Remember when we missed the train back to Exeter and had to ride out to the middle of nowhere from Boston? I know that you do, but it just seemed like a good way to start off. We missed the train and I desperately hoped we’d have to end up spending most of the night in the city. Turns out a train to Hanover, or some other city starting with an H, was stopping a half hour from the school and we could take a cab from there. So we took the train for over an hour after picking up some kind of disgusting, rare British candy from the 7/11. Flake is really just terrible, sugary, fake-tasting milk chocolate. I don’t know what you see in that stuff.
There were a couple of people who asked for money outside of that 7/11. A white guy in a red plaid shirt sitting outside the door, and a black guy in a white t-shirt walking down the road. You just purchased the mounds of chocolate and we left, down to the train station where a creepy old black guy and his friend were trying to get my attention on the bench across from us, and you never even heard them. You never even noticed them until I had us move across the lobby.
That train ride was fairly long, and gave us the time to talk about a lot of things. Everything, just about. My perspective changed during that train.
Then again, in the taxi, you talked to the guy as is you’d known him your whole life. You have that way of being effortlessly comfortable in unsual situations. I was never blessed with that advantage. I thought the other guy in the cab was a hooker. A man hooker. Whatever you’d like to call them. I don’t know if I ever asked you if you thought he was a man hooker, though I’m fairly sure I didn’t. He was Cuban, I think, with the first few buttons of his peachy-organge striped shirt undone and his hair gelled back. I don’t even remember much of what we did in Boston that day. Got some pizza, watched the breakdancers, went into cool-looking places, saw the swan boats… I don’t tend to consider that to be the important part of the day. I remember more of the train ride.