Mr. Joyce Takes on the World

The House of Jane Part One Who's House? Jane's House! The train to Alton takes about an hour and fifteen minutes. When that train is delayed it takes about ninety minutes. When one is caught in London traffic on their way to Waterloo station, then it takes about two hours. As I boarded the train to Alton, I had this silly feeling. I felt that if my teenage self could have been here, he would scarcely believe that he was finally going to Chawton. I could scarcely believe it as an adult. It’s evident why people travel to Alton. The banner with a well-known silhouette and the dates 1775-1817, and the words, “This way to Jane Austen’s house!” are a complete give away. Though one is encouraged to literally follow in her footsteps and walk the forty-odd minutes to her cottage, I decided to take a cab. Luckily there’s a cab stand in front of the train station. Clearly someone was enterprising enough to consider flatfoot travelers from across the globe. ...

I never pictured how I'd feel at different ages. I remember once my mother said to me, “You’ll be twenty in the year 2000.” I turned twenty-one that year, and it didn’t feel any different than the year before. I feel like the most recent birthday that felt any different to me was last year when I visited Winchester Cathedral and the Mary Rose. Prior to that my birthdays from age twelve to the present were largely unremarkable. I want them to be remarkable, but I think that once you get to a certain age they cease to feel special. Maybe it’s the lack of presents, or the lack of fanfare. For me, birthdays are difficult. I’m often reminded of what I’ve lost or speculate on what could have been.             I’ll turn forty next year, which scares the hell out of me. I feel like I haven’t done much in the decades I’ve been alive. It wasn’t until I started traveling that I felt like I started to do much of anything. I’ve always...