Hurtling along the lake now, a slate grey envelopes the city. It echoes down the train's silent corridor. Along the track we are sent forward into the rain. There is the sound of a man shaving in the train's tiny bathroom, and I think, who shaves in a train's bathroom? What pre-dawn events could have so badly delayed his morning routine to such a tiny mobile place? The rumors stretch off into the beyond, and no matter what I feel bad for him. In a city, in a country for only seven hours, where even the most mundane could still be revolutionary.
In the center of the city I see it tick in the morning gloam; I am alone again. It feels like a dream, and dawn stretches on for hours and hours. I can follow the neon still, weaving among delivery trucks and garbage men. Longing for tea, the kind you sip slow and thoughtfully.
It is cold and rainy and at first it doesn't hit me that I am back. It is another city. I am on Beacon Street, with each building scrunched together like un-matching jigsaw pieces. Slowly, like anywhere else, the cars and people begin to stroll each way, and the rain soaks in un-hurried.
It is nine o'clock now, but still nothing is open. I wonder if the city was considering taking the day off on account of the rain. I wander; I turn out an alley, around a corner, and under an awning until finally I am lost. The perfect rain tumbles and rolls out of the dark white sky. I wrap my tea-bag around my spoon, like my grandmother taught me to, and squeeze out the last dark drops. It has been a long strange week. With the first warming sip, I think how relieving it will be to return to normal.
The waiter comes over and suddenly, he asks if everything is okay. I swallow so as not to choke; how did I let on? The planes. The service. The brothers and mothers and homespun eulogies uttered in sleepless tongues the rattle of the trains and grey cities. I look at my uneaten sandwich, and I look at him. And, yes I suppose everything is okay.
I look out the window at my rainy day. And you know, if I were being really honest, traveling is just a series of beverages in new places. I think though, the trick is to drink them slow and thoughtful, and to squeeze out the best drops of tea with the side of your spoon. Just like my grandmother taught me to.
