Around the world, inside the world

That morning I hated the mere idea of going to Fort Ross. After a week at Stanford packed with panel discussions, after gulping in the posh air of academia circulating around the campus, the perspective of outdoor labor seemed less than bright. The bus ride was long and tiring, and I've been sick all morning - just a few sips of homemade party punch did that to me. I was miserable, miserable, miserable. At last, the treacherous doors were open, and I was sure to be the first to stumble off the bus and into murderous bright sunlight.
And then I took a breath.
And then I looked around.
I was standing on a tall cliff overlooking the Pacific. The water was that deep, dangerous sapphire blue, taunting you to come closer, making you dizzy. The air was full of smells, of the ocean breeze, and wet grass, and myriads of spring flowers sprouting from the earth, yet unburnt. And the longer I walked along the cliff, the more I lost grasp on reality and got carried away into the mists of the past.
There, in that sandy cove, the boats would beach, boats coming from the big trade ships cruising along the coast, from Alaska to San Francisco. Men would be working in the improvised port, Russian men and Spanish men and Native American men. Up in the fort women would gather water from the well, and cook stew out of sweet potatoes and meat. The mustached militia would be patrolling the grounds, inspecting the cannons aimed at the sea - never used for war, only for greeting guests. On a bench under an old apple tree an excited naturalist would be arranging herbs and classifying California poppy. And far away, somewhere in San Jose, a Russian officer would promise the governor's daughter to return with the tzar's permission for marriage, not knowing that sudden illness would cut him down on the native shores.
Old stories were suddenly alive in front of me. Making sure no one was looking, I darted through the knee-long grass, off the road, across the lawn, through the wooden gates of the fort. I was taking in every detail, every little object. The energy it had, the place where, for once, Russians and Americans lived peacefully, the place that is now over two hundred years old, casually empty, and conserved as a state park!
I left California the following morning. But I knew that somewhere in the hills of Fort Ross, among mariposa lilies, I left a piece of my heart. And, having promised myself to come back, I did; now I'm a part of the place that once became a part of me.