And thus ends my sweet sojourn in Boston. My fantastic friend/host Colin dropped me off on the train, whereupon I promptly missed my bus because I forgot that the Red Line is a dick on weekends, but hopped on the next one.
I met a couple of women — I think a mother/daughter, with the most delightful Caribbean-sounding accents — in South Station because we kept ending up on the same elevator (and I, with my bicycle, am slightly conspicuous, even in busy train stations), and so we’d do that stranger-acknowledgement-wave-nod in the terminal, then they came over to use the power outlet near where I was camped out. We got to talking, traded tips on good clothing stores in Boston and New York (yes, fuckers, I may be far from a paragon of typical femininity but I do shop, when forced to) and reasonable places to live in Beantown, and I gave them my spare portable charger.
Basically we’re best friends now is what I’m saying. Except I never learned their names.
So I got back to New York, and spent the evening night-biking through Manhattan into Queens, my life condensed back down to the things on my body and the things on my bike. My boots were knotted onto my backpack and dangling on my right hip and my bike lock banged against my left, rhythmical and painful. I would be lying if I did not admit that I felt a little bit bad-ass, but it also felt like home.
I have friends in NYC, but after two weeks camped out in Colin’s living room, I wanted to take a night of… I dunno, I want to say alone, which is a little absurd, since I have five roommates (one girl is from Singapore, lives in LA and shares my dislike of it, and also came from Boston South Station today; I almost certainly passed her in the terminal) — and am currently sprawled in the basement with god knows how many people from god knows how many countries —
(This is a drug and alcohol-free establishment, says the welcome memo. There is what appears to be a hookah lounge down here, and as far as I can tell there is not a person down here without a drink in their hand. There are mixers on the kitchen shelf. I can’t tell if they were joking or just nobody cares.)
Is there a word for that, though, that comfortable feeling of being alone around people? Nobody expecting conversation, or cleverness, or anything other than very basic common courtesy. I am infinitely, indescribably grateful for all my friends who have extended me their hospitality — and there’s zero percent chance this trip would have gone as long or as smoothly (or just as fun) as it has without them. But there’s something relaxing about the anonymous exchange of money for services, of paying money for a place to sleep when you don’t have your own.
So, I’ll be flopping around New York ’til like Wednesday or some shit and then kick rocks down to DC for a few days. My path finally, finally intersects there with my old friend and fellow current vagabond Jack, and we shall reluctantly creep down I-95 back to Florida next weekend, and I am terrified.
I know some reverse culture shock is to be expected, and is normal, but shit, y’all, after living like this for a couple months, the depression starts sinking its sneaky little claws into me when I’m in the same place for longer than a week — and that’s not in Florida, for which I have emotional ambivalence at best six ways from Sunday. I need to get a job, any job (that doesn’t involve the phone) ASAfuckingP, restock my dwindling bank account, and get the fuck out of there.
At some point I will add some more pictures from my Boston mass photodump, and presumably here in NY, but I’m much too lazy to wander up from the zero reception basement to upload from my phone. So for now there’s just this word dump, which ended up lengthier than I’d intended. As usually seems to be the case. Hopefully I will have some fun stories or cool pictures or something vaguely interesting here, instead of just these overly long, slightly morose reflections.
Fuck me, am I channeling LiveJournal? Help!