The · Diary · of · a · Time-Traveler, · William · Montgomery

My Libertine Ways; The Nameless Woman; Nocturnal Wanderings; Renewed Vigor

If my writing has been sporadic as of late, it is because in the past few days I have had neither the time nor the inspiration to set pen to paper. After my sportive evening with Everett's choir, I'm afraid I sank into a mire of perpetual drunkenness and revelry, unparalleled in my lifetime since my first week at Harvard in 1899. Every evening I would prowl the campus of Columbia, looking for another party to "crash." Often I would stumble back to Everett's dormitory, fall unconscious upon his couch and awake the following afternoon with no recollection of what had transpired. In this manner, I have missed almost all of my History classes.

The women of the 21st century, if they can merit so noble a title, are so liberal in the dispensation of their affections that even a fellow like myself, lacking all contemporary social graces, whose perpetual confusion is augmented by a drunken stupor, may receive from them familiar favors of love by the mere virtue of having a bewhiskered chin. In the most reprehensible and ungentlemanly fashion, I have actively sought out these favors from the more cavalier women of this university, as excessive drink has rendered them all too ready to bestow them. In general, I would be content with simple blandishments, harmless cooings and the occasional clandestine hug or kiss. Recently, however, at the conclusion of one such bacchanal, held in I know not what house, hosted by I know not what man, I found myself in a situation wherein considerably more liberties might be taken.

Oppressed by the crowd, the heat, and the persistent throbbing of that cacophonous African music, the young lass had swooned. I bore her to an adjacent room and laid her out upon a bed. No sooner had she awoken when she began to lavish upon me the most fervent kisses, and in my insane frame of mind I responded in kind. Events were proceeding towards their natural conclusion (if the reader will pardon me) when suddenly, as if tugged by some inner force, I paused and withdrew. What caused me to cease I cannot say; if I were a religious man, I should say it were the Voice of God, or perhaps my conscience. It is more likely that the last shred of Rational thought in my mind, yet unclouded by the spirits' vapors, made its dying cry from the depths of my mind, and Reason prevailed over my wayward heart. I quickly excused myself from the young lass and furtively absconded from the party. I still do not know the young woman's name.

That night, I took a long constitutional through Morningside Park. Though it was growing quite cold, I found a spot on the grass and sat, overlooking the vast electric city. The frigid wind exacerbated the tears welling up in my eyes. I asked myself, why were my recent actions so strikingly out of character? And what sort of person had I become in these past few days? The precise type of man I had always looked down upon, who abandoned higher ideals for the frivolities and sensual pleasures! I collapsed in utter self-hatred.

But as the cold, and my own sadness, hastened the return of my sobriety, I began to analyze myself more rationally, as if I were the subject of a study of psychology. It is undeniably true that the year 2006 is lewder and more licentious than the year 1903, but the mores of the era are not entirely to blame. It is quite possible that I, bereft of all I ever held dear and thrust into a strange and bizarre world, my mind constantly brutalized by the unfamiliarity of my surroundings, surrendered to the onslaught of shock and receded into the dark nether-regions of drink and diversion. This mental and emotional collapse has been some time in coming, just as a man, bereaved of a loved one, or afflicted by some similar tragedy, may not cry for many days but will begin weeping for seemingly no reason weeks later. Such was the condition of my soul.

In the tumult of such consternation, my thoughts flitted rapidly between various and sundry topics, in a series of non sequiturs. I thought of John Cummings, Class of '02, how we had been friends at the dining club, but had parted ways because of his and my political inclinations. I thought of a certain poor negro, begging on the street, whom I had passed the previous night leaving a party. I thought of my old bicycle. Then I thought of the mighty flying machines that at this very moment flew above my head, like shooting stars burning up in the atmosphere. Then I thought of New Years Day, 1900, of the grand festivities and the fireworks above the Charles River, Sarah at my side. I must find a way to return home, if only to see her again.

Everett has not said a thing. I feel that, in his own quiet way, he empathizes with my plight. Everett is an endlessly forgiving character, and yet at the same time, I cannot shake off the feeling that he is at every moment judging and evaluating me. Despite my sincere apologies, our kinship has never returned to its former warmth.

Here I am, babbling like an hysterical woman! The lesson of this week is this: I must renew my Scientific rigor. With the knowledge of a Scientifically advanced society at my disposal, I shall seek means to return to 1903! And until then, I shall seek to obtain as much knowledge of this remarkable era as possible! And I shall bring back my journals to the twentieth century, delivering cautions of peril and a message of hope!

The Singers' Revelry; Reconcilliation; An Era of Immediacy; My
Secret Nearly Revealed

I shall write now of events which transpired more than a week past, for I have only recently recovered from a stomach illness that has plagued me all week, and have also been delayed by classes and the like. Everett is a singer. He hums, wails and whistles to himself constantly, whenever he is tidying the apartment, bathing, or similar domestic activities. So it was no surprise when he told me last week that he sings as a bass in a small choir at Columbia. This choir is under the direction of no professor, and is simply run by the students involved. Due to a paucity of tenors, the grouprecently held auditions for new singers and accepted into their ranks four young gentleman to augment their collective voice. Everett was frequently away during this process, the whole ordeal seemed to cause him great consternation. But when the newest minstrels were selected, the choir held that evening a party of gaiety commensurate with the the afternoon's anxiety, and it was this party that I, having nothing better to do, attended Friday evening.

Never has a man appreciated music so deeply as I, yet I cannot sing a tune for the life of me. (At Harvard, I restricted myself to the viola.) I at first felt very uncomfortable around these singers, a discomfort beyond the one I usually feel for being such an historical relic. But this unease was quickly remedied by the imbibing of that most famous Social Lubricant which I am certain need not be named. Of course I had attended the mandatory anti-alcohol sessions at Harvard, and my Alma Mater boasted many a conscientious tea totaller (most notably John Cummings, class of '02, president and founder of the Harvard Knights of Temperance), but I have never been one to spurn the occasional drink if it were offered to me. The beverages of the 21st century are as delicious as they are deceptively potent. One of the young ladies in Everett's choir mixed Russian potato-vodka with Coca-Cola, creating beverage so delightfully sweet and light that I scarcely took note of how much I was drinking. Before long, I was ululating like a drunken Indian.

It was in such a state that I apologized to Everett for calling him an Unscientific zealot a few days prior. Everett, a rare abstainer in an age which seems to have abandoned the crusade for the prohibition of alcohol, was completely sober and accepted my apology with half-smirking understanding. He explained that he had only been trying to shield me from the bitter realities of this modern world. I in turn told him that I "loved him."

Such an outright statement of sentiments I never would have dared with even my closest Harvard chums, but in the Dionysian atmosphere for the choir-party, all tongues were loosened. In this era of immediacy, when air-planes fly people across the nation in a few hours, when food can be cooked in a matter of minutes, and when father and son, though separated by hundreds of miles, can communicate by way of wireless telephone in a few seconds, it seems only fitting that thoughts and emotions should be expressed as suddenly and directly. Though I have spoken little of it before, I must now remark that there seems to have occurred a fundamental transformation, and if I may say so, a revolution in the manners and morals of our society. This is predominantly attributable to the new equality of the sexes. In my weeks here I have often found need to restrain my visible shock at some of the utterances of Columbia's female population. Topics which scarcely should be discussed in the company of men are often brought up in mixed company. At this party, men and women danced, or rather gyrated, back-to-belly in the most scandalous manner (which I should say is in keeping with the lascivious rhythms of 20th century "music"). This sort of behavior is of course reserved for private gatherings - in public, I find that New Yorkers are as civil as they have ever been, if such a statement means anything.

As a follower of Marx, I must refrain from being too judgmental. The mores and morals of an era have always been determined by its ruling class. The laws of Christianity were enforced by an oppressive Papacy, as the tenets of chivalry were by violent lords and barons. The British Empire inherited this false civility, and her capitalists spent the nineteenth century refining it into a fine art of deception. America in turn adopted it. How as a young man I loathed the pretensions of the upper class, and those of middling means who so slavishly aspired to their fluffy ways! (My parents! My fellow students!) And yet now, when I see the ethics of the proletariat in their just ascent, why do I recoil?

At the apex of my insobriety, I believe I stood up on a table and announced boldly to all and sundry present that I was a man traveled through time from the year 1903. As soon as the words escaped my lips I regretted them; my secret, so carefully guarded, so carelessly lost! But it immediately became apparent that my audience perceived my confession as naught more than the ramblings of drunken man, and laughed at it as if it were a joke. I laughed along. I laughed at myself, such a misfit. One hundred and three years ago I was a radical anti-moralist; now I find myself a conservative, even a reactionary.

The Capitalist; Of My Illusions Disabused; A Student Again; Doctor King

What an utter ass I have been! Completely abandoning the Scientific principle of empirical observation I have pranced about this new world in willful ignorance, an ignorance all the worse for being self-enforced. Not a scientist I, but no! like a religious zealot reading the Bible and extracting only those parts which support his pre-conceived notions, I have seen in this future only what I wished to see. Let me explain from the beginning.

On several occasions about town with Everett and his friends, a certain Chinaman, well-dressed and with excellent western elocution, would pass by. If he ever initiated conversation in my presence, Everett would swiftly terminate it, casting to the winds all tact and manners, and then hurry me off in the opposite direction like a mother shielding her child's eyes from the sight of women bathing at the beach. This of course excited my curiosity. Who was this mysterious man of the Orient, and what forbidden secrets did he hold behind that placid gaze? There were many aspects of the twenty-first century I still did not understand, and I thought perhaps the knowledge guarded by this enigmatic personage might elucidate some of them. Therefore, the next time I saw him passing by (it was Monday, the day before classes began) I snuck away from Everett under some pretense and sought the fellow out.

"Hello, William Montgomery," he addressed me. "I'm Tow Tan. How are you doing this fine evening?"

I felt that he was deliberately affecting antiquated diction, as if he knew my secret origins. I wanted to uncover what he knew that Everett had so diligently sought to conceal from me, so I began conversing with him in my best twenty-first century dialect, thusly:

"Yo. What's up?"
"Oh, nothing. Just stoking the fires of capitalism!"

My mind bolted upright! Could I have misheard?

"Ah, I see. Yo, do you approve of the principles of that dead science of a bygone era?"
"Capitalism is far from dead my friend. It makes the world go round. It built this city, it sustains this country. And I'm doing my part to keep the system in place, and make a little money on the side!"

This yellow tramp was toying with me, speaking just as if he were a bloated baron of my own age, top-hatted and bemonicled!

"What of the theories of Socialism then, yo? Truly in this age, collective industry managed by the federal government has proven the best method for the management of economics?"

Whereupon Tow called me a Communist, derogatorily, made a hissing noise at me through his teeth, laughed, and walked away. I was furious to the point of tears. How dare that Chinese ignoramus hiss at me for being a Communist! What do the Chinese know of Communism? Nothing, that's what!

But his words rang all too true, though I fought the notion to the very last. In my brief stay in the third millennium, I had seen too many discrepancies: The homeless, begging negroes that pass us constantly in the streets... the dilapidated hovels of Harlem dwarfed by the palatial mansions of downtown... the ubiquitous advertising in shop-fronts, at bus-stops, on the busses themselves... the constant, nay obsessive transaction of money and the visiting of automatic bank-machines... and chaos, the utter chaos of this modern life. It is exactly the same as 1903, as 1803, as 803! Citizens bustling every which-way, each to his own purpose, the automobiles honking angrily at one another- there is a total absence of unity of purpose in this society. It is still, as it has always been, a war of all against all.

Through various logical tricks and intellectual smoke and mirrors, I had explained away these discrepancies. I had refused to accept that the course of History could lead towards any culmination but Socialism, peace and equality throughout the world. But in the year 2006, 158 years after Karl Marx published The Communist Manifesto, we live in a society afflicted with the same wretched disease, only on a much grander scale. Those awe-inspiring skyscrapers which so enthralled me when I first arrived I now observe with bitter contempt. They are like the Pyramids of Egypt, wondrous edifices, built on the backs of slaves.

I came back to Everett's apartment red-eyed and delirious. Everett was very concerned, but when I mentioned that I had spoken to Tow Tan, he immediately knew what had transpired. He explained that he had not wanted to shatter my beautiful illusions, for he saw me as a child who must not be told about the grand and fearsome things of this world, and hoped that I could return to 1903 before realizing the truth. I regaled him furiously, yelling that I was as old as he, and just as deserving of the truth. I then accused him of being Unscientific and a religious zealot. We are still not speaking to one another. I shall apologize for my temper when he apologizes for his mendacity.

I began attending classes at Columbia the next day. I am in a small class called "Fin de Siecle Europe and the Origins of World War One" a large class entitled "European Politics and Society since 1945," and a third class called "America since 1960." Through these, I hope to glean a richer knowledge of just what precisely has happened in my century-long absence from earth. It is a perilous journey upon which I embark, a journey into the dark and sinister depths of History. Contrary to what I had erroneously believed, it may in fact be that the twentieth century was as fraught with horrors as the nineteenth.

Monday was a national holiday in celebration of a man who lived in the middle of the twentieth century named Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior. What little I have heard of this man evokes in me the utmost admiration. The Reverend Doctor King combined the idealism and enthusiasm of a preacher with the reason and perspicacity of a Scientist in his long-fought battle for justice. He was a negro, and at the time (the 1960's) the Negro people suffered under the lashes of capitalist inequality as much as they had under the whip of the plantation owner. With compassion, determination, and his natural Ciceronian eloquence, he strove mightily to free the black man from the chains of virtual slavery.

I find myself thinking often of Doctor King in these trying days. He is proof that egalitarian ideals survived the twentieth century, and will indeed survive the thirtieth. But I look around me at the withered black faces in the endless ghetto of Harlem, bent double (under bales of money instead of bales of cotton), and remember that it takes so much more than the ideals of one man to salvage an entire society.

A South American Visitor; The Old Navy Store; An Outward Transformation

The unseasonably warm and rainy weather continues. This week-end Everett has a visitor from Massachussets, a man named Edward Rueda. Recently graduated like myself, Edward is in the similar predicament of not knowing what to do with his future. He has returned to Columbia to take an entrance test for the School of Journalism. Mr. Rueda's father is a South American from Colombia, his mother an American Hebress; I am finding that such strange ancestry is quite common in this world shrunk by telephones and air-travel. Edward and Everett are obviously great friends, and share a playful, almost childish, sense of humor.

While Edward was taking his examination, Everett and I rode the 'bus deep into Harlem. What most immediately struck me is that the neighborhood has come to be dominated almost entirely by negroes. Of course Harlem had scattered Negro Tenements in my day, but the name was always associated with Germans, Italians, and Eastern European Jewry; the negroes of the city generally confined themselves to Tenderloin, San Juan Hill, and Hell's Kitchen. I seem to remember, shortly before my light-speed bicycle accident, news of a dispute over some negroes being evicted from their lodgings somewhere 135th St., and an negro entrepreneur businessman coming to their defense. Perhaps it was the beginning of a trend. Never have I seen so many brown faces!

In the middle of this jungle stood a vast store with a blue sign reading "Old Navy." The interior was a bit like a department store, only more austere and practical, devoid of European frivolity an luxuriousness. Ceiling rafters replaced ostentatious chandeliers. The fussiness of clothes-shopping I have always loathed, and must say I liked this place very much, as smooth and efficient as the Navy itself. Nevertheless, Everett and I were there quite a while, for I had to pick out an entire wardrobe. The clothes of the future, in our own era, would seem inappropriately casual, even immodest, but they are practical, durable, affordable, and very comfortable - altogether in keeping with the values of a classless, post-capitalist society. Even my humble waistcoat from the last century looked supercilious alongside the simple garb of my peers. As I mentioned earlier, men's and women's clothes in the twenty-first century are nearly indistinguishable, and at one point I accidentally tried on a pair of pants that Everett told me were intended "for girls," to his great amusement and my embarrassment.

In the changing-room of the Old Navy store, I had the opportunity to inspect my new, modern appearance in a mirror. With loose-fitting denim trousers, a cotton undershirt and a checkered flannel overshirt, I was the spitting image of my modern contemporaries. Everett purchased the big stack of clothes for what struck me as an exorbitant price, but which he informed me was quite manageable. (I cannot allow Everett to continue paying for my food and clothes, in addition to providing my lodging; I must soon find gainful employment!) Everett and I next went to a nearby store that sold hundreds and hundreds of pre-fabricated shoes. These I tried on as well, but they were very uncomfortable. The experience was a bit like wearing a ship's life-preserver on one's feet. I shall keep wearing my trusted browns.

Back at Columbia, I gave myself a good shave and comb, thus completing my outward transformation into a citizen of the future, so that I now look like a respectable human being instead of some historical relic. Whether I can mimic this disguise in my speech and behavior remains to be seen...

Everett Speaks of His Distant Home; Flying Machines; A Plot of Deception

I learned for the first time today that Everett is not, in fact, a New Yorker, but rather from the city of New Orleans! Such a thing would never have occurred to me. He has not the slightest trace of a southern accent. (But then again, the New Yorkers of the twenty-first century do not have New York accents either, not as I have known. My own inflection sticks out awkwardly.)

He tells me that last year, that is, 2005, a huge storm struck New Orleans, flooding it most dreadfully. For all the amazing technology of this modern world, man still cannot repel the forces of Nature from a city so perilously built below sea-level. His family fled to Texas for a short period this summer, until the waters had receded sufficiently to enable their return, and they are once again living in their old house. Everett is in almost-daily contact with his parents and sister on the wireless telephone. What should my Harvard years have been like if I had had such a device? Less lonely, true, but would my parents have continued to exert their tyrannical control over me from afar? As if the daily calls were not enough, Everett also goes back to New Orleans every summer, and also during Christmas, not by train, but by flying in a FLYING MACHINE.

I have noticed these incredible flying machines several times since my arrival in 2006. In particular, during my long exile by the medieval museum on Sunday I watched them ascend and descend from the sunset-lit buildings like big, black birds. Gentle reader, if my wild and unbelievable tales have not already strained your credulity to the breaking point, it shall surely snap now. These machines look much like the gliders and flyers that were being tested, with varying degrees of failure, in my own era, but they are made of steel, propelled by combustion, and much larger. Everett informs me that these "air-planes" can carry hundreds of people all the way across the country or even across the great oceans! What's more, though tickets are much more expensive for air-planes as for trains, they are still affordable to all Americans. I have always believed that Scientific Progress and Social Equality marched onward hand-in-hand. Because of the prolificity of these contraptions, people anywhere in the country can travel anywhere else in the country in only a few hours, leading to a general shrinkage of relative distances, and contributing to the solidarity of the Union.

The air-planes necessarily travel at phenomenal speeds, but nowhere near the "speed of light." If I am to return to 1903, it shall not be by flying there. Still, part of me longs to ride one of these miraculous machines. I have never been in a lighter-than air balloon, but I have heard described to me the giddy sensation of viewing the whole world spread out below oneself. Given that these air-planes fly even higher than the highest balloons, I imagine the view is very grand indeed.

Everett and the scientist Elliot spent the day tangling with the university's bureaucracy, as confusing and needlessly complicated as Harvard's ever was, trying to accomplish things I would rather not bother myself with. Of course, I had to tag along. Everywhere I go, the people give me strange looks, as if I do not belong (how right they are!) Underneath Everett's coat, I am still wearing my 1903 clothes (which have begun to smell), and together with my old-fashioned haircut and shoes, and perhaps also a subtle and undetectable difference in bearing or posture, I manage to stand out quite noticeably. I am unshaven for the past 5 days, unkempt, and underslept. Much of the food Everett has given me has not agreed with me. Indeed, I look quite the fright. This state of affairs must not continue. Until I can devise a way to return home, I must blend in with these people as much as possible, or else my secret origins will be revealed and I risk becoming a historical curiosity, or worse, a freak show.

Everett has generously offered to purchase me some modern clothes. He has also proposed a much more daring and deceptive plan, whereby, come January 17th, I will actually attend classes and pretend to be a Columbia student! At first I argued with him vigorously against this idea: how could I ever possibly "blend in" in this setting? Who would ever accept me as a citizen of the twenty-first century? But quickly the notion began to grow on me. After all, what sane man would ever suspect that I was a time-traveler? And what more innocuous explanation for my presence than that I am a student recently transferred from another university? By intimately involving myself with the day-to-day life of these students, I can gain a better knowledge of this era, and by taking classes, I can learn what has happened in the past century. Indeed, for a curious soul such as mine, there is no better place than here in the heart of learning in the center of New York!

I laugh to myself. Upon graduating Harvard, I had sternly insisted to my parents that I would not pursue academics any further, nor seek a PhD. But now it seems I shall be studying for at least one more term. Beginning tomorrow, I shall embark upon living the biggest lie of my lifetime.

My Aching Appendages; An Expedition to Brooklyn; Coffee and Conversation; The Bourgeois Affliction
I awoke this morning with a terrible pain coursing through my feet and calves, far beyond the general discomfort to which I am accustomed from sleeping on Everett's extremely uncomfortable couch. Clearly, I am now paying for having shown off so much while skating yesterday. I limped clumsily around Everett's many-storied apartment, until Alexandra took pity on me and offered me some medicine, in the form of a small red pill, which worked marvelously. Everett arose even later than myself and made us some French Toast. It was a bleak and overcast day, in contrast to yesterday and the day before, and neither he nor I felt much like doing anything. Ajay and Elliot diverted themselves with a bright and colorful machine which defies description, but which does not seem to me to be very much fun. Perhaps this is what denizens of the twenty-first century do when it is raining.

Everett received a message from a friend of his by means of a remarkably small device that seems to combine the technologies of wireless telegraphy and the telephone. I'd never seen somebody talk on a telephone before; he looked like an absolute madman. But I could faintly hear his friend's voice emitting from the contraption. He told me it had been from Andrew Liebowitz, a friend of his with whom he has performed several plays. Similarly afflicted by ennui, Andrew proposed that we make an expedition to Brooklyn. At first I thought this a daunting task to undertake in such weather, but Everett informed me that we would be taking the "subway."

We met up with Andrew, another Jew, and boarded once again the train. Despite the amazing speed, the ride as nevertheless quite long, and at one point we had to disembark and transfer to another train (they are coded according to destination using colors, numbers and letters - a model of efficiency!) When we reached the East River, the train rose up from underground and drove across a large bridge. I think it must have been the "Manhattan Bridge," which was already being much talked about in my time. The buildings by the battery are the tallest I have yet to see, though they were partially obscured by mist. And of course, there was the Brooklyn Bridge, just as I remembered it. (Though of course I have never seen it from such an angle!)

We dove underground again and were deposited in the very midst of the "Great Mistake of '98." I gather that the borough is still very much a part of the City of Greater New York, so evidently that decision stuck. take that, John Cummings, class of '02! I wonder if it has continued to expand, into King's County, perhaps the entire length of Long Island? Perhaps in the twenty-first century, the entire coastline is covered by one continuous city? Perhaps the entire country, perhaps the entire world? (Though of course room would have to be left for agriculture and recreation.) What is the population of the world in 2006? Between 1800 and 1900, I recall hearing, it grew from about 1 billion to about 2 billion. If it doubled once again this century, that would place it at 4 billion. Can you imagine such a number of people? I wish I could have asked these questions, but I did not want to reveal my secret to Andrew.

In Brooklyn, we three trudged through the drizzle until we found a charming little cafe, full of mysterious young Bohemians. In my element at last! We sat in a dark corner, sipping coffee by the grey twilight from the window, our conversation ranging far and wide. Egad, I felt like a French Revolutionary! (I'd like to think that the political movements which shaped this new century were first nurtured in such nests.) Though I am by education a man of Science, I am not one of those fellows incapable of discourse philosophical, political, historical, or the like, and had no difficulty conversing with these two humanitarians. We spoke mostly of writing, and of the secret thoughts of men, but I shall confess, a few topics which dealt with matters peculiar to the 20th century eluded me. In particular, Andrew made a brief reference to a "holocaust," but Everett seemed reluctant to include me in this conversation. Perhaps something was thoroughly burnt, a city perhaps, and he would rather not expose me the such a distasteful history. He needn't worry. I am well aware that Socialist Revolution carries with it the potential for violence- America must have suffered much to get where it is today.

(On that note, I might add, I have noticed a ubiquity of privately owned restaurants and the like throughout modern New York, but this does not discourage me regarding the city's commitment to socialism. I assume that the government allows small private businesses to exist, preferring to focus its attention on industry and agriculture.)

Andrew parted ways with us to return to his family on Long Island. I was sorry to lose his company, as he was a most engaging man. Everett and I went back to Columbia. Though I am endlessly fascinated by the novelties of this age, it strikes me that Everett is plagued with that peculiarly bourgeois affliction, boredom. His manner is listless and distracted. Part of this, I feel, can be attributed to his monotonous job in the Glass Building, which, from what I observe, consists only of telling people not to enter the Glass Building. He looks forward to the resumption of classes on January 17th (today was January 11th), which will occur after a national holiday in celebration of Martin Luther. Ah, the Protestant Spirit in America never dies!

Everett's Suite-mates; The Speed of Light; The Underground Rail; An Old Man Out-skates the Youth

After the debacle of my wanderings yesterday, Everett refuses to let me out of his sight. Indeed, I am loathe to leave it. But while being alone in this strange and half-familiar city can be terrifying, seeing it in the company of friends can be exhilarating.

I began the day by meeting the other people who live in Everett's apartment. (These were the suite-mates Everett had been talking of yesterday- how foolish of me!) Everett's apartment is a confusing jumble of stairs and corridors- I count five separate levels in all. Living next-door to Everett is a young Russian man named Leo, whose last name begins with a "G," but which I cannot pronounce much less attempt to spell. He seems a delightful fellow, his exuberance matched by his bright red hair. He taught me a little song of the 21st century. Well, not so much a song as a sort of rhythmically chanted poem:

What ya' gon' a' do with all that junk?
All that junk inside your trunk?

Ho! I, having an Uncle who is a notorious pack-rat, who stores the most useless things in chests and cabinets all about his house, can certainly sympathize.

Living above Everett is a Jew named Elliot Kaplan, who I learn is a student of the physical sciences like myself (though his concentration is in the applied rather than pure sciences). Everett, he and I had rather a lengthy conversation, in which I explained to him the curious nature of my temporal transportation, making him the only other person, besides Everett, who knows of my distant origins. Drawing upon the knowledge of a century of the investigation of Physics, he proposed some possible explanations, all of which were very difficult to comprehend. It seems as though, if I were to have been swiftly accelerated to an unimaginable speed, and catapulted into Outer Space, I would cease to perceive the passage of time, though the aeons passed beneath me on the earth. And when I should return to stasis, though years would have passed, I would still feel as if only moments had. His theory, however, does not hold water, because he himself admits that at such a speed, I would have literally blasted off the earth and flown about in space, never to return. These concepts are still difficult to understand, but I am beginning to hold them in my mind when I think of things as relative to one another. One wonders what such a notion of Time has done to the people of 2006. Time, the great equalizer, that waits for no man, now become a "relative" thing. It merits further investigation, especially if I am ever to return home.

Elliot's next-door neighbor is still away for the Christmas holidays. Above him lives a Hindoo named Ajay Prackash. Unlike the Hindoos I knew at Harvard, Ajay has no discernible accent, neither Bengalee nor British, so his parents must have left India long ago. He strikes a robust and determined fellow, and is a student of Medicine.

Living next to Ajay is a young woman named Alexandra Skorik. Apparently, in the 1980's, Columbia opened it's gates to women, though Barnard college paradoxically continues to exist. So not only do women study alongside the men, but apparently live with them too.

I am not yet sure how I feel about this.

We all got together, along with a young lady named Hilary, a friend of Alexandra's and an alarmingly close friend of Ajay's, to go skating! A welcome reprieve indeed from my routine of misery and self-pity. One of the greatest thrills of this whole affair was getting to ride on the now-completed New York City Underground Rail! The tunnels themselves look positively ancient, and indeed, I've subsequently learned that many were completed in 1904. (How I loathed the clamor of their construction!) The trains, however, are models of efficiency, producing no smoke and whizzing along at amazing speeds though the deep earth. I had once before ridden on the Boston Underground, but this experience was totally different. Because of the huge crowd of people, I was forced to remain standing. The jostling was maniacal, and once I fell full on my rump. Everett's suite-mates politely stifled their laughter. I might add that the social make-up of the "subway" is as egalitarian as the 'bus. Moreover, I heard Everett in conversation with Ajay about issues of Capitalism and Socialism. Some other time, I will be interested to hear of the progress of Socialism in the 20th century. It has clearly gained wide acceptance, at least in America. Take that, John Cummings, Harvard class of '02! I must return home, if only to tell him he was wrong.

In no time whatsoever we were all the way down on 59th. Ice skating in Central Park was absolutely delightful. In the sight of these towering skyscrapers, which dominate the New York skyline, we skated on a pond that was frozen using advanced refrigeration technology. Everything in this future world is so advanced, and I have felt so small and incompetent, yet I was a far better skater than any of my companions! I may be technically 124 years old now, but I can still out-skate any of these young chumps! Ho, I ran circles around them, even doing some of the audacious twirls and jumps I learned up in Boston. The modern, mass-produced skates of the future are even better suited to these sorts of acrobatics than were my old strap-ons.

The gay atmosphere of this scene was sullied by the incessant blaring of phonographic cylinder recordings of the most monstrous music. A pounding, graceless cacophony, in which melodies were screeched rather than sung and instruments were pounded into destruction rather than properly played. Given the decadent state of music in my own era, I am saddened but not surprised to see that it has degraded into such irredeemable garbage. But Hilary, Alexandra, Elliot, Everett, Ajay and Leo all seemed to like it, as did every other person skating.

I have noticed that women in the twenty-first century wear trousers. They also (I blush to write it) wear a certain undergarment which causes two nodes to protrude very unattractively from the shoulder-blades. I only mention it because it has been distracting me- because it is so ugly, that is. Given the fact that, in this socialist egalitarian society, women now share the same educational opportunities as men, it is understandable that they should adopt their utilitatarian fashions as well, however, it seems a shame to forsake such lovely feminine graces.

In my lonely and confused moments, I find myself often thinking of Sarah. Has she married, grown old and died? Am I walking among her great-great-grandchildren? I needn't think of it; she has been dead to me, and I to her, for many months now anyway.

Enough talk of women! It was a gay day indeed.

A Permanent Residence; The Omnibus; A Grand Tour of Futurity; Hopelessly Lost

The previous night had understandably left me in a state of profound consternation, and with great difficulty did I finally drift off to sleep. Even then, my dreams were plagued by flashing lights and speeding automobiles. My insomnia was not surprising; I had departed for my fateful bicycle ride early in the morning, and the blow which blasted me to the twenty-first century dropped me in the midnight hour. In my mind, it was barely even noon. Moreover, Everett's couch was egregiously uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I arose refreshed and somewhat more prepared, in the stoic spirit of Science, to accept my fate with resignation and fresh intellectual vigour. After all, if another such blow should transport me back to the beginning of the twentieth century, it should seem the most wasted opportunity in the history of Science if I had not gathered as much knowledge as I could from these advanced men of the third millenium.

I spend the morning once again recounting my amazing tale to Everett, with somewhat more reserve and fewer tears than I had the night before. He was as if Mesmerized. Here at the Columbia University of the future, Everett is a student of History, and though he mainly studies the Medieval period, he was nevertheless fascinated by my presence. To think that the trifling minutiae of our quotidian existences should someday constitute the stuff of History books! Neither he nor I had the slightest idea by what natural phenomenon I came to be here, but he mentioned that his "sweet-mate" might know. He has offered me lodging in his apartment near Columbia for so long as I shall need it.

Everett had planned a trip that morning to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He was to have in his company a certain young lady by the name of Miss Zefrin. I intuited that perhaps this expedition was not the sort where the presence of third fellow would be welcome, but he assured me that this was not the case; though I was fully prepared to make myself scarce, should he desire some time with the aforementioned young lady, I was actually quite relieved to hear that I might come along. In truth, Everett was the only friend I had made in this strange new world, and in my confusion and loneliness, I was loathe to leave his side.

Everett and I had candidly decided that, for the time being, it would be best not to divulge my strange origins to too many people. He told Tmar Zefrin (a charming young Jewess... could she be the "sweet-mate" he had spoken of?) that I was a friend of his visiting from Harvard, which was technically true. We set off for the museum.

I cannot let pass the remarkable omnibuses of the twenty-first century. Propelled like automobiles, they are as large as train-cars. They are not horse-drawn, nor do they ride along tracks, but weave speedily in and out among the other traffic. The machine is an egalitarian triumph. In my era, the automobile was reserved for the highest crust of the capitalist aristocracy, while the proletariat had to content themselves with walking or the riding of beasts. But thanks to the motor-omnibus, travel at fantastic speeds is available to all citizens. Indeed, the cabin was filled with men and women of divers rank: men in suits, perhaps lawyers or doctors, sat alongside colored workmen. It was as in the old days of the horse-drawn omnibus, before the wealthy retreated into their private automobiles. (I should note that, though the fare was an astounding two dollars, which Everett generously paid, it is not unlikely that the dollar has been considerably devalued over the past century. Perhaps the United States experienced another depression that led to further inflation. From what I gather, a ride on the 'bus is about the only thing that two dollars can purchase a fellow in 2006!)

I shall not belabor my fascination with the tall buildings of future New York, as I pressed my face against the window. Suffice it to say, when the Park Row Building, thirty stories high, was constructed in 1899, we all knew that it was only the beginning of a trend of taller and taller buildings. That prophecy has been fulfilled in the twenty-first century. So entranced was I that when we reached the Met', I asked Everett if it would be alright if I remained on the 'bus, which was continuing downtown. He told me that I may, but that I must remain on the same bus, which would return me to the museum. So I parted ways with Everett at the museum (finally completed, and rid of the ugly scaffolding that had sullied its facade in 1903).

Buildings 100 stories high, stretching on forever in every direction! And of course, humanity ubiquitous, even more so than on a typical New York day- I would not be surprised if the population has more than doubled. The 'bus delved deeper and deeper into the heart of mid-town, until I riding through a veritable canyon of steel, concrete and electric lights. Then, slowly but surely, we headed uptown again. But the 'bus must have been following an irregular and circuitous route, for we didn't pass the museum again! Rather, we barrelled along further and further uptown! We passed the University once again and were soon in the 180's! What was worse, I had completely lost track of time, and the sun was setting! The 'bus finally came to a stop outside of, strange to say, a medieval castle in the woods- where was I, the Bronx? Upstate? Connecticut?

The 'bus driver, a stubborn fat colored, ordered me off. I protested that he must bring me back to the museum, but he said he that he was off duty, and besides, I had nary a nickel with me, much less two dollars. He drove off in a puff of noxious smoke, leaving me at the doorstep of the medieval castle (which I gathered was another museum. Its doors were locked shut.)

I sat on the cold stone of the cloisters. It struck me as oddly appropriate: so unsuited to this modern life, I might as well be a monk from the Carolingian age! Everett had lent me a coarse green coat to wear, but beneath it I was still in naught but my trousers, shirtsleeves, and waistcoat. I confess that in this misery, I once again wept for my fate. The sun was setting over this vast, half-familiar city, casting a golden light on the rows of masonry that looked exactly as it had 103 years ago. But the warm, comforting sunset soon dwindled and was replaced by the spectacular artificial glow of a thousand-million electric lights, illuminating the whole metropolis like Jerusalem on the day of judgment (if I may borrow a metaphor from medieval times.) I alone sat in obscurity, a relic of a Dark Age.

My watch was still set to the morning time in 1903, so I had no idea what time it was. But eventually, Everett arrived in a yellow automobile. I have never been so delighted to see a near-stranger! After waiting for hours at the museum, he had finally deduced where I had gone wrong and had tracked me down. We hurried into the warm, yellow automobile, which brought us back to Columbia, at an expense to Everett considerably more than two dollars. I was dreadfully embarrassed, not just at my friend's expenditure, but at my own utter incompetence to get by in the future. How much longer shall I be here? Is there anyway to return? Shall I spend the rest of my life as a man of the twenty-first century? Shall I never again see my family? Ironically, that fateful morning I had been worried about how to spend my future; it seems that decision has been made for me.

A Message to the Reader; A Visit to General Grant's Tomb; A Blinding Flash; Everything Unfamiliar; My New Friend Everett

Gentle reader, may I prevail upon your credulity? The discerning man, reading this account of my recent misfortunes, might justifiably discount it as mere fancy, or worse, the ravings of a mad-man. Indeed, if I were ever to read a diary like that which is set before you, I would swiftly contact the asylum. But I assure you, dear reader, everything I write here is completely true, down to the minutest detail, though to my knowledge what has happened to me is unprecedented in the history of the world.

I arose early this morning - it seems ages ago, and indeed it was (as you shall soon see). I intended to ride my bicycle along the Hudson River, up to the Tomb of General Grant. Though it was a fair summer's day, my mood was gray and melancholy, far more suited to the austerity of a hero's tomb than the gaiety of Central Park. My mind was wracked with uncertainty. Having recently received my bachelor's degree from Harvard, I was faced for the first time with the prospect of a truly independent life. Within the next few daunting months, I would have to move away from my parents, secure some modest domicile in the city, find gainful employment, and otherwise begin living like a respectable adult. Yet how recently it seems I was gaily prancing about the school-yard, with my hoop and rod! These and other concerns weighed heavily upon my heart, and I sought requiem from the noisy downtown traffic in the placid silence of Riverside Park.

The dome of the mausoleum was already visible above the treetops when suddenly I was struck down from my bicycle as if by a bolt of lighting. A blinding flash, accompanied by a thunderous noise, momentarily confounded my senses. An instant later, I was lying on my back in the grass, my head throbbing, and strangely cold. My first thought was that I had been struck by a careless motorist, for indeed I could hear the sound of an automobile receding in the distance. I sat up, still stunned, and noticed that it was night-time. Had the blow knocked me out for hours? My bicycle was nowhere to be seen... some Harlem scoundrel had absconded with it, I thought.

I wended my way towards what I thought was Broadway and first noticed that something was terribly awry. Electric lights lined the street, where there had been none. The automobiles which sped by (at remarkable speeds) also had bright electric lamps. Thinking myself in some vivid nightmare, a dashed across the deadly road. Before me I saw, illuminated, an indescribably vast gothic tower atop an enormous church. Where am I? I thought. Had I been somehow transported to Europe? But no, behind me was the Tomb of General Grant, as it had always been, and the Hudson River flowing! I stumbled around the cathedral and reached Broadway, to find the whole street lit up like an exhibition at some ghastly World's Fair! A nearby street-sign helped me gauge my exact whereabouts in this terrifying and unfamiliar New York; I was now at Broadway and 116th Street, though the area was far more developed than I had ever seen it, with towering buildings on either side. Slowly, the impossible truth dawned on me: that I was somehow in the future - years, perhaps centuries, after 1903.

By a system of colored lamps, I was permitted to cross the perilous Broadway, now transformed into a canyon of swift death. Columbia University, of course! When I first caught sight of that familiar library dome, the strangest mixture of emotions overcame me: relief at seeing a familiar landmark, where I had so often visited my friends, but disbelief and horror at seeing it surrounded by such vast and peculiar structures - the very trees wrapped with tiny lamps. I was bitterly cold. Since it had been a summer's day, I had gone out 'cycling in naught but my trousers, shirtsleeves and waistcoat, but now it was a harsh wintry night, the sharp wind piercing my thin clothes. I scaled the steps of the library, but the door was locked. I banged upon it in confusion and despair, but soon a colored man in uniform began to yell at me, and I fled. I came upon another building (of sorts, though I can imagine no person living there, for it was constructed entirely of large glass panes, and seemed to tilt into the ground). Seeking warmth in the atrium, I spied behind a counter a young clean-shaven man who wore a cloth about his head like an Arab, or rather like a pirate. But the man seemed kind, and seemed to have absolutely nothing to do. I tentatively approached him, muttering a few nervous words. My anguish must have been visible, for he asked what was wrong. The dam of my emotions burst forth and with tears befitting a babe I wept, telling all that I had happened since my fateful fall. The pirate was silent for a long time, as if he too could barely comprehend the apparent reality of the situation - that I was a man from the past. When he finally spoke again, he asked me to come back to his home.

I now lay on his couch in the dark, unable to think or even to feel. Too much has happened in these past few hours to comprehend or even write down - I have here laid out only the framework.

My new-found friend, whose name is Everett Patterson, informs me that it is the year 2006 A.D. Whatever struck me catapulted me across a span of 103 years. Everett is the same age as me, twenty-one, which means he was born in 1984.

Whatever adventures lie ahead, this is only the beginning. I gaze out of the window at the baffling expanse of the city before me. Amazing, yes, but Oh, I have never seen a more starless sky!