The P Building Roof

We used a copy of "In the Country of Last Things"--a Paul Aster novel--to keep the elevator doors from closing (thereby locking us on the 25th floor) while we explored the roof of the Palmer House Hotel.

It seemed there had to be something symbolic about that particular title propping open an elevator as Dean, Lanie, Julia, Andrew and I checked out the skyline and yelled greetings to people on the street--none of them heard us--but for the life of me I had no idea what it was.

Certainly it's not the last roof we'll stand on. There's bound to be one in San Antonio.

* * *

I just boarded my flight back to Los Angeles: seat 18F on an American Airlines 757. My favorite tool for choosing where to sit on an airplane: www.seatguru.com. When I was little, my dad and I would often talk about different airplane models, though never military ones--just passenger jets. I still grow giddy when I get to fly on one I haven't tried before, or in a long time.

A woman four seats to my left just said into her phone, "Yes, I told him I wanted a divorce." She listened to the response for a moment, then giggled loudly. Meanwhile, someone in the row behind me is saying into hers, "I don't know what to do to be happy."

Airplanes, no matter what the model, are an odd blend of public and personal space. They're a little like elevators or subways, with people trying hard not to make eye contact even while they have incredibly personal conversations that everyone else can overhear.

* * *

As I walked down the streets of Cambridge last night, a woman stopped me. "Excuse me," she said, "Do you know where I could find a piercing parlor around here?"

I wonder if I look like someone who frequents piercing parlors. Maybe it's my jacket?