There's many who say you can't go home again. I say, screw that, go to amtrak.com, find yourself a train heading in the right direction and do that thing. But then, I enjoy going home, I really do. At a certain point in my time at not-Yale, usually immediately upon returning to it, I crave my home and my bed and my parent's delightful wine cellar. Though not always in that order. And so I do tend to get very excited on the eve of my return to my home in not-Philadelphia. Despite what not-New Yorkers might think, not-Philadelphia is a delightful place full of very fattening food and charmingly impolite people. Unapologetically ethnic and strangely environmentally minded, not-Philadelphia is, despite my many travels, still the place where I feel most at home. So I was thrilled to be returning to my home on Friday afternoon. I had a snack, my toothbrush, several different headbands so I could be more like Blair Waldorf, the essentials. I had booked a train ticket, picked up my paycheck, and I was just shaking off my hangover from the night before when the struggle began. Of course it did. It always does.
A friend of mine, Lisa, who is as generous as she is beautiful, had offered to give me a ride to the train station. Well, in this economy, how could I refuse? By this I mean I practically blackmailed her into giving me a lift, but you know, what is friendship about if not offenses punishable by a short stay in a white collar prison? So Lisa had agreed to do this and everything was going fine. That is, until we actually reached her car and realized that by some strange act of God the car battery was dead. Lovely.
So I called a cab. But of course not-New Haven cabs are notoriously undependable, and said cab came far too late for me to catch my train. Right. Because that's fun. Resigned to getting another train and paying for another ticket I settled into the cab, clutching my belongings around me like a war refugee. Luckily for me, my cab driver was utterly and completely insane. Yes, he almost got us into a series of accidents, and I have no idea how we arrived safely at the not-New Haven train station, it is a mystery to me. Moreover, he was on the phone the whole time. Which is fine, well, actually it's terribly dangerous, but I recognize that his job is fairly boring and possibly very unfulfilling, and I can get behind that, I really can. But does this man not recognize in turn that I am physically proximate to him? I mean, I am literally in the cab with this man. Does he not perhaps wish to discuss his bowel movements and valve-replacement surgery in a more private setting? I mean, I would. Well, to each there own, I suppose.
Arriving (finally) at the not-New Haven train station I was luckily able to catch another train. As I sprinted the length of the station, thanking my past self for being incredibly compulsive and insisting I go to the gym, I reached the train just in time. Pulling my sweaty and exhausted body onto the train all I could do was sigh, enjoying life's little ironies to the fullest. From then on, what could harm me? The horribly annoying fellow travelers? The delay in New York? My desperate need for a drink? No, no, from then on I was safe. Because once you get on the train, well, it might as well be going anywhere, just as long as it's taking you home.
Feeling mopey? Aimee Mann's Save Me wont make you feel any better, but you might like it anyway: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bNbTC6xLVg0&feature=related
Leah Franqui is a fairly interesting person/director/writer/reader/eater/drinker. She likes ugly dogs and dislikes her hair in the morning. She's a sucker for environmental causes and plays hardball with deals on chewing gum. She is a struggle.