How can 40 days fly but flying in 40 minutes take so long? This dispatch is brought to you from the Bradley international airport, where magic comes in a foil paper wrapper, and the sun continues to rise over a bald guy's head. Like the last time I deserted my New England post, I watched loved ones fall off my immediate radar one at a time, ultimately prying my buddy Arn's shaking arms from my tear-stained sweatshirt to go through the new and improved security check where I had to throw away my water bottle so I could buy another one on the other side. I had a lot of potential blog posts form and then fizzle in the time that I've been "home" while I was busy wondering why I didn't think of that red paper-clip thing.
well as I've been saying all along, George..." and perhaps other, deeper things that make going back to Africa slightly more appealing then it felt while I was enjoying an Early Grey Martini and driving past tobacco farms and maple shacks (not at the same time). I stepped into stores to avoid people whose names I'd forgotten, ordered lattés that looked like movie props, dosed up on plenty of
dark chocolate (hold the meltedness and ants, thanks) and downloaded podcasts into the dawn. There will always be more softserve and sushi, so leaving America wouldn't be that difficult if only I could do away with those pesky pains of missing loved ones who've cared and been so careful for me. So, 40 minutes is done, it's boarding time. Elite members... that's not me, is it?