In 2006, the author had moved to Moscow, Idaho, from New Delhi, after having worked for nearly four years in publishing houses. She had become exhausted by stets, specs, and style sheets. Whiny authors with paper-thin egos bored her, and she was frustrated with lazy designers who tried to pass off every odd cover as avant-garde. She wanted to return to something familiar, and yet try something new. The world of familiarity that beckoned was lined with the dirt and grime of pencil stubs, and layered with pages torn from a notebook. It comprised big, wooden desks etched with graffiti that screamed out people's names and graduating years. It possessed the grossness of used chewing gum stuck on the underbellies of tables and chairs, traps for roving hands. It echoed with the buzz of conversations and arguments, the hasty scratch of clandestine notes, the drone of teachers and their pets, sleepless Sunday-night assignments, and complex tests. The author wanted to return to school. Her musings on education in New Delhi and Idaho reminds people of what they love (and love to hate!) about American higher education.