I’m back in New York, craving cranberry-apple pie and experiencing severe culture shock. How long will it take for me to stop noticing the trash in the streets, the kids playing ball outside my window, the rats streaking across the sidewalk in front of the Chinese restaurant after dark? Were the heels on my summer sandals always this slutty? How have I lived all this time without a tub? Must the men on the corner leer and hoot and whistle at every woman under the age of 60, rotating to cry out with joy at each retreating backside?
I’d like to tell you I’ll be posting photos from my trip, but the truth is, I’d rather go outside and lie down in a patch of poison ivy than share pictures of myself. Fortunately there will be no photographs because Steph’s as camera-averse as I am. We didn’t take a single shot.
We talked, though. Boy, did we talk. Not only did I monopolize her daylight hours, but I kept Steph up late into the night talking about everything in the world, probably including you (does that make it okay that I haven’t caught up on your blog and email yet?). Between the talking and the writing, I think I used up all my words while I was there.
Please to lower your expectations now. And if you’re in Canada, vote. The last thing your country needs is a Bush clone running things. (Update:: See Bookninja for more information on tomorrow’s election.)