We had to get away to the only place where love is free. Abroad. Spain. In April. But it was Cambridge, in December.

There were seventeen problems: money; passports; tetanus-typhoid-yellow fever shots; a Greek landlady bearing an expensive product (Snyde would say, Beware! I hated him); reservations on a plane carrying ginger ale to be served with Dramamine at Gander; German, French, Italian, and Spanish for the Swiss Alps; Greek for the return voyage...How else could we preserve the rapture of passion which comes when you eat pastry at the Patisserie Cafe Morceau beside the girl you love.

Well...

Here I am writing at the desk of my father's insurance office in Hannibal, as the afternoon light fades. "The Education of Henery Lamby."

Over this river there is a moon, but it does not give much light. And I cannot stop thinking... The passport office refused to issue Peter's passport, because she was a transvestite from Brooks House, employed by the Yale Daily News to find out what was shoe at Radcliffe. Harvard rusticated me for getting an E in Fitzway's course. My notes were all on Peter, and Snyde refused to lend me his.

Notes...notes... I used to take good notes. Now I sell farm policies for forty acres and a mule to those who have only jackasses in the family.