Thursday, October 7, 2010

Wanna have a diner where the coffee tastes like diesel fuel

I love the taste of the air as the seasons change. (So much, in fact, that I believe it was a facebook interest of mine, back when facebook let you have interests without marketing to them.) In the past week, it's returned: when I left for Boston, all was still summer-hot, in the muggy rainthreat air of the Belle and Sebastian show; on my Saturday walk from Roxbury to Back Bay it was glorious leaf-changing fall; on Sunday, the taste and lowering sky had turned again, worryingly, to winter.

Lucky for me, it seems to be fall again down in comparatively southern New York. I do look forward to winter when it arrives, but fall is my favorite and I wish it lasted more than just this week or two. Fall, like every season, is not only a taste but also a whole web of associations--not least, the sounds. I have written about my difficulty finding music to listen to; lately I've had a bit more success. Listening to Sharon Van Etten's Epic particularly strikes a fall chord in me--there is something very open sky, walking into the darkening evening, fallen leaves about "Don't Do It." (I noted yesterday that she is playing here this weekend--tempting!)

And last night I stayed over at my parents' house--ostensibly to watch baseball but in reality to crash into a ten-hour sleep coma full of strange tobogganing dreams--so today I walked to work from that angle, which takes about as long as my bridge walk. I stopped in at a new cafe I'd been meaning to try--the I-think-cheesily-named-but-beautifully-decorated Bluebird Sky, where I found a delicious latte. The sound system was playing Dar Williams's "Southern California Wants to Be Western New York" and damned if it wasn't the most season-changing song. It conjures up memories of walking autumn campuses, long train rides, mentally preparing to curl up in flannel pajamas with a cup of hot chocolate (if only I actually had flannel pajamas). My wallet is leaky--someone (I will name no names, but this means you, M.--) gave me about three dollars in change the other day, which ripped out the already struggling lining of my change purse--in the cafe assorted coins fell to the ground, and I scooped up every one and deposited them in the early-morning-empty tip jar. Happy fall, everyone.

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