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Mar. 19th, 2005 05:57 pmWhat I would do for some Naan and Curry right now.
Mar. 19th, 2005
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Mar. 19th, 2005 11:21 pmI've been pining for other places lately.
Sweden for the Nations. For saffron gellato, for biking out into the countryside. For the Pågatåg, strong coffee, korridorkompisar; for the Omtenta. For cobblestone streets and falafels and sill and spex and the Number 4 bus.
Berkeley for sleeping on a balcony. For walking up in the hills and the awesome view of the bay. For co-ops full of people and food and Music and Story Night and all that. For walking across the campus. For everyone who is extraordinary; for so many of my friends. For the multitude of restaurants, for Moe's.
Even Davis for the hot, hot weather and the heavy air, the Sacramento river and the mythology of Joan Didion. For Carolina for similar reasons, for the mythology of a place.
* * *
Winter has, I think, lost its grip on Rochester. Three weeks ago there was a day when the temperature reached up maybe to sixty. "Winter is over," Justin announced. It was as if Christmas had been cancelled, or some momentous event had been cut short. I wasn't ready. Fortunately the proclaimation was premature. Now, though, I am pasting in big broad leaves and swathes of green to the trees, trying it all on for size.
I saw a big "Cal" flag flying from a house in the Southwedge. It warmed my heart.
Sweden for the Nations. For saffron gellato, for biking out into the countryside. For the Pågatåg, strong coffee, korridorkompisar; for the Omtenta. For cobblestone streets and falafels and sill and spex and the Number 4 bus.
Berkeley for sleeping on a balcony. For walking up in the hills and the awesome view of the bay. For co-ops full of people and food and Music and Story Night and all that. For walking across the campus. For everyone who is extraordinary; for so many of my friends. For the multitude of restaurants, for Moe's.
Even Davis for the hot, hot weather and the heavy air, the Sacramento river and the mythology of Joan Didion. For Carolina for similar reasons, for the mythology of a place.
* * *
Winter has, I think, lost its grip on Rochester. Three weeks ago there was a day when the temperature reached up maybe to sixty. "Winter is over," Justin announced. It was as if Christmas had been cancelled, or some momentous event had been cut short. I wasn't ready. Fortunately the proclaimation was premature. Now, though, I am pasting in big broad leaves and swathes of green to the trees, trying it all on for size.
I saw a big "Cal" flag flying from a house in the Southwedge. It warmed my heart.