30th Street Station, Philly, la la la. Train to DC is one hour late--which is not quite long enough to take the subway downtown, have lunch/browse the used bookstores, and come back. And so I say thank you, Cosi, for your free internet while I sit on this bench and listen to the Departures board go flipflipflipflipflipflipflip.
In any case, it's too bad that my office is expecting me tomorrow; the urge to run the other way, to hop on the train to New York or maybe Boston or maybe anywhere else, is screwing heavily with my judgment. (I did, for about 37 seconds, consider a day trip to New York--arrive by noon, head home around dinner. But it's raining, and my suitcase and laptop are not going to a) carry themselves home or b) disappear temporarily.) Or I could blow it all off and stay here in Philly, which I now love for being artsy and beautiful and ugly and confident in its own awesomeness. DC feels, in comparison, like a place that does not totally believe in itself.
The good news: restlessness is, at this juncture, acceptable. I leave Tuesday for four days in Oregon and then a quick weekend trip to California. Any discontented energy can easily be absorbed by the jumping up and down going on in my soul, "work" trip or no.
Ah, well. I think I'm going to have some lunch and find a bag of Herr's potato chips. When in Pennsylvania, and all.