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December 2003

Saturday, December 06, 2003

It’s time to go home for the year. No more itineraries. No more airports. No more rental cars. Or at least no more Chevy Malibu’s. Home to spend the next few weeks with family and friends.

Last night for the first time in a long time I got really lonely in my hotel room. It was as if I had turned into a zombie: plug in my cell phone. Set the alarm clock. Unpack the toiletry bag. Hang up my clothes. Go to sleep. I was tired.

I wanted to go home. I wanted to see my brother who just turned 21 and finally stop ignoring his calls. I wanted to cook a dinner and not have to save the receipt from a restaurant. I wanted to get in the car and know where I’m going and not have to ask directions. Being on the road for 5, 6, 7 days at a time is no way to stay healthy. It’s no way to take care of your body.

But boy it sure is worth it. All the people I’ve met. All the lives I’ve come in contact with, for only a few moments. I’ve already forgotten their names but I’ll never forget their stories. Which small story impacted me the most? The honest and helpful doctors in Indianapolis? The happy group of SPLASH dancers in Deactur, Georgia? The cab driver in Chicago who came to this country one week before he drove me to the airport? (I couldn’t understand what he was saying but I knew he was damn proud of it.) The shoe shiner in San Francisco who insisted he be called a ‘shoe care specialist’? The waiter in Cleveland whose cell phone delivered the news that he was now a father?

Or maybe it was the hostess in Salt Lake City who winked at me just the right way when she showed us the way. Or the excitement of one man in Birmingham who – after 30 years – finally got to meet his childhood hero, Joe Namath. Or the doctor in Baltimore who was aghast that we’d drive back to New York at half past nine at night.

All of these people coexisting in this world, with one thing in common – their stories, their meaning and their lives impacting mine more than they’ll ever know. Carl is still shining shoes. Ipsin is still driving his cab. That girl is still flirting helplessly with out-of-towners. And I’m a better person, having gotten to know them. Even for a minute.

Tuesday, December 16, 2003

The drive to work this morning was beautiful. The weather has caused some treacherous driving but has also turned out some amazing landscapes. The kind where the trees are wet during the day and freeze up at night, and coupled with the sunrise give way to a Norman Rockwell classic. If I were, say, 54, my kids had moved out and I was in no particular rush, I’d actually pull over and take a minute to appreciate the scene.

However I’m not. I’m 22. I’m always in a rush. And I’m always on the go.

Tuesday, December 23, 2003

Screaming agony, is about the best way to sum up a weekend of gallivanting around New York City without an extra set of medicine. Come Sunday it’s all over and all I want to do is soak in a tub for hours on end. A tub of hot oil.

I think for now on I need to keep an extra set (or two) of pills in my glove compartment. The kind where you have to "break glass in event of emergency". It’s ridiculous to have to worry by the end of the weekend that I’m not going to be able to make it upstairs. It’s not like I’m out all hours of the night partying, I just choose not to reroute myself via a drug store in order to get some more medicine.

That’s what I get for having a good weekend out and about. What was I thinking?