crossing over
The woman seated behind me is an amateur. Those of us who live, even a fraction of the time, in two different nations, know how to play this game a little better. The customs officials do not care to know that you're a sculptor, that you go to New Jersey every year, and so on. They are trained to search desperately for any reason not to trust you, and information about your allergy to limes or generally how crazy you are do not help narrow down their process any.
I am right now hurtling at very slow speeds on a train towards New York City, creaking along past all the pretty granaries and abandoned factories of upstate New York. It is snowing thick flakes and inside is a good place to be.
I take the train because it is cheap, I am not particularly comfortable with flying, and I am used to it. There's a — comfort is definitely the wrong word — there's something I like about the nonspace, the sort of travel purgatory. You can get work done, you can sleep, you can think about a lot of lot of lofty things, and you can also stare out the window and think about nothing for a remarkably long time. The nothing part is something I basically never do, and frankly it's a pleasant change of pace. It's also a good warmup for a trip to a city overflowing with stimuli, late nights, luggage schlepping, etc. This trip in particular threatens more unusual adventures than I'm used to, so perhaps it's a good idea to collect myself in that very special Amtrak context (good until about Albany, when the homicidal thoughts kick in at the same time as your clothes begin to smell like the train.)
It is snowing even more heavily now, and as always, I'm a little jealous of the quiet little houses I pass by which I imagine to be warm, standing still in time, and full of infinite potential.
Oh, and welcome to the Broccoli.