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(1) Bus riders on the number fourteen (and bus riders here are everyone) say thank you to the driver as they disembark, and not just a quiet thank you from the front door but a practically bellowed Thank You from the back door, one after another. Thank You! Thanks! Thank You!(2) Two blocks later at my office the non-bus-riders have just gotten off of their bikes, not just the Americorps kids and the summer interns, but the heads of departments in skirts and blazers, tall guys in the elevators in clacking clip-in shoes and ankle to elbow spandex.
(3) Earlier this week the soupcart guy John – with whom I sometimes compare notes on the latest opera – introduced me to the woman behind me in the lunch line, because we both like the same sandwich and are both always in a hurry. But she eats early and I eat late so we’ve never crossed paths.
(4) I met six friends for happy hour last week; we drank cocktails with fresh muddled fruit and sucked on edamame. Then we went next door and drank PBRs in a bar with a mechanical bull. Then I walked home over the bridge.
(5) There is a national forest one hour east of here – One Real Hour, I am not rounding down – named after one of my heroes. This weekend Operaman and I drove there. I put my feet in the Columbia, roll on roll on. We stayed in a cabin that cost less per night than a mediocre meal in New York, we hiked half a day and saw no one. We ate cinnamon bread from the bakery in my neighborhood and ice cream from the dairy on the coast.
(6) My porch smells like roses.
These are the things I remember when I wake up and it’s raining again, when I wake up and it’s June and it’s been raining for eight months – not in a metaphorical way, but it’s starting to feel like it.
posted by tortaluga @ 12:40 PM
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