That song, "The Only Living Boy in New York," first introduced to me by %%diary-fille6%%, has been going through my head ever since I woke up yesterday morning in Brooklyn. Part of me thinks that the only solution is to listen to it- the scientist part that reassures me that songs going through one's head are a result of the brain trying to reconstruct incomplete information- but mostly I think if I turned it on I'd need to grab some kleenex.

This is going to consist of a couple of long entries with a lot of links.

R. drove me to the airport last Thursday morning at 4 am, bless her heart. I had butterflies in my stomach and had to stop to buy some Immodium just in case. I think we pecked on the cheek at the United gate and I was off, somewhat relieved to have a break from feeling smothered and therefore feeling guilty for having gotten a lift from her in the first place. I don't remember anything about my flights- I slept all the way through the first leg, Tampa-Dulles, ambled from the gate to the Dulles-LaGuardia flight, sat down, and fell asleep again. Both flights were almost empty. When I got to LaGuardia, I hopped on the N at around 10 am to get from Queens to Park Slope.

I was expecting my heart to leap during the elevated part of the trip when I went past the Empire State Building and midtown and such, but really I just felt comfortable. Despite not having been in New York in a year and a half, I felt at home rather than the intense excitement I'd expected. Maybe because it was raining and my view of the city obscured.

Anyway, I met up with Jeb and we walked to the Chip Shop to get some incredibly unhealthy food. (I was surprised to find that the menu was almost exactly the same from when I left 2 1/2 years ago, except with the addition of deep-fried Atkins bars.) And once fulminous was there it was of course like I'd never left. Within ten minutes I was laughing so hard I was crying. When we were done eating we wandered over to the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Company, which appears to be owned and operated by the Lethem/Eggers/McSweeneys crowd, and sells things like capes and red grappling hooks and pinstripe suits for disguises and plastic glasses/cameras. It's incredibly silly and probably takes a lot of money to prop up but it's also a very entertaining place to browse in. When Jeb tells most people he has a master's degree in Science Fiction, he's usually rewarded with astonishment; the clerk at this place just said, "Oh."

After moving my stuff into Bill's apartment, we went to Swift's, a bar somewhere north of Houston. I met the lovely and unnervingly genuine %%diary-sidewaysrain%% (as well as her boyfriend), the kate, and this fish, who I'm still afraid I offended with an inexplicably snarky answer to a friendly question but who I found even wittier than her blog (no mean feat.) Even the new Tribers seemed to go out of their way to be friendly and welcoming.

Of all the things I'd forgotten while in Florida, I think the thing I may have missed least but needed most to be reminded of was what it's like to be surrounded by people with common affinities. Here- and maybe in most of suburban America- affection seems to be a matter of circumstance and convenience. In the big urban centers, where there are so many more people to befriend, it seems like it's more a matter of choice, and maybe more satisfying for that reason.

Tomorrow, or later, I think I'll talk about my trip to Westchester.