This morning we woke up early, thanks to jet lag, to watch the sunrise. Yesterday we walked to Starbucks from Dennis’ house in the morning (can you believe Starbucks is within walking distance?! I love America.)
We drove down a country road near a reservoir, listening to Morning Edition on NPR, and while Dennis wandered from spot to spot along the road, snapping shots of the frozen water and the pink light reflecting off of it, I sat huddled in all my bundles of clothing and scarves by the water’s edge waiting for him. I think I am much more suited to cold weather than I am to hot. I love hot weather, don’t get me wrong. I love vacationing in tropical locations. But when it comes to living and working, I think I need the snow and the change of seasons to keep me going. Over the past two days or so, I’ve taken more joy in scraping the windshied free of ice and snow than I have in my whole life. Granted, I’m here on vacation now, so snow and slush and sleet are more novelties than anything else, and I’m sure I’d be sick of it if I had to deal with this much cold on my way to work everyday, but in any case, I think I’ve come to the conclusion that I really must live in a place with four distinct seasons (five, if you count Vermont’s mud season) for the rest of my life. Brazil is beautiful, absolutely. But you wouldn’t believe how cranky I get when it’s hot and I have to put on work clothes.
I stopped by my old school yesterday. It was so great to see my kids’ faces, to hear their squeals and their shouts down the hallways. “Coggio!” they yelled. And then came all the short jokes. “You’re hair grew!” one boy said. “Yeah, it’s about the only thing that grew,” a girl responded, not missing a beat. It’s good to be home.
Today our plans are wide open. Maybe we’ll go into New Haven, catch a film, a bite to eat. Maybe we’ll go down to Stamford and poke around where Dennis might be getting a job. I need to get my hair trimmed and I need to figure out a way to get to Vermont this week. Whatever we do today, though, our priority is to stay awake past 8:30 tonight. With the night as dark as it is as early as it is, it’s nearly impossible to fight the jet lag. It’s good for waking up early, but really pathetic for doing anything at night. 4:30 rolls around and we begin to yawn and get into our pajamas. Or at least I do. And then because I am, in effect, down for the count, Dennis follows suit. And there you have it: two twenty-somethings, passed out at 7. We are the saddest pair in the world.