Rochester Postcard
Rochester? Seriously?
…
And you might find yourself hurtling through the sky on a jetplane reading a book called On Not Knowing How to Live, with crazy heaven-light shining in your face, and the book is so good it’s like a syringe right into your brain, and a little corkscrew-curl girl is having a tantrum in the row behind you, and you might be the only person on the plane who doesn’t hate her or her parents, and maybe this makes you a good person, for once. Except you sort of think her nine-year-old brother is hot, so scratch that.
And you might find yourself marooned in the Rochester Airport hours after the last plane to NYC has taken off. And AirTran might totally not care because your connecting flight is with U.S. Airways, and they have no agreements with one another. So much for saving $400.
But you might be married to Mr. Pistol, and he might take it upon himself to be Mr. Dude and make all the necessary phonecalls and figure out all the logistics, in which case you would be very, very lucky.
And you might find yourself on the 7th floor of the Rochester Marriott in a bed the size of an oceanliner, wrapped in super-ultra-high-threadcount sheets, and you might think about moving into that hotel, Eloise-style. And Mr. Pistol might decide to sign up for the Marriott Rewards Program right then and there, because that’s how nice the Rochester Marriott is.
And speaking of nice, everyone you encounter in Rochester might treat you with such kindness and warmth that you might actually wonder if this grey-on-grey baretree snowflurry place is heaven or something.
And you might find yourself in the Rochester train station with a gaggle of high school band kids playing cards on the floor and the requisite train-station-creepy-sidelong-glancer-dude and no food to eat except vending machine stuff and your train has been delayed THREE times and you might never get home, and who are you and where do you even live anyway?
And you might ask yourself, well, HOW DID I GET HERE???
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