As hinted at last week, I am spending the summer traveling the world in search of physics. While I understand that your immediate reaction will be to fling down your paper in envious rage at my jet-set lifestyle, I urge you to read on, for the apparent playboy antics of the physics grad student are but an illusion overlaying a tangled web of deceit, jealousy and rage.

Okay, I was kinda making stuff up in the last paragraph. Forgive me. I’ve had a stressful week. But, I’ll get back to that in a sec. First, though, a little background on my travels.

I’m a liar. For several months, I’ve been telling people I was spending July and August at various physics conferences. Not true. Actually I’m spending my time at summer school. Or as my terribly unfair humanist friends have been calling it: “Computer Camp” (of course, it should be “physics”, but apparently “computer” is more insulting).

Going away to camp seems to be a quintessential part of the American childhood experience. You get packed up with all your stuff and sent off to the woods for two weeks of wilderness training and child abuse.

Ok, so “abuse” may be a little strong, but let’s face it, sitting around a campfire in the dark engaging in ridiculous bonding activities is, at the least, very fucking weird.

Now, since I’ve always wanted to experience as much of the American Dream as possible, I’ve decided that I shall be marketing this summer’s adventures as my own personal version of band camp — just need to find a willing flautist...

There are two different destinations on my summer tour of physics; the first is Princeton. Interesting place. Well, in reality, it’s a very boring place, but that’s a small detail and they have great ice cream.

In fact, the school is not actually at Princeton, it’s at the Institute for Advanced Study which, for those of you who don’t know, is like an asylum for the criminally insane (except with academics).

The IAS (as it’s known in the trade) has a great deal in common with the back country (not least of which is fact that it’s in the middle of fucking nowhere) and the PiTP (Prospects in Theoretical Physics) school is a lot like camp (though, you do need to block out the math for the analogy to hold, but that’s generally a good idea for other reasons).

First off, we have camp counselors. Well, sort of. The staff at the Institute (god, it even sounds like an asylum) are very good at playing surrogate parents. Our daily routines are scripted out and there are complicated rules that are repeated in the patient manner of an elementary school teacher.

Lunch tickets are color-coded and a network of signs ensures we don’t get lost on the 60 foot walk from one building to another. Although this over-bearing concern for our welfare clearly belies any notion that we are capable of looking after ourselves, it’s probably fair enough.

Then there’s the social awkwardness. No, awkwardness isn’t quite right. It’s more social jerkiness. Interactions are laced with image worries: Does this person like me? Am I fitting in? Oh no, everyone knows more algebraic geometry than me!

All the aforementioned niggling little doubts are multiplied many times over when in the presence of the school’s lecturers, who I guess are like the cool grown ups who seem 10 feet tall when you’re kid and can do everything. Ok, I realize I’m stretching the analogy a bit here, but run with me.

They’re comfortable with each other and with us (mostly). And we want to be them. Sort of. More importantly, there’s a little intimidation to go with the inspiration.

I have mentioned this particular quality of faculty in previous columns, but the effect is even more pronounced during camp, since there’s no time for the glow of celebrity to fade.

Of course celebrity works in a two ways. Not only are you in awe, but when the objects of your admiration break a little from the mold, all sorts of stories can be generated.

Take the whip guy. When an academic legend (by which I mean, amongst other string theorists) integrates onstage whip cracking into his lectures, you’ve got a great tale to tell your friends (by which I mean, fellow physics grad students). And when he brings the whip to your party, well you can dine out on that sort thing for years (especially with the right photographs).

Speaking of parties, we did our campfire sing-a-long equivalent last Friday. Admittedly, rather than smores and out of tune singing, we had cheap (and I mean really cheap) red wine and a whip.

(Incidentally, I would like to pass on some valuable advice in life: Never, ever, ever get totally wasted in the presence of a professor. And if you must, try not to babble incoherently for several hours. And if you must do that, try and remember what you say. Otherwise the morning after is kind of troubling.)

I must confess that I’ve never really understood the point of summer camp. Presumably, it’s supposed to make you into a better person or something, but, quite frankly, the whole idea of communal fun makes me feel a little uneasy (for a start, I bet this is how Koresh and Jones lured in the punters).

Computer (Physics) Camp, however, is a little different. It’s not really supposed to be fun. And while I guess that I should be glad I’m having a great time, it’s a little troubling that watching equations being written on blackboards now counts as a holiday in my book.

Any interested whippers or flautists who will be in the vicinity of the Swiss/French border in August should email navins@stanford.edu.