Class of 2004

So my 5 year high school reunion is a week from today. Of course, that kind of landmark makes one pause a moment. The unoriginal question "where did the time go?" immediately springs to mind. But when I stop to ponder that question, of course it's easy to break down where the time did go. For most of us it's been four years of college and one year in the proverbial "real world". Ta da. Here we are. But still it's almost impossible to comprehend the speed of time in which all that has happened.

The other thing I realize is how much really has changed in that span of time. Or, more importantly, how much we, ourselves, have changed. For me, it's funny to think of who I was in high school, compared to who I am today. In high school I was shy, timid, studious, unadventurous, self-conscious, self-doubtful. And yet, incongruously, I was also confident in my abilities, competent and convinced that I was capable of great and interesting things. I've since grown out of that first, adolescence-inspired list of adjectives (and thank God for that). But, I believe the second list of qualities still holds true.  

I'm not actually attending my reunion, but if I were I'm sure I would be equally impressed with the changes my peers have undergone. In the past year I've actually caught up with some people who I went to high school with. I'd been out of touch with them for years. I was impressed by all of them, regardless of my naive, limited impressions of them from high school. I was also absurdly pleased with how well we get along now. It seems a testament to each of us not only that we've matured individually but that we can recognize and appreciate that maturity and independence in others. In some ways we have grown up together, yet we have each traveled very different journeys. Reconnecting at this stage brings with it both a comforting familiarity and an exciting newness. Cheers to you, class of 2004.

Jotting things down

So this writing revolution of mine (aka my recommitment to blogging and booking) is not proving to be a piece of cake. Not that I thought it would be, but I do find that I need to constantly prod myself into sitting down and typing something out. I find this curious because it is indeed something that I want to do. I enjoy it; I find it very satisfying when I get on a roll, and I always feel accomplished when I've made some progress. So what then is this natural force that makes me disinclined to actually do it? But here I am again. I'm trying. So I guess I will give myself credit for that. I feel that so long as I am constantly nagging at myself, there's hope.  

I carry a little notebook with me to jot ideas down in, but it's a far cry from being able to actually flesh out and develop a thought while I'm on the go. Much as I love my macbook, it's not as portable as I would wish. So, I'm putting on my christmas wish list a request for one of those teeny tiny word processing laptops so that I can carry it with me. My parents don't know that's on my wish list but they soon will... a mini laptop and a really good traveling backpack (more on that later). Being able to write on the t or stop in a coffee shop to do some work on my way home would greatly increase my free writing time. So enough excuses. I leave you now to put in some quality one-on-one time with my book. 

All aboard

I have a love/hate relationship with trains. They are inconvenient, slow and often unpredictable. For the four years I spent up in Montreal, a ten hour train ride was my main way of getting to and from school. I grew to despise Amtrak's Adirondack route. Each time I would suffer through so many stops, hours waiting for customs at the border.  More than once I made the trip on minimal sleep and with a crippling hangover (you'd think I'd learn). 

When I was in Italy, I spent every Saturday at a train station in some tiny overlooked town, leaving what had been my home and my family for the week, only to board a train and start all over again. So often I just wanted to take some time and enjoy where I was and who I was with, to take a little break from the road. 

Now I'm living in Boston, riding subway cars multiple times daily. Each time is  different experience, new people to watch, new conversations to eavesdrop on. At the moment, I find myself on the commuter rail to Providence. What is not normally a pretty view out the window is even bleaker now that the yellow-orange leaves have fallen from the maple trees and only the grungy brown oak leaves are left hanging on.

And yet, it is safe to say my train-love outweighs my train-hate. I'm at home in train stations. They hold a promise of adventure, of stories not yet told. I sit here, rocking to some Jason Mraz (specifically Make it Mine) and I feel like I'm in a movie as the buildings, cars, trees glide past me. I remember a 22 hour trip from San Remo all the way down to Sicily - first a sleeper train to Rome's Termini station, then a 12 hour trip down along the west coast, through Naples, onto a ferry, off a ferry and finally arriving in Acireale, just north of Catania. That train trip showed me a whole country. It was my grand introduction to the summer that would follow. 

Trains are so much more personal than planes. You're down on the ground, you can see life happening. And they're so much more welcoming than buses. Buses compete with traffic, traveling the infrastructural arteries of a place without getting close enough to see the beauty. Even the train to Montreal was a beautiful trip, traveling up through the woods of Vermont along the shores of Lake Champlain. I'd often see blue heron, deer, and bald eagles. In the woods houses were nestled, smoke rising from chimneys. In winter ice fisherman sat rigid in folding chairs on the lake. 

Trains are fascinating. While out the window you can see life as it passes, on the train you can see it up close and personal. You get a real broad slice of people from the area, businesspeople, students, economically disadvantaged, regular joes on the way to the football game, and me. 

Trains make me nostalgic and hopeful and ready for an adventure.

A Practically Perfect Halloween

Oh Halloween, that day of mischief and mayhem. Generally I'm not a big fan of this particular holiday, but this year was different. For once I didn't have a half-assed costume. I wasn't a cat or a cowgirl - I was an actual recognizable character. As many of you know, Mary Poppins made  her debut this year. A few people have said, "of course you would be Mary Poppins" and I'll admit that it was not the most adventuresome costume.  I could have shown a little more skin, and probably will next year. But there is no debating that my costume was a hit.

For starters, we had a costume contest at work. The grand prize was an extra paid day off, which is nothing to sneeze at. So I figured it was worth a shot. As it turned out, only 4 people dressed up at all, and only 2 (myself included) put in any considerable effort. The other contender was a woman dressed as a scary old man with crazy gray hair and a cane. Much to her embarrassment, she realized once she got to work that her costume closely resembled another coworker of ours. Though it wasn't her original intention, everyone thought she dressed up as Norm. Because of the inside joke factor (and I think also the fact that she's been around longer) she got double the votes that I did. Bummer. 

Later that afternoon, the woman running the costume contest stopped by my cubicle. She informed me that they were awarding me an extra vacation day also just because I went all out. Sweet! Mary works her magic! I was a little disappointed that I didn't win outright, but hey I'm not picky when it comes to bonus vacay.

Halloween night, I re-donned my Mary ensemble (yes, she and I are on a first name basis now) and we went out on the town. People in the street cheered me and stopped to take pictures with me. At the bar people came over to our table specifically to say I was their favorite costume of the night. When we went for drunk food, people in line tried to get me to sing Spoonful of Sugar. You will be happy to know I was not so far gone as to acquiesce. 

All in all, I would say it was a success. I have already planned what I will do next year, but you will just have to wait and see. Cheerio 'til my next post! 

Early onset quarter-life crisis

I have been absent from Letting Go of the Handle, but I have been called back. A niggling feeling is telling me to write. I believe it's very important to follow your gut, so I hereby resolve to post 2 - 3 times a week and to work on my book a minimum of 2 hours a week.

I've been feeling a need to express myself, to be a little bigger than this life that I'm living. That sounds terribly pretentious, but I can't think how else to put it. I'm feeling antsy and confined by the 9-5 so I've poised myself at a crossroads as to what I want to do next. I've got a list of things I know I don't want, but decisions concerning my career, further education, ultimate location etc, cannot be made by process of elimination alone. I need to come to some concrete conclusions about what I do want to do with myself. 

I won't let life happen to me. I intend to proactively influence the course my life takes. Though I believe fate, coincidence, destiny - whatever you choose to call it -  has a role in how and why things happen, I think that without some action on my own part, these forces can't express themselves to their fullest potential. Things happen for a reason, yes, but in order for "things" to happen, I've got to do something first!

This is some heavy soul searching to do, so I intend to work it out by writing it out. Stick with me on this little journey of mine - I promise to make it fun (though this initial post might not be the best example of that, lol). Any thoughts, suggestions, expressions of moral support etc are always welcome.

Kitten!

Here she is! I've kept you in suspense long enough - I'm pleased to introduce you to my new little girl, Vespa. She won't be ready to come home with me for about another month because she is in fact, as tiny as she seems.  She's pretty wobbly and hasn't quite figured out the retractable claws yet, so she gets stuck on the carpet. It's pretty funny actually. 

I knew I wanted a female, and there were two in the litter. The second was a little striped tiger, also totally adorable. It was a tough choice. When I sighed aloud, "I don't know how I can decide," Vespa sat down by my foot and emitted a tiny "eep". She picked me, and I was sold. 

Appalled

It's hard to believe it's been a year since I was teaching English in Italy, but, sadly, it's true. Sometimes it feels like I was there just yesterday, but other times I get frustrated trying to remember little details that were once so freshly imprinted in my mind. When I pause I can dredge up numerous flavors of gelato (malaga, stracciatella, nocciola, pistacchio...), the name of the island I could see from my camp director's roof terrace (Ischia), the sharp smell of the giant lumpy lemons from the Amalfi coast (all the better to make limoncello my dear). These details can still be recalled, but how many are lost to the cobwebby corners of my brain more permanently?

I received an email recently that caused one week in particular to come rushing back to me in vivid detail. After a month in Italy, I was thrilled to finally be staying with my first host family. Previously I had stayed at a hotel in San Remo, a campground in Sicily and with my camp director (aka my boss) in Campania. Now I would be going to a small town in the Veneto region to live as part of an Italian family. 

I was greeted at the train station by my host mom and 3 host siblings waving homemade signs, name tags and flags. Through the course of the week, my family accepted me as one of their own. Their young son bunked down with Mom and Dad so that I could have his room. I felt terrible putting them out, but they insisted. They inquired about my food likes and dislikes, made me coffee every morning though they didn't drink it themselves, and taught me how to make tiramisu. Every evening when camp was through, they planned activities with me, a trip to see Marostica's life-size  chess board, dinner with friends, karaoke with our camp director. When I expressed an interest in seeing Venice, they made it happen. They created a treasure hunt for me, complete with questions (in English!) hidden throughout the house, and presents at the end. They even insisted on driving me to my next camp 2 hours away, rather than sticking me on a train at the end of the week. It was a pleasure staying with them, and all my coworkers were jealous of my terrific good fortune.

This week, the camp is running again, and my host family welcomed a new tutor into their home. Only this time, the new tutor was too blind to see how lucky he was in his family placement. He only saw the cramped quarters and 3 noisy (but likable) kids. The day after he arrived, he asked to be placed in a hotel. Apparently he is too tall to be comfortable in the son's room. He visits the family only at meal times because otherwise he would have to buy his own food. I know this because my host mom emailed me, me distraught at the situation, telling me how much I was missed. It kills me to think of them being treated so rudely, and I shudder to think that this new tutor is American. That fact was not verified in the email exchange, and I think I'd rather not know.

So, I'm going to let the situation speak for itself. I know that if I were to begin truly ranting about how angry and embarrassed this makes me, you would probably not bother devoting another twenty minutes to reading this post. I just hope I am never so shortsighted that I miss out on once in a lifetime experience like that for such superficial reasons.

What do you think?

So I've been a little busy. Well, that and the internet connection hasn't been very good. If anyone still reads this, my apologies for my absence. Thanks for sticking with me. 

As some of you know, my birthday was a couple weeks ago. The big two-three was a pleasant, if low-key affair; cupcakes, a trip home, a lovely dinner and musical at the Goodspeed Opera house, a barbecue with friends, and quite a few fourth of July thunderstorms. 

But the best is yet to come. And it will be one of my favorite things - next on my list after brown paper packages tide up with string. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I'm getting a kitten. We have a friend who's cat had a litter last week, five babies, all little tigers. I haven't chosen mine yet, but I'm hoping to get a little girl. I'm beyond excited. 

So here's where you come in. I have been wracking my brain thinking of names. I thought that the perfect one would hit me like a bolt of lightening, but apparently that's not how it works. So I'm welcoming input from cyber space. Here's my list of favorites:

Macchiato / Mac (Macchiato also means spotted in Italian)

Blueberry Muffin / Blue

Scout Finch

Sunny-side Up / Sunny

Coda (Italian for tail, also a musical term)

Vespa

Pantoufle (French for slipper, the name of the imaginary kangaroo in Chocolat)

Taormina / Mina (a beautiful town in Sicily)

Princess Buttercup

The Barefoot Contessa

Ok, see why I need some help? I'm all over the map here. Please keep in mind though that this is not a democratic vote. I'm definitely looking for your thoughts, but please don't be offended if I don't go with the most popular (or wackiest) suggestion. I also think the personality may play a role, but since I haven't met the little guy yet, that aspect is a wild card. If you'd like to suggest your own name, some guidelines I've been working with are - Italian/French inspired names, place names, favorite heroines and breakfast foods. Random, I know. Thanks for the help!

Sunny Sunday

I know I've been gone for ages. Forgive me! My internet is not all that reliable, and I can't bring myself to update my blog at work. My conscience forbids it. So while I've been absent, I've been finding ways to enjoy Boston on a budget, and have discovered that this is a great city for mini-adventures.

For example, a few weeks ago, we got an early heat wave, sunny and 90 degrees in April. The whole city fled stuffy apartments and flocked to Boston's beautiful and plentiful parks and open spaces. I got out my camera for the first time since I'd moved here and went out exploring. I wandered through Boston Common, downtown, and over to the waterfront snapping pictures as I went. I met up with nine or so friends at a park by the harbor for a picnic and some sun bathing. It was so good to get out! 

I had also discovered on boston.com that the Boston Sailing Club was having it's open house that weekend. They were giving free hour long trips out on the harbor on members' boats. Excellent! So we all wandered over to the wharf and signed up for our free sailboat ride. While we waited, the sailing club was giving out free soda and (plastic) glasses of wine (from a box). We got out on the water around 4:00, 8 people to a boat. Some were more interested in the actual sailing part - the group on my boat was content to lounge on the bow, catching the sea breeze and gazing admiringly at the skyline from the water. It was so relaxing and exhilarating at the same time. 

Between the sun, the friends and the free day of good times, I couldn't have asked for a nicer weekend. 

All's well...

I didn't know I had had it so easy. I used to finish class at 3:00 and then I would have five hours to get ready for a date at 8:00. I would have five hours to freak out, regroup, and assemble an outfit perfectly tailored to the activity du jour with a few minutes left over to freak out some more. 

It seems those days are gone. Now, I go out after work. Which means I need to be fresh and beautiful after waking up at 6:30, spending an hour on the train and then sitting in my cubicle under florescent lights for eight hours. This is no easy task. It requires preparation, forethought, and packing for all contingencies.

Take Thursday for example. I had a second date immediately after work. What's more, the date was going to be pretty casual, but I needed to dress up for work because some corporate big wigs were visiting. How does one go from corporate professional to casual date wear? After trying on every conceivable combo in my closet, I finally concluded that there was no way around packing a change of jeans. And shoes. And make-up reinforcements. And deodorant. I skipped the toothbrush, but I did briefly consider it. Gum would have to do.

To further complicate my already frenetic morning, I had a little wildlife adventure. My apartment has recently been seeing evidence of mice. Great. So I bought a humane trap and set it up in the kitchen. This particular morning, some pitiful unsuspecting rodent decided to get itself caught. I tend to have a lot of empathy for small helpless animals, so I couldn't bear to leave him in there not only all day, but probably all night since I wouldn't be home right after work. My only choice was to take him on a little walk outside, and release him in a bushy area across the street. Let me tell you, I could have really used those extra 15 minutes on Thursday morning!

To keep a long story from getting any longer, let's just say that all of my effort seemed to have paid off. Stewart Little is safe in his new home, and date number three is tomorrow.  

By popular demand

A photo of my haircut. 

Make fun of the photography if you want; self-portraits are tricky! This was the best hair/face combo, so please disregard the poor artistic composition.

PS: to reassure yourselves that I really do know my way around a camera, feel free to check out some of the shots I've been including with my Italy posts from summer 2008.

It's puppy season

It's that time of year again. The puppies have arrived. And they're cute. Damn cute. 

Everyone knows how much I love puppies. I mean, I'm in a facebook group called I really like puppies. But now they're everywhere, and I can't have one! It's torture! Some women get itchy fingers when they see babies. Not me, I'm immune. But puppies are another story. I just want to squeeze them. I know it's creepy, but I can't help it. Anyway, I just thought I'd share. Maybe someone else out there can relate. 

Pardon my French: I redeem myself

Sometimes the world finds little ways to reward me, small things that might not mean anything to the next person, but that put a smile on my face. For example, on my walk to work, I pass a men's dress shop every morning, and the proprietor owns 2 beautiful golden retrievers. Some mornings they stand in the doorway and watch me with big doe-y eyes as I pass by. It always puts me in a cheerful mood, ready to take on another day at work.  

Today, I had another pleasant occurrence. I've been looking for a place to get my hair cut in this new city of mine. I started by asking around at work but the places my co-workers go are way out of my price range. Well, I mean, I could pay $80 for a haircut, but that's just not how my priorities fall. So I went to the internet and found a cute dive in my neighborhood. It's only a notch or two above Supercuts, but it got rave reviews online, so I figured, what the heck. If I get a really botched cut, then I can go to a fancy salon and pay the big bucks to have it fixed. 

Well I was going to go yesterday, but I chickened out. Today, I was still on the fence, but somehow, without consciously making the decision, I found myself walking to the salon rather than straight home. Turns out my feet had the right idea. The place was empty, so I didn't have to wait, and the stylist was friendly, but not overwhelmingly chatty.

When we did get to talking she asked what I had studied. When I mentioned French, she immediately switched languages. Turns out she's from Morocco and her husband worked for the Moroccan embassy in Switzerland before they moved to the states.  She had and interesting story and seemed pleased to speak with me even though my French is getting rusty.

When I was living in Montreal, I used to have to psyche myself up to go get my haircut and prepare to converse in French. Funny how when I'm deprived of it, I have a whole new appreciation for it. And I never would have thought that my French hair-salon vocab would have come in handy after leaving Quebec. Just goes to show that you can never know the future has in store.

So I enjoyed some well-deserved pampering and French conversation for a very reasonable price. The haircut is adorable, and I look forward to going back. Sometimes I feel like the stars align just so to make my world a happy place. 

A note on my note on sexism...

Wow, I've been pleasantly surprised to see the show of support from my friends and readers. Thank you. Hahaha, actually, I've been pleasantly surprised to find that I actually HAVE readers! I'll do my best to keep you updated if this story has any interesting sequels...

A note on sexism

The beauty of blogging is that you can rant to your heart's content. No one can interrupt. No one can "just play devil's advocate". That said, you probably know where this is headed, but I will try to keep this reasonable. I am not a man-hater. I have a very fond appreciation for men who cultivate a balance of gentlemanly good manners and respect for women. I know that it's a charged environment in this day and age, with a plethora of double standards and trick questions. A compliment to one woman is an insult to another. My sympathies to you guys attempting to navigate these perilous waters, and big props to those of you who manage it successfully more often than not. It can't be easy.

Unfortunately there are some guys who fail miserably at this. Case in point: on my way to work this morning I was following a beautifully slender-legged woman (she was in front of me so I couldn't see her face) wearing a peacoat, skinny jeans and ankle boots, a perfectly acceptable, if casual, corporate outfit. Coming towards us, this overly buff, overly tanned 30 something guy passes her, and turns to watch her in the most obvious example of an ogle that I have seen this side of the Mediterranean. You could see on his face that he mentally grabbed her backside as she walked by. Ok, yes, so I'm reading between the lines, but if you were there, you would agree with me. This incident, repulsive as it was, was not what sparked this tirade.

My arrival at work coincided with the arrival of a coworker of mine, Zach, and we rode up in the elevator together. Conversing with this guy is a struggle for me. He's very sarcastic (and if you know me, my acknowledgment of that is saying something) and puts a spin on everything. It's exhausting trying to make small talk. As we were getting off, he looks down and notices that I'm wearing boots. These are not sexy boots. These are gritty, salt-stained, hard-worn boots. He says to me, "So I guess you don't know yet, do you?" I had no idea what he was talking about. He told me to find out from the other girls in my office. After we parted ways in the office, I asked the girls in my department what he could possibly be referring to.

Apparently none of the young women wear boots to the office because Zach will make suggestive comments. Apparently he has a thing for boots. Let me rephrase this revelation: Women in my workplace choose not to wear boots to work because a male co-worker makes them uncomfortable if they do. Excuse me? Is anyone else as flabbergasted as I am, or should I just attribute this to the inevitable disillusionment following my post-collegiate idealistic phase? 

I understand that thigh-high patent leather boots paired with a mini-skirt might lead to some comments being made. But I have a pretty good grasp of what work-place attire is appropriate, and I am going to wear boots if I so choose. Zach be damned. And you'd better believe I won't be putting up with any bullshit.

This little life of mine

The evidence is beginning to pile up. A Shaw's card and a CVS card dangle from my keychain. In the mail, not only do I receive bank statements, but also monthly IRA statements. That's right, I have a retirement account. My Sunday mornings are spent sipping cappuccino (from my very own cappuccino maker) as I leisurely peruse the morning paper. 

There's no more denying it. I'm a grown-up. A full fledged adult. No turning back now. How did this happen? I don't feel any different. I still like youthful stuff. I like to go out on weekends. Friends of mine are talking about renting a mechanical bull for Cinco de Mayo. And I think it sounds like fun. How can I be an adult and a kid at the same time, I wonder? 

I have figured out the answer. Adults have a secret club. They actually like fun stuff. They think dirty jokes are funny. They do tequila shots and dance to live music. My mom tried to tell me that adults weren't really a foreign species ( I wonder if she gets club demerits for telling an outsider?). And yet, even with a little forewarning, I am still shocked. 

My world did not come to a screeching halt the moment I got a real job. I did not cease to exist when I started bringing home a pay check. In fact, life got better! Holy leaping toadstools Batman! That's right, I have play money, and no homework. Welcome to the super secret grown-up club, no hazing required. Sweet deal!

Move over Cupid!

I have survived another year of Valentine's Day mayhem in one piece. Not too shabby. Actually, I quite enjoyed myself. True, I did make it a point not to go out into the fray or watch any mushy TV, but I figured that was for emotional insurance purposes. My roommate was out of town visiting her fiancé - which I don't hold against her, because when I have a fiance we'd better be spending time together on Valentine's Day.  So, fair's fair. 

Recently, I've been enjoying a refreshed perspective on being single. I'm sure this new outlook played a role in making this February 14th so pleasant and relaxing. At this point after my big move, it's very important to me to establish my own life. I want my own friends, my own activities and commitments. Developing a support network of my own will make me better grounded and better equipped to venture out into the Bostonian dating scene. I'm not saying if a cute guy asked me out I would turn him down on these grounds, but I am appreciating the time to myself to develop my own network and routine. So often I have seen people get sucked into a relationship and lose their sense of themselves. To put it mildly, that's not really what I'm looking for. I feel like I have only just found myself, I would hate to lose that sense of identity. No, I didn't phrase that right. I would be so angry with myself if I gave up that new-found sense of self so easily. 

So in the meantime, I'm taking advantage of some quality me-time. My free time, no longer stretched to the limits with homework and school commitments, is now available pursue hobbies that have long be pushed aside. I can actually cook a nice meal, do yoga to my heart's content, or brush up on my Bach. And if I get sick of that, I can call up a friend and explore this amazing city. Pretty good deal if you ask me. So Happy Valentine's day to me!

Don't judge a book

I went out with some friends the other night. I haven't been dancing in ages, so I thoroughly enjoyed myself, but we knew when to call it quits, keeping in mind how hard it is to find an empty cab at that time of night on a Saturday. On like the 30th attempt, we successfully flagged one down, and gratefully climbed in. 

While chatting with my friend, I mentioned something about my time in Italy. The driver, who had till now been quiet, piped up, and asked how long I had been there. I told him I had been there for three months this summer. Then, in Italian, he asked me how I had learned to speak the language. I was so excited! When he discovered that I had learned Italian at university in Montreal, he then switched to French! 

He explained that his parents were Lebanese, but that he had grown up in Paris. When he was 14, he fell in love with a girl who was the daughter of the Iranian ambassador to France. She attended the Italian language high school, but he went to school in French. The cab driver explained that he went to his father, and convinced him to let him switch schools to go to the Italian language school as well. He took Italian classes through the summer from 9:00 until 6:00 six days a week, and when he started at the new school, he and the girl were in the same class. He also added that she was one of a set of twins, a skinny girl and a chubby girl, and "I was with the chubby one." Haha, it was kind of endearing. 

As crazy as that story might seem, I want to believe it's true. I mean, he really could speak French and Italian. That much wasn't made up. It does make me wonder how someone who speaks 4 languages and has the kind of educated and diverse background he did, ends up a cab driver in Boston...

The T, in all its glory

I fully expected that riding the T to work would be an experience unlike any I'd ever dealt with on a daily basis. Well, I was right. 

There are some aspects of my daily commute that have surprised me somewhat. I've noticed that, luckily, few people who ride the T are coughing and hacking and sniffling. You would think that with the sheer volume of people, there would be at least one or two in each car who would happily pass along their cold. Or perhaps it is exactly because of the sheer volume of people that no one has a cold. The astronomical level of germ exposure has rendered everyone simply immune. I'm happy that it's winter and I don't look like a weirdo if I just keep my gloves on...

Next, I found that the commute is quiet. Bizarrely so. Aside from the creaking of the cars and whroooshing along the tracks, there isn't a sound. No one talks, not to each other, not on their cell phones, not to themselves (well...there are exceptions) But I guess the silence makes sense. I mean, I'm so used to being at school where everyone travels in packs. No one commutes in a pack. That's not how it's done. And we're in New England, so clearly no one would dream of starting up a conversation with the person standing 4 inches from them. Thus, silence. It's good for reading, and much better than uncomfortable small talk with strangers.

I have also had some striking coincidences while riding the T recently. This afternoon, I looked up, and across from me there was a girl wearing my exact glasses frames. I have had this pair for 3 years and never seen them anywhere else. Aside from her being blonde, blue eyed, and generally rather more delicate than myself, it was like looking in a mirror. Well, ok so not really, but still.

Stranger than that though, a couple weeks ago I saw this guy getting off the train and knew that I knew him. It wasn't one of those, oh hey, that guy looks an awful lot like someone I know, maybe it's him, it was more like, holy crap! I know that guy! It was a guy I had worked with in San Remo this summer. Yes that's a big stretch, but the kicker is he's British. As in from Britain. Which is far away. Well, I thought it was cool. Anyhoo, I didn't get to talk to him on the T (cause it was so damn crowded), but I did send him an email when I got home. And I was right, it was him, he was in town for the week, but was leaving the next day, so we didn't get to meet up anyway. 

Small world, united by public transport. It's been an interesting ride, and I'm sure that isn't about to change.

A look back...

So I'm working on backdating my blog. I'll be posting the group emails that I sent out chronicling my time in Italy this summer. I haven't edited them so they may not be as polished as I might hope, but I think their sincerity and enthusiasm speaks for itself. So if it looks like I haven't posted anything in a while check out any summer entries. They're probably new. 

Pardon my French

Every once in a while, we all have moments of idiocy. Believe it or not, I am not immune. I know this little anecdote is going to seem trivial to most, but for me it's proving to be a series of events that just won't stop mentally replaying. And I cringe every time.

I was on the T yesterday after a busy day of work. I thankfully managed to grab a seat and I settled in with my copy of The Princess Diaries (not to worry, I've finished that and am now reading a Toni Morrison - I like to mix it up). I was quickly distracted from my book when I overheard snippets of conversation in French off to my left. I got very excited, and continued to stare at my book as if reading, while really concentrating with all my might on eavesdropping. To be honest, I didn't catch much. I was dying to butt in, but managed to restrain myself.

Well, at least until the conductor announced that the train was being taken out of service at the next stop, and we'd all have to get off and wait for the next one. I seized my opportunity and turned to the nearest francophone and said in my most beautiful French accent, "est-ce que vous avez comprené?"  He had me repeat it. "Est-ce que vous avez comprené?" Finally, after the third repetion, he said, "Oh, oui." I was a little miffed that that was all I got out of it. Not even a grudging, "merci."

It wasn't until we had gotten off, stood in the freakin' freezing cold for 5 minutes, and boarded the next train did I realize why he hadn't understood me. I had used the wrong past participle of comprendre. Yes, that's what's this whole freak out is about. I said "comprené" instead of "compris". And I can't let it go. The kid on the train was probably thinking, "Hell yeah I understood, cause clearly my Eeenglish is way better than your French." 

Which might be true. BUT it shouldn't be. I mean, after 5 years of French classes growing up, and then a minor in the subject while studying in Montreal, you would THINK I could ask, "Did you understand?" without screwing it up. So yeah, I felt like an idiot. And I'm not sure sharing my idiocy with you makes me feel a whole lot better...

*le sigh*

Bring it on, Bean-town!

So, I have been in Boston for a little more than a week, and I have already enjoyed more of a social life than I've had in the past 4 months lounging at home. Thursday was drinks and a Bruins game with the work gang. I'm really enjoying the people in my department, so that's really encouraging. Saturday was an impromptu jam session (Bach style) with my piano-playing upstairs neighbor. Then that evening I went to a birthday party in Cambridge, flying solo. I've never done that, and I was nervous to go without a back-up crew. I was very pleasantly surprised to find that in a way it makes mingling easier, and the group that was there was totally inclusive and friendly. Success! So basically, I am just so thrilled to be here, starting my life for real this time. Maybe being and adult is gonna be better than advertised...

Where am I?

I feel like I've been living my life for the past couple days as an out of body experience. Time is just flying - each time I look up I feel a sense of surprise to find myself wherever I happen to be at the moment. Not surprised to realize, Oh I'm not in Connecticut but in Boston, or Oh I'm in my NEW apartment, or Oh I'm at my NEW job. It's more along the lines of discovering myself suddenly in the kitchen, or on the T, or standing in front of the photocopier, and wondering how I got there. And somehow, it doesn't bother me in the slightest. I'm not unsettled or unnerved, I just feel oddly removed from myself. 

I think another thing that is starting to dawn on me is that a huge sense of relief is emerging. Even though I spent much of the last 4 months sitting around without daily commitments, I was dealing with a lot of stress. Now that many of those issues have come full circle, and I am well on my way to making a life for myself, in a sense, I can relax. Certainly I aspire to work hard, do well at my job and carve out a social niche here, but at least now I can actually begin rather than just wait around, impatiently drumming my fingers. Relief comes with action. 

Now as soon as my head can catch up with my physical self, I can start enjoying this newfound sense of contentment.