I was surprised on Tuesday night to discover that the washroom facilities aboard the Montreal to Toronto 6:20 train smelled of iced tea - the peach kind.

Sitting in Dessert Trends at the corner of Harbord and Brunswick, i was pouring over my Golden Book of 555 Latin Verbs (totally worth the nine dollars even if i can’t read the classical examples on the bottom of each page. Nothing destroys classical latin like medieval Latin) and the waitress asked if i wanted anything to drink while waiting for Isabelle and Emily to arrive. I asked if she had gravol because “i think i’m going to be sick” - that was when i realized that despite all my studying i couldn’t respond to her question of how you say “i am going to vomit” in Latin. It’s vomam.

I may have passed. It’s possible. Weirder things have happened.

I am good at working myself into a state of panic. Driving down to Conneticut, i managed to convince myself i was going to run out of gas, worry i had a tire going flat, second-guess myself into getting off at the wrong exit and otherwise make myself ill with worry. It got worse when attempting to navigate the train station parking as i head into NY. You’ll be impressed to know that while sitting through Avenue Q - which is awesome by the bye and i really didn’t expect it to be - i was preoccupied with the fear of my car being towed away and my being stranded in sketchy New Haven. I deserve a prize.

It was a lovely week-end. The food will merit a post of its own. Coming back on Monday was much simpler if the hour and fifteen minute wait and the border WAS enough to screw up my otherwise delightful average speed. I like american roads. I don’t mind alternating how plays the rabbit if we are going to be driving 130-140 km/h. Hehe. Can’t do that here - the potholes would kill you.