Sitting And Staring Out Of A Hotel Window

Entry 1

It's departure day. I just got out of a very long shower, now suddenly in dire need of coffee. Not much of a bleak wakeup, no desperate attempt to get

sleep last night, it was effortless if one counts the nearly 3 hours of sleep as worthy of being considered rest. Of interest, my watch noted my heart slowed for 30 minutes to just above 50 beats in the middle of the night, meaning I had an episode of brachycadia. The watch is remarkably accurate, btw. I am not sure why that happened, but I am not happy about it.

Entry 2 8:40 a.m.

Just went downstairs to the coffee bar. I am in the financial district. No one in the bar appeared to be over 30. All the men were dressed in business casual,  women in power suits with pants or dark skirts. I felt like either an interloper or invisible at 56 with my shorts, summer shirt, baseball hat and a week's worth of gray scraggly beard on my cheeks. My coffee and hipster coffee cake are exquisite, especially with music like Moby's Porcelain and Morcheeba's The Sea playing.

Entry 3 2:03 p.m.

Boston's ridiculously expensive summer construction threw Google for a loop, which was evident as I tried desperately to get to the airport. The valet that retrieved my car was dyslexic I learned, and read my ticket wrong. It took an hour to get thr right car. The valet in charge apologized profusely, although I really didn't mind. It meant less time at the airport.

Anxiety shows up in annoying ways. I got on the wrong shuttle to my terminal--an easy mistake given the circumstances--I won't bore you with them. I got off the bus at the first terminal I could and climbed on a bus that would take me to my terminal. Terminal B, the one I needed, had two stops--I needed the second.. The bus driver stopped at the first stop and I stayed on. He closed the door, went about 20 feet and the doors opened again. I assumed it was my stop--although I thought it weird, and said fuck it, and got off the bus. It was still stop 1. I waited, nervously thinking getting to the terminal timely could be a problem if I don't get my shit together. The next bus that was headed to terminal b stop 2, I boarded. The bus driver was surprised when I told her I needed to get off, she was pick-up only. I didn't care and she let me off.

So, I was a little anxious, but not terribly so. Then, I entered Terminal B. I was lost and walking back and forth for probably 20 minutes before I got it together, PUT MY GLASSES ON, and got to and through the line. After a pit stop at Hudson News where I grabbed a drink and a snack, here I sit parked and ready to return home.

I am not sure what to expect when I get home, honestly. My deck will still need to be powerwashed, for reasons I don't understand my handyman didn't get to the house on Friday and didn't text to let me know. I'm guessing he couldn't get in, my housesitter likely gone.  I am home so late and work comes so early, I regret not taking the whole week.

The house will be full of memories of the last three years when I get home, but otherwise empty. What had begun to feel like a home with my kid, dog and me filling it out (or in, I suppose) already seems, instead, like a ball and chain or a concrete block tied to my waist.

Entry 4

Still on the plane. For the first four hours or so I enjoyed an empty middle seat, and an unfriendly but very quiet guy on the aisle. Kind of a dream, really. But the woman in the seat in front of me was having a terrible time charging her O2 tank, so the flight attendant graciously moved the middle passenger from that row to ours so she could work on fixing the problem without crushing the dude. So, sitting next to me is a guy, maybe 19, skinny as a hunger striker and eating endless amounts of food. I am starving, and am dreaming of the good old days, ten minutes ago.

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