Dear Professor,

New York might be the city that never sleeps, but the lively atmosphere of San Francisco
proves just as refreshing. I remember all too well the many hours my parents, offspring of the
former Soviet empire, motivated me to play the piano. Although I did not particularly enjoy the
classical curriculum, as well as the stern, disciplinary teacher, twelve years later, I relish my
piano-playing skills. In fact, the harmonies of the classical genre have become part of my daily
listening routine, seconded only by jazz and the occasional rock-n-roll (Pink Floyd and Queen
are masterpieces). When I ventured outside, the west wind, full of birds cries1 flowed across
the Golden Gate Bridge bringing with it a dense, churning mist. My friends and I frequented all
the nooks and crannies of the citys parks rushing past the families, the couples, the
nonconformists who all relished their surroundings. Our parents, all with a good dose of humor,
freely rambled on about sports and gossip while encompassed by the endless breezes of the bay
area. This fog-enveloped, bike-driven, tattoo-laden city sheltered me for eleven years.
All good things must come to an end; it came as an unpleasant surprise when I learned
that the family would be moving. With the economic setbacks of the latter half of the 2000s, my
father had found a job in Moscow. The eastern hemisphere proved a much more futile place than
the once-resplendent west. The heavy smog complimented the majority of peoples attitudes; the
fall of their empire was still in public consciousness. It seemed as though the nation was devoid
of purpose. As was expected of me, I went to school, became the American, and made friends.
The parks we frequented were stained with glass bottles, and, for three-to-four months of the
year, mud-steeped snow. The piano pieces I played here were more complex yet seemed
emotionally lacking. The citys museums and exhibits seemed to offer artificial escapes that

The West Wind by John Masefield

would only remind the spectators of the dreariness on the other side of their walls. While not
equal to the Godforsaken landscape of 1984, Russia is not a place I look forward to visiting; my
stay was temporary.
My fathers new-found job did not last very long. After a one-month search, America
offered a miraculous solace: employment was found. We moved to Stanfield, a little town in
North Carolina that cannot be found in any physical map. In many ways, the southern traditions
proved a far more alien experience than any I had witnessed; I could, even in Russia, identify the
nations customs, language, and urban geography. In middle school, I, again, became the
foreigner. But, rather slowly, I became accustomed to the vivacious floral greens and the
easygoing lifestyle of rural, southern America. Here, I developed my long-lasting hobbies: film
analysis, photography (some pictures can be seen below), and science fiction (Captain Jean-Luc
Picard of the U.S.S. Enterprise is a character to which we should all look up). In my high school,
a college-preparatory charter school that emphasized rigor above all else, I was very well
received; to my surprise, I became the homecoming king and, because the school disregarded the
notion of valedictorian, was one of three orators who had the honor to speak at graduation. I also
received the surprise, end-of-senior-year Board of Directors scholarship at the ceremony. After
six years in North Carolina, and eighteen years on planet earth, college was at the doorstep.
Now is the time to set a vocation. I have already switched four majors between two
departments. The future looks just as unsteady. My own wants for a career bleed with doubt;
analytical or artistic studies of humanity, as my father persistently reminds me, are hardly needed
in todays scientifically-minded society. Unfortunately, neither engineering nor the hard sciences

appeal to my sense of identity. In taking the safe path, I would sacrifice my sense of self. Time,
with its waters of deep woe2, will speak of destiny.
Two years ago, I visited San Francisco. Like the hobbit returning from his adventures
with dwarves, elves, and dragons, this Shire seemed enriched by my experiences beyond it. Of
course, the city physically changed, as well. Friends had grown up, some faster than myself, and
others left to pursue their own journeys. New buildings arose and older ones demolished. The
San Francisco I remember is a memory scattered with inaccuracies. However, all humans have a
bias. My hometown at the end of the rainbow provides a necessary nostalgia in a world rich with
change. Roads go ever ever on3 and we all need gods and hope to walk them without
hesitation.
Theodore Karabet

2
3

Time by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

Photography

Late Winter

Domesticated

Hide-and-Seek

Peterhof