Sunday, October 18

New York always feels something like a foreign country. Not like one so foreign that its modes and routines are completely illegible, but one far enough from usual life that I’m often unsure what the rhythm is, the protocol, the whatness-of-what. I speak the language (one of them, part of it) but I don’t exactly speak the place.

Is it as far from Colorado, on some hypothetical graph of civilization, as Colorado is from London, Budapest, Tirana, Christchurch, Prague? Maybe not. There’s no mistaking the American superstructure of both places for anything else. Still, it’s a trip.