So, after exchanging addresses and phone numbers, I say good bye to Emily and walk back to the dorm. My suitcase closes with a bit of effort, and I drag it, along with a backpack full of papers on fractals, a small black vinyl suitcase full of books, and a small shoulder case full of tapes, down four flights of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs is Curtis (one of the undergraduates) sitting on a bench and reading Metamagical Themas, and Elaine Foley, the head RGI administrator, who offers to give me a ride to the bus station. I gladly agree, and along the way she tells me that she was talking to Herr Professor Ludwig Danzer at the party last night, and Danzer had complimented her on running the RGI so well, and Elaine said thank you noises and remarked that the participants seemed to have learnt a lot and had a lot of fun. At this, Danzer's eyebrows wrinkle and he says, "Yes, Vell that was a problem. People did have too much fun."
I thank Elaine for the ride, and get on the Peter Pan bus. Right as the bus is about to leave, Anuroopa (another one of the undergraduates) gets on. Turns out that she is going shopping at a Mall which the bus stops at. She is looking for a birthday present for her father, so we talk about her father, who is a journalist, for a while, then about birthdays (Anuroopa -- or "Hoops", as she dislikes to be called -- has the truly amazing ability to remember the birthday of everyone she has ever met in her entire life), and then about what she is going to name her children. A pleasant conversation. Then she gets off at the Mall, and I sort through my backpack looking for a book to read. Strictly by coincidence, I settle upon Rousseau's Emile. Unfortunately, it's Boyd's translation and not Bloom's, and even worse, it's highly edited, so all of the beautifully long digressions into natural religion or the social contract were taken out. Still, it is Rousseau, and to read a page of Rousseau is to remember why French is such a wonderful language to have an argument in.
I spend most of the bus ride just looking out the clouds (central Massachusettes has glorious clouds, especially storm clouds) and the green green scenary. As a consequence, I only get to page 21, on which Rousseau argues that children need to be "bathed in ice cold water, both summer and winter."
We arrive at South Station at 5:30 pm. I drag my luggage to the T station, and buy an August T pass, and find that the August passes really do only start working on August 1st (the July pass works until August 5th). So I shell out the $0.85, and ride the red line to Porter Square, and then take a cab the whole five blocks to my house. For some reason, I don't feel like masochism today.
When I get home, I am greeted warmly by Sheung, Julia, and Julia's older sister Mary, who is visiting for the weekend. My other roommate James is away in New Jersey visiting his girlfriend who recently returned from England. Also there to greet me warmly is a month worth of mail. I don't know about you, but I love junk mail. To me, junk mail is just nature's way of saying that you are still alive. So I happily waded through the Boston Edison bill, the Chase Visa bill, the Columbia House you still need to purchase one more tape before you can cancel your membership message, the Mathematical Association of America please renew your membership postcard, the $22 MIT Library fine warning, and -- and what is this? A nice thick letter from my dear old friend Jessie? O frubjous day!
It gets better: my three goldfish are still alive! Their tank has a bit too much algae, but Leon Trotsky, Bruce, and Fish are still hanging in there. Finally, when I drag my stuff up to my room, I discover that Eric has left me a present from his visit, in the form of a copy of the "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" book. You can see from this thoughtful gift that Eric is not only a terrific guy, but also knows and appreciates my love of the classics. Also, he left a note saying that he borrowed a book from my extensive library, and that he'll give it back if I can tell him which one it is. A quick check revealed that Metamagical Themas was missing, which is strange because Eric has borrowed that one from me before.
Anyway, I am in such a good mood that I take my roommates (and Mary) out to dinner. Along the T ride there, I talk to Mary, and find that she is an elementary school teacher in Denver. I also talk to Sheung, who found out during Eric's visit that I had posted to the entire world about his little escapade with Julia (thanks, Eric). Sheung was not happy about this. This gets me a little bit scared, as dangerous things happen when Sheung is mad at you.
So we get to the dinner place (Mia's, on the seafront by the North End), and I am told it will be a 20 minute wait. I give my name for a party of four, and am immediately chided for this by Sheung, who insists we would have gotten faster service had I given the name "Kennedy." All through the time we are waiting, Sheung and Julia and Mary keep on guessing and haggling over times. You know, like "I guess 11 pm." "I guess 11:01 pm." "Well, then I'll change my guess to 12 pm." "Oh, no, I've changed my mind, I guess 2 pm tomorrow." They won't tell me what they are guessing about.
Dinner is ok, which translates to infinitely superior than the institutional food I have been eating for the last month. Sheung and I split a Sea-Pu- Platter, Julia has fish and chips, and Mary has scrod. This, of course, means that I have to tell my scrod joke: "A guy visits Boston, and is told by his friends that he should try the seafood there, as Boston has excellent seafood. So his plane lands, and he gets into a cab, and he asks the cab driver to take him someplace where he can get scrod. The cab driver turns around and says, ``You know, that's the first time I've ever heard someone use the past pluperfect before.''"
We have mud pies for desert, and walk back to the T station via Faneuil Hall. Along the way, we run into a crowd of people all watching some amateur dancers and a Karaoke player. Scarry.
We get back home, and I start unpacking. At 11:30 pm, we watch SNL, which is a rerun with Bill Murray guest staring and Sting as musical guest. Most of it was pretty lame, and I amuse myself by catching up on the month's periodicals. A little bit after midnight, I finally make it up to my room and get into bed. Just when I am about to turn out the lights, I look up and discover that my entire ceiling is covered by Mike Meyers. Specifically, twenty (20) movie posters of "So I Married An Axe Murderer."
So I call out "Whoever has 12:16 am wins!" and fall asleep.