We touched down in Boston. Everything, as I've already said, gray. Damp, chilly, all that. In theory, I had 55 minutes to claim luggage, navigate customs, get to the bus station. Tight, with a real possibility of not making the bus. Except the plane landed 20 minutes early, making everything easier.
Customs passed in no time at all, the female agent's demeanor softening when she saw I'd come from Madrid, exchanging a few smiling words with me about the dream of living there. Baggage claim came and went, a jumbo-sized cabbie with a Caribbean accent got me to South Station. I dragged my sorry, baggage-laden ass inside, spotted restrooms, stumbled into what I thought was the men's bog. Found myself staring at two women, one cleaning sinks, the other in business attire, washing her hands. I blinked, mouth open, looked around, wondering if the women's room had been closed, forcing them to use these facilities. They spotted me, noted my expression and general state of disorientation, fell about laughing. The businesswoman took me by an arm, led me gently outside, pointed me to the proper loo, apparently having figured out that she was dealing with a sleep-deprived halfwit, not a voyeur. I shuffled into the men's room, weaved around a janitor (mid-floor-mopping), propped myself up against a urinal, began dumping the ballast. Seconds later, a 40ish black guy appeared two urinals to my right, assumed the position and got to work, going, "OH, yeah! Woooo-OO!" Apparently experiencing some relief. When I left, he was still vocalizing.
I drifted in and out of sleep on the ride north, waking along I-89 to see mile after mile of blossom-covered dogwoods along the side of the highway. My car had been left for me at the bus station in Montpelier (thanks, Rick!), I dumped my stuff into it, picked up groceries, headed home. At the house, only a few lonely daffodils had poked their heads up in the various places bulbs had been planted, spare bits of yellow amid all the gray, brown, and still-austere green, everything looking like early April instead of late May.
Certain elements have remained in tune with the actual time of the year, undaunted by faux winter. I refer, of course, to dandelions, currently carpeting local expanses of grass in unbelievable, kudzuesque profusion, some of them already turning white, trying to shoot their wads. Kind of unnerving to ponder, really, the quantity of little yellow buggers out there engaging in their version of sex. More than a raw show of reproductive prowess, it's a massive display of self-gratification, a forest of phallic launching pads, filling the air with dandelion sperm that eventually settle to earth, take root and begin the entire obscene process all over again.
My lawn is indecent.
Two days ago: dragged the mower out of the garage, began laying waste to the randy buggers when pauses between falling dampness permitted. Kind of nice to be outside, actually, strolling around the lawn murdering oversexed plant life.
This morning: sunshine, temperatures cruising up toward 70. Birds cavorted, singing with wild, almost intoxicated abandon. The season's first hummingbird showed up, hovering outside the dining room window, doing teeny winged critter equivalent of clearing its throat loudly and repeatedly. I got the message, found the feeder, made a bunch of sugar water, hung it out in the lilac bush. Within a couple of hours, hummingbirds had shown up in force, having a hopped-up, sucrose-fueled party.
The kinder weather has brought out loads more green. This being Memorial Day weekend, the traditional start to the growing season up here, sales of flowers and vegetable seedlings are off and running. Montpelier's alive with tourists and vacationers. Summer's underway, just like that.
Since getting back, my body's remained on European time, waking me up at 4 or 5 a.m. The kind of waking up that means no going back to sleep -- not my idea of a good time. This morning was the first indication the system might be relaxing a bit, starting to acclimate, me sleeping in to the decadent hour of six. (Hey, it's a start.)
Six time zones away, life goes on in a city I love, now beyond the horizon, out of view, out of earshot. Life goes on here, too, just a whole different kind of life. Quieter, far more tranquil, at least at the local level. I tend not to pay much attention to the macro levels when I'm in this part of the world. A whole different kind of existence from my other life.
But I blabber.
On to the weekend.
**************
Two mornings ago, far, far too early:
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 2:47 PM [+]
