Two weeks after my Hawaiian adventure, I was finally ready to indulge in some sushi again. Erin visiting up for the weekend was another good excuse, to be sure, as was the fact that I’d just finished marching in the Williamstown 4th of July parade.
This was New England small-town in all its glory. Seven massive tractors, a pep band consisting of four of the North Adams Steeplecats on drums and another five trombones all played by eleven-year-old girls (no, not kidding,) along with what would seem to have been every fire truck in the township. This all with a strong dash of Williams College as evidenced by the presence of Venetian-mask-clad museum interns waving signs and throwing candy, all directly following the african drum group consisting entirely of (very sweet and sincere) middle-aged white people.
Beyond this, the start of summer has been nice. Much like the collegiate frustration of almost every semester having to pick up and move your life to a new domicile, the internship grind of some new, high-end job every summer had become taxing on the morale. Now my post at the museum is just another two-month internship, but after volunteering here for two years, I already know where the paper clips are. And on the first day I could just get down to writing – it was positively luxurious.
Of course I sorely miss living with Poker F, since as nice as all my other underclassmen friends are up here, one can’t extract much sincere sympathy from them while sitting in the coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon surfing job listings. But the weather is finally turning pretty (edit: or not – a thundershower just came through) and I’ve already scheduled my long weekend on Cape Cod. Because they don’t do fried clams in Waimea.
