African Talk
Every time I try to say it I fail and come closer at the same time. But I'm sick of talking about it now, and so on Saturday night I sat and watched the party move around me.


A One Exit Town
Anne Davies dropped me off in White Haven Penn., a one exit town without a motel or a McDonald. The gas station was what I had imagined Daniel worked in, old, the kind that serviced travelers, instead of the up scale suburban clientele and the bright feeling of his actual place of employment. Anne dropped me with my 140 lbs of luggage beside the ash tray and trash can and took off for Jersey. I waited for Peter, but he didn't show, not for 3 and a half hours. So I watched the mixture of townies, homeward bound college students, and too rich Asian businessmen. Reaculturating myself.

It turns out Peter was in town. When there was no Micky-Ds, where we had planed to meet, he went to the place he thought I would most logically wait at, the Powerhouse Restaurant, the only eating place in town and relatively up scale. I went to the first place I thought he would look, the gas station nearest the freeway off-ramp. Besides, I liked the pace of sitting at a gas station bordering the freeway and an old cemetery better than the mother's day crowds at a restaurant. I felt like I belonged at the gas station.
Peter says he drove by, recognized the cloths but not the hair and figured it wasn't me. Thankfully, after his nap in his car over by the Powerhouse, he came back to the gas station for a coke.

Clean and Boring
Gas station toilets are no big deal.

I think long drops are more sanitary than toilet seats.

Even the "slum" suburbs where Dan lives feels too sanitized. I don't mind littering a bit to help make the place more interesting.

It feels dangerous to drink the tap water in my glass. My eyes are suspicious, its cleanliness seems deceitful.