I should write something here. I haven't in awhile. How about this? We're in New York. I arrived in a grump and a huff so it's difficult to speak of the last twelve hours with any particular sentimentality. We got here; I complained; I moaned; I dragged my suitcase up and down some stairs, petulantly refusing Xander's help; I complained some more; I fell asleep. But now it's a bright Brooklyn morning, and here we are, five hours behind ourselves, waking early, not in the office, though it's a Tuesday. Xander's gone out in search of coffee; most of my travelling life someone has done this, first my mother, waking at dawn and slipping out, returning smelling of latté and buzzing with an energy that had nothing and everything all at the same time to do with caffeine, and now my boyfriend, who wakes later, goes out with less urgency, but comes back just as satisfied. Here we are (I say again). From where I'm sitting (the couch of a very kind friend), I can see through the skylight that the day is grey and dry. From Xander I hear it is also crisp; the first day of December, all the trees now bare, we're veering away from the autumnal, heading straight into the heart of another icy winter.
And last night we crossed an ocean. Travel is so funny.