Wednesday, November 19, 2003

Well, I lied. No good stories, and probably no poem, either. In fact, I've reviewed the entirety of my 26 hours or so in the city, and I'm not sure there are even any amusing anecdotes in there. We flew in, got stuck in traffic, ate dinner, walked around, went to bed, got up, took a cab, had some meetings, ate lunch, had some more meetings, hung out in the airport for a while, flew home. I wasn't aching to stay, nor was I in a rush to get home. It was, in the end, a day like any other, except it was in New York.

Now that I think about it, that's kind of exceptional. Usually when I travel, I meet at least one person with a story to tell or a reason to reach out to the world, but in the past two days I flew 1,800 miles (to Newark and back) sat in two different airports for hours on end, ate three meals, and made not one meaningful human connection, aside from the "_____, have you met _____?" of business meetings. Not that I don't get to work with some very cool people, but I've become accustomed to fortuitous meetings with strangers, and this trip had none. There are four possible reasons for this: 1. I was in New York, instead of somewhere else. 2. I was traveling with people, instead of alone. 3. I was carrying a 900 page word-brick instead of a notepad, and I had my nose buried in it a good part of the time.

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