Live, from the southbound Amtrak regional

I’m on my way back to Philly right now, after a mostly relaxing, mostly lovely trip to Vermont and Connecticut. As much as I want to be the independent twenty-something eager to get back to her own life, I’m always a little sad to leave my parents and dog and high school friends. It doesn’t seem to matter where I’m heading – a rundown West Philly rowhouse packed with eight girls, a less-rundown DC rowhouse packed with four girls, or our new Center City apartment for two – I always get whacked with this wave of dread as we pull up to the train station.

The boyfriend waiting for me three hours down the Eastern seaboard is effective consolation, to be sure (as are the new, totally hot black suede gold-heeled stilettos sitting in my bag overhead) but my real life is just no match for the comfort and familiarity of these holiday breaks. As someone who spent most of high school screaming at her parents, I never would have imagined I’d love seeing rom-coms with my mom (in public) eating sushi with my dad (also, in public) and having them both take me and my best friend M out for brunch at the diner (again, with the public, and the other people, and the potential for embarrassment.) But I do. As long as we stay on this side of the Atlantic.

Anyway, I refuse to have another semi-nostalgic sob-fest of a post (see here and here), so instead I’m going to round this out with a quick recap of the past week and a half.

Five Things I Didn’t Have A Chance To Photograph,
But You Should Probably Know About Anyway

  • The look on my face when Dave’s parents called to ask me and Christie Lee for our shoe sizes. (Unsurprisingly, our holiday gifts ended up being slippers.) We were all in the living room in Vermont and the Asian goddess cheerfully shouts back to Dave, waiting on the phone in the kitchen, that she’s a 6.5, and I’m all, of course you would be a 6.5, Christie Lee. I, on the other hand, then have to reveal to the room that while I’m only 5′ 3″ (on a good day), I have massive feet. Thanks for the size 8.5 slippers, Mr. and Mrs. B!
  • My best friend M, but only because she wouldn’t let me. She’ll kill me for writing this, but she is really the most lovely person – inside and out – I’ve ever met, and she’s looking especially gorgeous these days.
  • The massive bruise on my ass. This would actually fall into the “I guess I could take a picture of this, but I’m confident you don’t want me to” category. Said bruise was acquired while taking snowboarding lessons with Dave, who couldn’t stomach the fact that I would kick his ass on skis and thus insisted that we spend the day swearing/crying/inflicting bodily harm on ourselves. Or maybe that was just me. Word on the street is he’s going back for more this week.
  • The birthday dinner for my fabulous friend J in the city Sunday night. After dealing with some friend drama on the home front, it was so nice to sit around with seven other twenty-somethings, some of whom I know well, some of whom I know a little, and some of whom I’d never met, and just chat and eat. That simple. Except for the part the next day, when I got sick from the Indian food. From the upscale Manhattan restaurant. Which I think bodes really well for my body’s ability to handle ACTUAL FOOD IN INDIA.
  • A disastrous attempt by my mother and I to make rainbow cookies on Thursday night. They ended up tasting less like the product of an Italian bakery and more like something that’s kosher for Passover. We couldn’t figure out why they were so dry and deflated, until the formerly mentioned M (did I mention she went to Yale? And is a genius?) took one look at the recipe and said, “um, it says to use a 13 x 9 pan.” Right.

There’s one more thing so utterly amazing that I did make sure to photograph it, and I promise to tell you all about it just as soon as I get back to my home computer.

Finally, a reason to look forward to 30th Street Station.

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One Response

  1. I’m always grateful for the interlude on trains when there are big emotions involved in shifting places. I’m not sure why planes and cars don’t offer the same sense of slow transition, but they don’t. Perhaps it’s because I watch the scenery closer on a train than when I’m driving? Or because there’s a sense that the railroad is taking care of me (as opposed to me driving myself)? And there’s a certain coziness in feeling ensconced in my seat. I’ve felt that on a plane too, but it easily goes to belted in claustrophobia there.

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