In Which Our Dubious Heroine Returns to Her Garrett

Yep, I’m back in MA, in a third-floor apartment that thank God has air conditioning. MA isn’t as bad as the West Coast, but it’s not great, especially in an ex-attic for which the previous builders didn’t exactly prioritize cross-ventilation.

Train travel is largely the same as it was, except a) with masks, and b) with none of the good food places open at 30th Street Station. If I’d wanted Wendy’s or McDonald’s, I’d have been set. As it was, I had the last pretzel on the pretzel cart, which as a result of being the last pretzel could have been a decent melee weapon. Such were the trials of my journey–well, that and being delayed for an hour and a half because we had freight ahead of us, but that’s basically just how it goes between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh.

My apartment was still standing and miraculously whole, except for the kitchen sink. Mysterious sinkly underpinnings had rotted out there, causing a leak that dismayed my downstairs neighbor–sorry, Downstairs Girl! Um, nice to meet you?–but the landlord very quickly put new ones in.

Landlords, I will note, are among those from whom you don’t really want to hear “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

So now I’m hanging out here, enjoying the AC and eating about three thousand times the recommended daily amount of Fla-Vor-Ices. Next week I’ll see how well the liquor cabinet has made it through, and likely write more about Crowley.

Try not to melt out there!