On Saturday, Victor, Mike, and I rode the subway to the Weston Ski Track, a golf course in the western suburbs groomed for cross-country skiing. Once we had the hang of which ski goes where, we left the hubbub around the Trails Day festival, a national effort to get people out into the mountains for winter sports, and glided across the street for better tracks.
The finest thing about Weston is taking the subway. For a West-Coaster, it is a delight. My hope that I could go after work for night skiing were crushed due to what would be a too dark, cold, and dangerously icy walk. Still, in the middle of the morning, it was a fine warm up. Skiing at Weston will be good for exercise, so a bit uplifting, though skiing around a golf course is not going to make any cross-country converts.
Done with skiing, we slogged home through the rain, ate pasta, said goodbye to Mike, and took a nap: the perfect end to our day.
And then… Mike came back. We sat and talked. And talked. As it drew near midnight, I said good night again, and went to bed. When I awoke: Hilbert space!
Honestly, I am not the best skier and I know nothing about linear algebra. I picked this scrap off the couch in the morning. I am not exaclty sure what it means. I’ve read the definition, and the best I can come up with is imagining the perfect seat in an empty subway, taking your cold body home, and having this be defined normal. I can see Vic and Mike huddled together, their teacups empty, excitingly plotting the uniqueness of space within space.
MIT geeks are stronger than you might imagine. After our first day skiing for the season, I was doing well to form coherent sentences. I can’t imagine having the discussion that required this drawing: they are tougher than me that way.
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