Saturday, 03 November 2001 | New Raleigh

Morning. I rolled out of bed without an alarm, ate cereal with fruit (a weekend luxury), and lazed around until the thermometer glared at me, a digital 80 written on its face. Martin talked me into a bike ride that ended up lasting all afternoon, running errands and weaving through empty squares by the government buildings downtown, my pants rolled high to keep them out of reach of the chain. We rode through parts of Raleigh I don't remember having seen before, and it felt like being in another town altogether, the town I know hiding just a few streets away. There were a few hills, one in particular, that were deserted enough and sloped enough to fly without pedaling, and for a moment I felt completely alone, as I sailed past houses and parked cars and trees still full of red and yellow.

We ducked into the Natural Sciences Museum shortly before it closed, punching buttons that delivered frog noises, reading depressing accounts of now-extinct animals, staring at salamanders and snakes that stared back. Then there was a smell, somewhere, of food cooking, and Martin and I crossed pavement and sidewalks and grass to get to the grocery store. We stuffed his backpack full and devoured a large chunk of the baguette before heading home.

Evening. It still seems too early to be getting dark. Right now I'm pouring wine on the grilled chicken in my stomach and trying to figure out whether I should go to a promising party or the Death Cab for Cutie show. Pros and cons, and I've got three CDs playing on shuffle (all DCFC), and I think I should probably call someone who's going to the party to make the debate fair.