Edwin Pamphilos’ melodic accent, a strange mixture of British and Greek, echoed in my ear with the tinny quality transcontinental connections always had. “America. Atlanta,” I replied. After what felt like a lifetime of crossing every ancient land I could buy a plane ticket to, I was going somewhere truly foreign to me. “You finally ran out of Old World, so you had to start on the New, eh?” “It was time for-” “-Another bloody change. I’ve heard it every few months for the last four years.” Four years. In the course of history, four years was an eyeblink, but emperors had risen to power and fallen from favor in less time. Four years of nonstop travel had been enough to replace the wide-eyed traveller in me with a sharp-tongued cynic. I was bored with the world at the ripe old age of 27, and I hated that fact about myself. I heard rustling over the line and imagined Edwin rifling through the mounds of ungraded essays, photocopies, and assorted educational trappings that covered his desk.
