However bookish my ideal of it, going to Antarctica aligned with my idea of myself as tough, independent, and not old. I’m attracted to solo adventures that frighten me a little—backpacking, holing up in an isolated cabin to write, walking across France. Still, abandoning my life in New York City and committing to the incalculable unknowns of being the resident baker at the South Pole was immoderate, even for me. There was no talking me out of it. As Mary Shelley’s narrator Victor Frankenstein put it, though “I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation, it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight.”
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