The Minotaur Lives

I am an unfortunate time traveler, not out of any particular personal misfortune, but because all time travel is unfortunate, arriving either too soon or too late.

For Kant, time and space exist necessarily only for human beings as a part of their experience; other creatures come and go as they please, filled with nostalgia for their memories of their future, and only having to buy one kind of glove that fits on either hand.

This is the worst thing about the Martian Invasion: they have no sense of promptness.

So it is with returning to a city after nearly a decade: there a futuristic domes and buildings everywhere and suicide booths in the places where you used to get drunk. The same waiter serves you in Salonica, your favorite diner, only he has gray hair and drives a flying saucer.

I arrived here with very little except suits with holes in them. The first thing I seemed to do was make an immediate tour of all the terrible food I used to love, in what rapidly became some kind of Spurlockian experiment. The University of Chicago often begs the question: heaven, or ironic punishment?

I don't have a bathrobe. I had bathrobes back in Sarasota, but I hated them so much I left them behind. It was illogical, but the idea of toting something big and fluffy that I really hated through the airport appalled me. So I go to the shower in this dormitory in my overcoat and shoes, which gives a Godot like feel to my morning ablutions. Especially when I wear my hat.