Sunday, August 28, 2011

Notes from Irene (Day 2)

Neighborly, Again (Sunday, 9:30 a.m.) Thanks to morning goggles, difficult to tell if things are worse or better than last night: raining then and raining now. (When, exactly, were we supposed to get the worst of the worst, again?) Windbursts, capable of knocking over a person who only wants to walk to Dunkin' Donuts, are new. Coffee shop is open, natch, as is 7-11 and there indeed is a Sunday New York Times to be purchased. Clerk there looks both lonely and friendly. He asks how long I think the storm is going to last; 5 minutes later, we're still klatching. Weather .... now officially the best method to get to know your neighbors

Bad Attitude (Sunday, 11:15 a.m.) NYT website reports storm has officially moved through that hood. Manhattanites already noted to be bitching about overreacting city officials and resulting inconvenience. Wonder aloud to cat curled next to me on bed: why it is necessary for anyone to be an asshole in this particular scenario, and if this is specific to New Yorkers.

Unexpected Companion (Sunday, 11:30 a.m. - 4:00 p.m.) Still puzzling about what to most responsibly do with full day of unfettered house arrest when Man from San Francisco awakes and greets the morn, and me, via IM. Converse on chat and phone through brunch, lunch, the brunt of the wind and the better part of an afternoon. Bad news for the much-anticipated now-unopened Sunday Times. Good for warm fuzzies everywhere.

Good Attitude (Sunday, 12-2 p.m.) Bill, out in Holliston, just posted on Facebook: "And we have trees down in the yard." Within 2 hours, a fresh post, this time accompanying a photo of a half-drunk pint of beer: "Yup, when you watch a tree fall on your car, it's that time." Noble.

Running 2 (Sunday, 7:30 p.m.) No rain since mid-afternoon and the space between windbursts has stretched, rather like labor pains in reverse. No excuse to not head out for the 7-miler. Met by dozens of dogwalkers and their charges, most likely to shake off cabin fever much like myself. Streets curiously free of puddles. Yet why, pray tell, does a street sweeper run down the center of Broadway, in sweep mode?

Tree Death (Sunday, 8:30 p.m.) There are fewer finer and sadder ways to spend a Sunday evening than walking through the Back Bay with Claudia, surveying storm damage. And standing on Beacon Street next to the Public Garden, posing with fallen trees already chainsawed down to stumps.

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