Last week felt like premature vacation endulation, which of course seems silly after reading a NY Times sobering report on all the post-traumatic stress syndrome reported by returning soldiers (modern war is so unnatural; can the human psyche bear it? On the other hand I tend to underestimate the resilience of the human spirit). The premature endulation was the result of not taking Monday off, the prolongation and exclamation point on the Salt Lake trip in which I'd planned to hit Bob Evans and any number of magical places in Columbus (Polaris Barnes & Noble) where I could pretend to be still in exotic Utah.
I could get used to the relaxation of it, the routine of breakfasts at the hotel buffet, of the hottub, of the crisp morning jaunt to Mass, of the trail of ancestors at the library, of the museums within walking distance, of the smell of Mormon in the morning, of being a "regular" at Weller's books - the morning java in the window seat amid the scent of endless books. One can scarcely underestimate the cumulative effect of good breakfasts followed by rich coffee. Yes, indeed, I undershot on Utah, I left too soon. End o' whine.