Sunday, 11 November 2001 | Details

I don't want to forget the details of yesterday. Of course I can write down events and those events can spark memories, but I don't want to forget the glue that holds those events together—what the warm sun felt like, the drop in temperature on the shady side of the street, the smell of the leaves that I crunched through when I stepped out of my car, how the chicken curry made my lips tingle, the tattooed arm of the cashier, the way people danced in the club, the sound of the scissors as they snipped off chunks of hair that then floated to the floor.

Yesterday morning we walked through old town Alexandria (trying to stay on the sunny sides of streets) and found brunch, freshly squeezed orange juice, Washington's free weekly, and blisters. In the afternoon, we climbed a hill that overlooked the destruction of the Pentagon, which resembled a giant sheet cake that had had a slice jaggedly and violently removed. Later we strolled through Georgetown underneath a pink sky, ducking in shops and trying things on, eating spicy Indian food and drinking mango lassis. Finally we stood in line at the Black Cat, and stood in line, and stood in line, and went inside. It was Brit Pop night and I danced until my legs were sore, forgetting, momentarily, where I was and that I wasn't alone. After we got back sometime around 3 a.m., Ingo got a homemade haircut and I fell into bed.

(I do, however, want to forget the details of today.)