MONDAY IN ENEMY TERRITORY . . .

Whoever thought I would ever "vacation" in Boston? It gives me the heebedy-bejebeedies just to acknowledge the fact that I came north into Enemy Territory for R & R. Bizarre.

Being at C.o.S.'s home, though, I sort of feel like we are two hidden operatives. A couple of Yanks stashed away in the crevices of the greater Boston area, in order to infiltrate the as-yet-unenlightened and promote New Yorkism across the globe. It's a very noble, though fake, calling. And the feeling of being a spy is totally ridiculous ... but true ... and fun.

***

This morning in New York ... was there ever a more glorious January morn? I drove a friend to the airport, and on the way, we couldn't help but oft admire the sun, its warmth, the warm breeze, the way that everything was alive in a different sort of way than it had been the day before. On the way back from the airport, I actually rolled down the windows. All four of them. With David Crowder blasting from Herb, and sunglasses perched on my nose, I felt like it was summer come early. It is good to have these very visceral, visual, tangible, un-ignorable reminders of God's warmth and sovereignty -- living proof of the breadth and greatness of Creation.

Of course, dang Enemy Territory. It was like that scene in "The Lord of the Rings" (and probably every other fantasy or sci-fi movie ever made) where they rode from The Good (read: sunshine and balmy breezes flowing through lush grasses) into The Bad (read: cold, dark, grey and lifeless, with the only breeze being a chilly and evil one that shrivels everything it touches). As I proceeded norther and norther on I-84, the skies became greyer and greyer, the air coming in through GG's vents became chillier and chillier, the foggy condensation on my windshield became more and more crystallized. By the time I rolled into Boston proper, it was stinkin' 34-degrees outside and rainy. Talk about a let-down. I mean, I know God created rain and snow, too, but ... must it be so cold?

***

I saw KTM and STM for the first time in eight years. EIGHT YEARS. I am shocked that so much time passed so quickly, and astounded that we reconnected after so many years.

They are the same. In their very unique quirks and standards and speech patterns and life philosophies, and yes, even their looks, they are the same. Of course, they now have three incredibly adorable and precocious children, each of whom tugged at my heart for different reasons. I have to wax poetic about the youngest one, though: RTM, their boy, five years old. The face of an angel. A voice as soft as Cha-Cha-Cha-Charmin three-ply quilted toilet paper. A tousled head of thick and wavy brown hair. The opaque hazel eyes that are so very particular to Amerasian children. An easy smile and most endearing of all, an easy and free-giving hug. Package all this, add a dash of preternatural manhood and flair, and shove it into a set of flannel footsie-pajamas, and you just have one little bundle of five-year-old sweetness.

And he totally glommed onto me. I have to interrupt myself here to note one strange phenomenon I have noticed: little boys glom onto me. (And by little, I do mean little ... like under the age of five. Don't get any sordid ideas; I'm not like that.) CA is my goddaughter and my love for her is without bounds, but it's her brother MJ who runs to me to be wrapped up in my arms and never withholds his forehead for me to smooch. At S's wedding on Saturday night, the ring bearer, some random kid I HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE IN MY LIFE, spent the entire evening flirting with me, and ultimately shouting at me to "GO! AWAY!" before running after me to poke me in the back when I did go away. And tonight, RTM, wrapping his arms around me every chance he got and sitting on my lap, holding both my hands to his cheeks and rubbing my fingers with his own as I chatted with his parents.

So adorable. So sweet. So innocent and smart and open and trusting and warm and frank and embracing and cuddly and infectiously happy. I hope he grows into the same kind of man ...

***

C.o.S. and I, while so different in so many ways, are also so alike in really the most important ones. We believe in one God, one Jesus, one Church. We believe in friendship, and order, and justice, and reason, and a nice refreshing mug of beer. We believe in honesty and kindly blunt speaking. We believe in ice cream and snacks and vegging out on a bad-weather day.

And on that bad-weather day, we believe in turning into a couple of boys and watching movies just because Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell appear in them. If she weren't pregnant, I'd pop her a beer; if I wasn't grossed out by them, I'd ask her to buy me a bag of pork rinds.

But that is indeed our plan for tomorrow, for another thing that bonds us together is our utter and complete incapability of listening to Shrub speak. One State of the Union down tomorrow, two more to go. It's bad enough that I can hear his voice in my head when I read the text of the speech the next day; I don't need to see his goofy face at the same time.

Will Ferrell's goofy face, on the other hand = eminently enjoyable.

***

Random thought: methinks that sometimes, getting no sleep at night is TOTALLY. WORTH. IT.

***

It's strange, being back here. Boston was my home for three years; three very signficant and meaningful years. And though I hated it here almost every minute of those three years, when I left, I missed it. Sort of. Coming back ... does not at all feel like any sort of homecoming. I don't feel like a visitor, necessarily, although enough has changed that I am a bit disoriented and confused and feeling like a relic from the past. But ... well, I don't really know what I feel like. My feelings on this do not require this much thought -- though people I love live here, I need not concern myself otherwise with this town. Still ... it's always interesting to glance backwards and see the shape of the path I've walked so far ...