March 17, 2017
Blessed Saint Patrick. Slept mightily, rose not too awful early, and I think I am back on track for North America. Of all our terrible weather when I was gone, one little patch of snow lingered in the corner of the fence, under the shading pine. The flight back was uneventful, even salubrious, though nothing that long can be without negative effect. Of course, walking away from Customs one murmurs “asshole. . . asshole. . .” just to get the intensity of assholery out of one’s system. Had a moment of danger when a security person, with a thick accent and the name tag “Ali” on his shirt, extended my re-entry question-and-answer session a little to long. I was about to answer curtly when he cut it off, peering at my passport photo and at me, as though coming to final determination that we were one and the same.
Fell flat on my face at the Post Office. That’s three falls in four days, after not having fallen since years ago in London. I’m not paying attention to where my feet are.
Unusually disinclined to postmortem this trip. Inclined to move forward.