(no subject)
Suburban streets look like railroad tracks from the air. My home state is green and brown, quintessential Americana patchwork, it makes me sad and proud. I live in the most beautiful place I have ever seen. I look down from my knitting and the patchwork has given way to the beautiful and thoroughly depressing hills and valleys of West Virginia, rippling towards the sprawl of the city. I trace the Potomac on the window with my finger and feel absolute gratitude.
Jeff is every bit as wonderful as I expected, the white marble shrines as grand, the Vietnam memorial and the changing of the guard as sobering, traffic as heinous. The airport smaller, the metro more expensive, the streets less scary. I have never seen such enormous dorm rooms or such wealthy students. I have never felt quite as much like I just fell out the back of billy bob's honey wagon, and I have never felt quite so indescribably good.
And now I'm home again, where the yards are bigger and the buildings are newer, and it almost feels like I'm home, but not quite. Des Moines is always fine until you've been somewhere else.
Jeff is every bit as wonderful as I expected, the white marble shrines as grand, the Vietnam memorial and the changing of the guard as sobering, traffic as heinous. The airport smaller, the metro more expensive, the streets less scary. I have never seen such enormous dorm rooms or such wealthy students. I have never felt quite as much like I just fell out the back of billy bob's honey wagon, and I have never felt quite so indescribably good.
And now I'm home again, where the yards are bigger and the buildings are newer, and it almost feels like I'm home, but not quite. Des Moines is always fine until you've been somewhere else.