this won't be a sad song/there's gonna be claps and singing along
For two weeks, the world's been grey and filmy. I had been itching for the persistent greenness of my coast, but San Francisco's bearing the same silver shroud as Boston (sans, notably, the satisfying crispness of snow.)
The flight to Burbank is leaving irritatingly late, but not long enough to call some folks and go stomping around in the soggy foggy city. I hate the enforced meditation of the terminal.
This Treo unceremoniously dumped all my data on the first morning of my stay in Tennessee, including the MP3-player component I've become so dependent on. The result: a funny sort of unwitting experiment, as the popping of my little bubble of music forced me to pay an almost painful level of attention to the outside world, and to the patterings in my own head that I prefer to tuck up to the chin in string instruments. I've really learned something from the experience, as what's left when the earbuds are gone is to be actually, visibly alone - vulnerable, frankly - and the necessity to make connections I otherwise would not have made. In a few hours wandering Harvard and its inherent choclatey wiles, I had a string of smile-bringing happenstances. There was a sincere (and very flattering) compliment from an old-souly little boy, a conversation over lunch with a charmingly overserious comp lit major, and a the classic "L.A. - Awesome City or Fetid Cesspool?" runaround with an expat. I think I'll start losing the 'phones on purpose occasionally.
Met some great people in Boston, courtesy of Chris (who, technically, I was meeting for the first time as well. Longer story.) I had been aching for the incomparable sweetness of schedulelessness, excellent company and the pleasure of not spending any time whatsoever as a practicing biped. I'm unbelievably refreshed, and hoping it won't be long before I can return the favour.
Note for the record: when the shabu-shabu waiter tells you you haven't ordered enough food, for the love of God do not believe him.