When I was sixteen years old I visited Switzerland. It was exactly what one envisions; chalets with brightly painted window boxes full of lush and lovely flowers, sidewalk cafes with strong coffee and chocolates, cobblestone walks and dusty paths. And the mountains…I have a photo of myself  throwing snowballs in June atop a true Swiss alp.
Yale is like Switzerland. It is exactly what can be imagined; arched thresholds hugging doors of massive weight, adorned with metallic matte hingings, iron gates with key holes to be fit with only the large, skeleton type. Tiny, mysterious, dimly lighted windows high above the sidewalk. One certainly ponders the possibility of seeing Hermione Granger flitting around, black cape billowing behind her.
There are ghosts here. Those of Nathan Hale, Sinclair Lewis, George W. Bush, Rory Gilmore. There is youth and exuberance, tragedy and light and wisdom. They prevail.
Yale stands as a beacon on the Long Island Sound.
I likely would never have visited New Haven, Connecticut. I would not have walked through the lovely, tree-lined paths of Yale if Andrew had not been here as a grad student in the Divinity School. I am grateful for those paths that are often chosen for us.
The twists and turns of life bring us to interesting places. The key is leaning in and learning from those paths, whether tree-lined or otherwise.