Monday, 08 July 2002 | Twister

When I was in Astoria, standing on the roof watching fireworks explode in the air over Manhattan, I had no idea what you were doing. Nor did I know exactly where you were when I watched one of the Rockettes play Twister on that same roof, or when I rode home late on the lonely G line to the warm clacking sound of the train and the screams of air seeping from the brakes. You weren't with me when I watched an outdoor play in East Village, or when I stood over that crater of a graveyard where families wrapped arms around shoulders and posed for pictures, where merchants sold t-shirts and snow globes of the ghost buildings.

There, the parking tickets are expensive, the subway rodents match the dark gray color of the tracks, and plastic bags dance on sidewalks. Sunday morning, Sunday afternoon. I wasn't ready to leave, so I delayed it until it was way too late to be in New York with a car and 500 miles ahead of me.

By the time I got to Baltimore last night it was dark, but I'd noticed that the skylines of New York, Philadelphia, and Wilmington were faint or altogether missing, as if the buildings had been bleached by the sun or sloppily erased. I was worried that it might be due to smog, since it wasn't muggy enough to be fog or clouds. I found out today that it was actually smoke from the burning forests in Quebec, which had drifted as far south as DC.

The drive was much longer on the way back, partly because I was forced to exit for food rather than merely reach behind the seat and fumble in the cooler for a sandwich. I eyed the exit-food signs suspiciously, trying to avoid fast food and food malls and greasy diners, rediscovering that those are, in fact, the only establishments advertised along the interstate.

I did stop at a Wendy's in Virginia for some caffeinated iced tea. In an overt contradiction, an employee wearing a Confederate flag baseball cap informed me that the restaurant didn't serve sweet tea. I was disappointed to learn that sweet tea, rather than an appreciation for the Confederate flag, was the sacrificial Southern element just beneath the Mason-Dixon line.

Home at 3 a.m. Getting reacquainted is slow.