On Saturday morning I drove across the suburban town where I grew up. Friday had been hot and windy, as though someone had opened a gigantic oven door in front of Pittsburgh. The flight into the city had been arduous, first because the airline couldn't locate the first officer of the plane, which delayed the departure for an hour: they paged him repeatedly in the terminal: 'If First Officer ___ is in the terminal, please come to Gate 3,' a woman behind the desk unenthusiastically droned on for the better part of forty-five minutes until they figured out that the officer in question was on a different flight. 'We apologize for the inconvenience' they subsequently announced, which is a phrase I think should probably be retired in the modern era. Needless to say, this episode didn't fill me with confidence as I boarded the plane and next sat on the runway at Laguardia for many more minutes on a tiny, hot and sold-out flight. Then when we were about ten feet from the ground in Pittsburgh, the plane swooped up and the captain (or possibly the first officer) announced that strong winds had been landing impossible, so we had to circle around again, during which time I felt that death was a certainty.
I had forgotten this by Saturday morning, and instead remembered being a kid and how driving over cobblestone streets was actually something to look forward to. Eventually they'll probably pave it over, I suppose, because bricks are too expensive to maintain.
The trees prevented me from being too pessimistic or nostalgic, however, as they arched over the road so that I could see a light at the end of the tunnel.
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