weekend

The posts of the past few months have largely been reflective of the intense weeks, neglecting a part of this summer I've appreciated just as much--the glorious weekends.

Started a little early on Thursday, when J. and I cooked dinner (J. made a new wintermelon dish) for a classmate. She's the kind who is nice to everyone, so I've been friendly with her throughout school and have exchanged a few emails, but we've never talked for more than a few minutes at a time. So this was the first time I spent substantial time with her. She started conversation about real things like how this year has been and how the past couple years of have been, without my having to ask, and I was grateful to know that time and routine doesn't have to wear away natural openness.

On Friday J. and I went dancing, by ourselves. We dressed up, black on top and jeans on bottom, and shared the bottle of sweet summer blush I bought when I went wine tasting with the college blockmates in Long Island, back in June. Being hermits, we considered staying in after that, but got ourselves out. Our first and longest stop was at Bar, where I haven't been since first year. The cover was $3 and the drinks cheaper, so we made the most of it and danced on elevated surfaces, causing some guy to ask us if we were "girlfriends." We hopped to Black Bear before realizing we were danced out, and wandered over to Hot T's and caught up with a friend I hadn't seen since before the summer. When the place closed we migrated home, where they finished the summer blush and I ate leftovers.

After my usual Saturday sleep in, we watched District 9, which was jarring and pretty fantastic. Though afterward it led me to be my annoyingly argumentative self, we declared peace over Jamaican food at a place I hadn't been before. Then it was off to see a play with a friend I've seen more substantially this year. We saw Henrik Ibsen's The Master Builder, at the Drama School (kitty corner from the Repertory Theater). I didn't know anything about it except that it's about an architect (he never uses that word to describe himself), and it was good. More abstract and conversation than I anticipated, which allowed ample opportunity to be immersed in the set, the best part of the play. The floor was constructed like the side of a house, with the windows flat on the floor and the shutters opening and jutting up into the air. The roof extended across the floor into the back of the stage, and looked like it extended into the backdrop, a gorgeous swirl of blue that dipped into deeper blues. From the ceiling, another roof hung and represented the outside of the house; at times a strip of orange red connected the two parts as people entered or left, at other times one simply remained there as the other entertained the characters. Such that you felt in and out at once.

On Sunday, was woken from an unpleasant dream by a phone call from A., with whom I was supposed to have breakfast. We'd planned on going to a place north of Cheshire, but the directions and locations and our motivation were vague, and after a bit of haphazard googling and yelping, he says, let's just drive. So we drive down Whalley, and at the intersection with West Rock Ave, find a farmer's market. He sniffs from apple to apple, amusing other browsers who comment that they should follow his sense of smell. "That's all I know to go on." He teaches the names of vegetables, and buys a watermelon and heirloom tomatoes, and we purchase the most delicious almond croissant from a bakery claimed by Martha Stewart to be the best in Connecticut. "Martha Stewart never lies."

Various turns later and arriving in a small town called Bethany, in beautiful late summer/early fall sun, we decide to stop at a small farm stand to ask where there might be a diner. They tell us that their town has one diner--Country Corner--which is next to their one ice cream parlor, near their one pizza place. They mention one bank but don't specify a location. He looks around, grabs cider, and at the counter finds some honey that my roommate had requested before we left ("only get it if it's from the side of the road"). There he asks the woman about her life: what are the hours like? is it hard work? is it satisfying? She tells us that she works seven days a week; animals always have to eat, and during harvest she'll go 44 days before a day off. Her husband works 15 hours a day, and she 12 but not including housework, and their kids helps out. It's a lifestyle. Not just a way of making a living but a way of living. The pay's not great, but the eats are good.

In the car leaving the place, he hands the bottle of cider for me to open as he backs up...I hear a big clank, and we've hit a pole.

He ties up his loose trunk with some netting, and we continue to the Country Corner Diner, which makes me happy because diners are all the same with their big menus and cheap fatty foods and cushioned booths and stools. On the side I finish the stray almonds at the bottom of the brown bag in which the croissant was packaged. Afterwards we go next door for ice cream, even though I'm stuffed, because it's ice cream.

On the way home he says he likes how pine trees are poofy, and we pass the waterfall he likes; he says he wants to go but doesn't want to walk to it. "You could rest first"--he turns around. The narrow path, lined with lots and lots of tall thin trees, feels open with the windows open, and the temperature is so perfect I'm amazed. We park and chat intermittently, and then nap, and never make it to the waterfall. Sun spilling on face and soft breeze from one window to another, and far enough to hear the steady hum of water flowing past, too far to hear the drops clash--I feel surprise at the ease of sleep right before I fall into it.