My Art history class is on the west side of campus. The university started in a relative huddle of neoclassical buildings, crowing the hill above the river. The dome of the Old Capitol Building gleams a dusky gold in the afternoon sun. It spread along the crest of the hill, across and down, down to the banks of the river, the flood plain that was filled up four years ago. Then they built across the river, buildings growing slowly from the backbone of Iowa Avenue. If you stand behind the Old Capitol and look out to the river, the world dips suddenly, then begins to rise up out of the willowy pines that cover the rocky riverbanks and culminates in the Gothic spires of the University Hospital. I walked the long way back to the Pentacrest, meandering behind the flood damaged art buildings that have yet to be remodeled or demolished. The new art building nestles against a rocky cliff, dull and rusty metal blending in with the yellow-toned rock. The path between the old art buildings swings out to meet the riverside path and follows the river, over and under the various bridges. The bridge it meets first is a pedestrian bridge made of green metal and white washed concrete. It reminds me of the bridge in Monet's garden, barred arch, stretching in a gentle curve.
I watched the water for a while. The sun glittered on the gentle tug of the current. There was wind, and sun, and a wide-open sky. I think it was as close to perfection as I have come in quite a while. I stood at the center of the bridge and looked South for half an hour, until my eyes hurt and began to tear.
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