clouds and a shaft of light

I came away from El-Dubyar today in a minor lather, suddenly afraid that the cases I'd chosen as the meat of my memo left my argument full of holes. This is our second memo, but the first one on which we're graded, and while Bill Altreuter is very kindly (and repeatedly) counseling me to quit obsessing over making the numbers (*hugs* to Bill), it's much easier to agree with him in theory than in practice. There are few things as fragile and battered as an embattled 1L's sense of confidence, and mine seems to have a Kick Me sign tattooed across its shoulderblades. I made the 7:00 train, landed in my seat, looked in the window, and saw the reflection of some strange old exhausted woman glowering back at me.

Another Thursday down.

People are starting to wear down, get sick, burn out all around me. A flu is apparently circulating among our section. Attendance at discussion groups is fast waning, and empty seats are beginning to stick out even during actual classes. I think I'm the only person left in my study group who hasn't yet gone into monomaniacal sleep-deprived overdrive, for the simple reason that I can't; the commute and the workload would fast overwhelm me if I didn't get my eight hours a night and my four workouts a week. I'm frayed and peevish enough these days; the last thing I need is to attempt to spread myself any thinner.

I got off the train at about eight-thirty, noticed I was good and hungry, and then realized in a wave of despair that I would probably have to drag myself home and cook something, which in turn would entail defrosting some ingredients or other. Some days the thought of inventing dinner would be inspiring; alas, not on a Thursday.

Instead I walked to Florentine, a little Italian takeout place on Castro a block back from the train station. Their pasta is middling, but it's ready for carryout in five minutes and is served by actual Italians, who are rare as hen's teeth in Silicon Valley. Italian is a language I haven't tasted in far too many years; speaking it again felt like sliding into a hot bath. The guy asked where my family was from. I asked where his was from. He told me about how he'd had to learn Spanish to communicate with the kitchen staff. I told him I went to school in the city and commuted on the train every day. He said he probably planned to stay here another year or two tops before heading back home. I agreed.

I left the restaurant clutching a comfortingly hot paper bag full of tortellini and ravioli and foccaccia, luxuriating in the sound of Italian vowels and imagining the fun I'd have in a summer abroad program in Italy. (A quick googling informs me that several such programs exist in Modena, Siena, Rome, and Bologna, although whether any of these programs would accept someone from my school is unclear.)

Of course, it's unlikely to happen; ye olde spouse isn't particularly portable, nor would he relish me skipping town for six weeks. Still, the sound of the language in my ears made everything feel warm and fuzzy and infinitely possible if I wished, and just dreaming about going back to Italy was medicinal as I trundled the few blocks back down Evelyn Avenue to my patient parked car. Even a Thursday isn't so horrible when it's a giovedì.

thus spake /jca @ October 10, 2002 10:52 PM