Cornell’s campus, but not all of it, and none of the city. Memories of freshman year return: the low ceilings of my dorm that I would hit if I sat up, the late nights at Nasty’s, and the way the doors would slam loudly if it were a breezy day.
As I walk through North Campus, I see Ganędagǫ, where I spent sophomore year with good friends, changed my major three times, and watched club teams practice on Jessup Field from the lounge. Next to it is Morrison Dining, with their customizable noodle bowls and pizzas for breakfast, and where I was vegetarian for a year.
Past the vent with the awful smells and into central campus is Rockefeller, my favorite building. Turning into the Arts Quad, there’s Goldwin Smith and inside, Zeus Cafe, where I would loudly play dad rock too early in the morning and sneak out caramel oat lattes to my best friend. On the far side is Tjaden, where I developed black and white film in the quiet dark.
Across the quad, I follow the dirt path shortcuts created by the thousands before me and say hello to the trees that I used to climb.
I pass Olin Library, where I would spend entire days cramming for finals. From the basement to the stacks, the higher you were in the building, the closer the deadline was. And the clock tower, when it wasn’t under construction, was my favorite spot. I would climb the 161 stairs and listen to the midday concert, often late to my afternoon class to hear the entire alma mater.
Now I go up and around Day Hall, where so many protests and sit-ins took place, and back down Ho Plaza, where I gave my girlfriend rides on the back of my bike. I don’t make the trek up to Lindseth, where I taught rock climbing and would go to 6 a.m. practices. Instead, I pass Hollister, where I had two miserable semesters as a TA, and cross over the gorges, where I spent a summer as a steward.
I enter Collegetown, passing by CTB with their overrated coffee and bagels, D. P. Dough, which has never failed me and the rubble of Koko’s, unceremoniously demolished last month.
The wind pushes me past my Blair Street house, and instead, I go down State Street. As the TCATs rush by, I step into the commons. The man who only plays “House of the Rising Sun” on the guitar and the magic man greet me, but I continue. Past the theater are the weird lamp displays, and I stop at the front step of The Sun’s office.
I sit a while and think back to all the late nights I've spent at the paper. The memories have already begun to overwrite themselves: biking around campus to photograph all that was happening, leaving classes early to cover breaking events and waking up the next day excited to see how the print paper turned out. Behind this ivy facade is the sweet, mildew smell of the office, the fish trophy I once found in the attic, the old iMacs that would crash and the bottle of Tito’s in my drawer, placed years ago by someone I don’t know.
I’m tempted to take a lunch break at the taco stand, but I proceed down State Street to the west end. I go past the diner and Gimme! Coffee, reserved only for the most intense work sessions. Next is the many shops and buildings that I’ve never stepped foot in and the murals and lost cats that decorate this town.
I pause outside the Bangs Ambulance bunkroom. There, I think about the sleepless overnight shifts, the evenings watching football with the crews and the takeout dinners we would eat together. Often, after a night shift, I would get coffee alone at the diner before making the long walk back as the sun rose.
I use an Ithaca Bikeshare to ride back up the hill and home. I leap across the backyard, once grass, now mud, and enter my empty house. I think back to the two years spent in this dingy place with six other roommates: the ceiling that would drip on my pillow whenever someone took a shower, the Catan games in the living room and the toaster that ended up on the roof.
Out on the porch, I sit on the faded black couch where we used to watch cars try to parallel park and I remember the summer nights we would barbecue on a grill we never bothered to clean. I will remember this house by its always-dirty kitchen, the bear drawing on my door, and the mysterious toilet in our laundry room.
I have finally made it to Ithaca. And I am still discovering new things about this town. The problem is, I’m leaving now.
But I find comfort in the ending of Cavafy’s poem: “Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. / Without her you wouldn't have set out. / She has nothing left to give you now.”
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Ming DeMers is a graduate from the College of Arts and Sciences. He served as the photography editor of The Cornell Daily Sun on the 142nd Masthead and was in the photography department for all his four years at Cornell. He can be reached at mdemers@cornellsun.com.