Academic Pilgrimage
She left her house at the ungodly hour of 8 AM—a time that required setting multiple alarms and the kind of military precision usually reserved for international espionage—to catch the first of what would become an epic transportation odyssey. Her destination: the university open day where a professor would assess whether she possessed the necessary credits to enroll in her destined marine biology master's program.
The department was a mere three bus hours away from her village, which would become her daily commute—a delightfully manageable six hours of round-trip public transportation that would surely enhance her academic experience through enforced meditation and scenic countryside observation.
She arrived fashionably late at 11:15 AM, having underestimated the complexity of coordinating three separate bus schedules with the precision of a NASA launch sequence. The university called to inquire whether she was still planning to materialize for her appointment, demonstrating the kind of administrative concern that suggested they were not accustomed to students arriving via intercontinental travel routes.
The professor who greeted her was the same bewildered gentleman from her previous meeting—the one who had seemed puzzled by her enthusiastic but scattered presentation of her academic aspirations. The 'assessment' turned out to be the appointment itself, which apparently constituted sufficient evaluation of her readiness for advanced marine studies.
Accepted! Just like that, her brilliant academic comeback was officially sanctioned.
On the first day of actual classes, she repeated her transportation marathon with enhanced efficiency, waking up early enough to catch the 5:30 AM bus—a time that existed primarily in the theoretical realm of airline schedules and emergency medical procedures. The goal was to arrive punctually by 9 AM, demonstrating the kind of academic dedication that surely impressed professors and fellow students alike.
She waited in her designated classroom with the patient dignity of someone who had sacrificed sleep, comfort, and several hours of her life for the privilege of higher education. At 9:10 AM, when no professor or fellow students had materialized, she finally decided that something might be amiss.
A quick consultation with the front desk revealed that her inaugural class had been cancelled—information that had apparently been communicated through channels she had not yet learned to monitor. This was clearly an important lesson in academic communication protocols that no one had thought to explain to someone who had been out of the university system for several years.
Her actual inaugural educational experience the following day revealed a classroom containing six students, all of whom appeared young enough to be her biological offspring if she had started reproducing during her undergraduate years. They were engaged in animated discussions about their recent holidays in the most exotic locations around the world, where they had observed wild nature in its natural habitat.
"The orcas were absolutely fascinating" one cherubic student explained with the authority of someone who had recently discovered marine mammals. "They kill sharks by targeting only their reproductive organs and livers. It's such efficient predation!"
This particular detail triggered an uncomfortable memory of Handsome Man's enthusiastic descriptions of how wolves killed horses—by isolating them from their herds and then consuming their reproductive organs. It had been one of the conversational gems that had helped her reconsider his generous offer to spend a month at his remote farm, in the middle of nowhere, taking care of vulnerable horses.
The parallel between predatory hunting strategies and Handsome Man's hospitality plans was probably just coincidence, but her newly recovered analytical mind found the comparison distinctly unsettling.
The professors were all approximately her own age, which created the peculiar dynamic of peer-to-peer instruction disguised as traditional academic hierarchy. They regarded her with visible puzzlement each time she explained her background—an ex-researcher in molecular biology, with a PhD in structural biology, who needed to restart her career after a burnout and an unfortunate falling-out with a famous professor.
Her academic biography seemed to create cognitive dissonance for everyone involved. Why would someone with advanced research credentials want to begin again as a first-year marine biology student? The question hung in the air like an accusation of either desperation or mental instability.
The situation felt increasingly awkward for both instructor and student, because she could already answer most of the questions the professors posed during their lectures. Years of molecular research had equipped her with a foundation in cellular biology, protein chemistry, and analytical techniques that rendered the introductory material somewhat... elementary.
During one particularly uncomfortable class session, she found herself automatically answering questions that were meant to challenge beginning students, demonstrating knowledge that made her presence in the course feel increasingly absurd.
The professor paused mid-lecture and regarded her with the expression of someone who had just realized they were teaching advanced mathematics to someone who had already invented calculus.
"Well" he said finally, with the diplomatic frustration of someone trying to solve an administrative puzzle, "maybe you could just work as a molecular biologist in marine biology applications..."
The suggestion hung in the air like a gentle academic dismissal. He was essentially acknowledging that she didn't belong in his introductory course, but was too polite to say so directly.
That evening, she attempted to complete the bureaucratic enrollment process that would officially cement her status as a marine biology student. However, the university's administrative systems seemed to be actively resisting her efforts through a series of technical malfunctions that defied logical explanation.
Forms disappeared from online portals. Documents uploaded successfully but then vanished. Payment systems rejected her credit card with error messages that suggested she was trying to purchase something that didn't exist. After several hours of digital combat with registration software that appeared to be powered by malevolent artificial intelligence, she took these technical difficulties as a cosmic message about the wisdom of her academic plans.
Perhaps the universe was trying to tell her something about six-hour daily commutes, age-inappropriate coursework, and the fundamental absurdity of starting over in a field she could probably teach better than learn
She closed her laptop with the satisfaction of someone who had just received clear guidance from forces beyond her control. The enrollment system's rebellion had solved a problem she hadn't wanted to admit: she was spectacularly overqualified for the education she was seeking, and everyone involved knew it.
Her marine biology career would need to find a different path—one that didn't involve pretending to be amazed by introductory information about cellular respiration and protein synthesis.
Sometimes the most important academic lesson was knowing when to withdraw with dignity intact.
The buses would have to find another passenger for their daily six-hour scenic tours. She had more practical ways to spend her time than commuting to classes that couldn't teach her anything she didn't already know.