In NYC, very uneventful (though long) travel day. We had dinner at Patsy’s, which wasn’t the restaurant my boss thought we were going to, but, oddly enough, he’d also been there before. The food & service was very good; the umpteen-mirrored staircase is enough to give a gal vertigo, especially after a Bombay Sapphire on the rocks!
Then, because one of our travelers had never been to NYC before, we decided to make the trek to Times Square – which would have been fine, had this traveler pulled her coat out of her suitcase, or at least had a random Clapotis to drape around her head/neck. It may have been 70′ in KC today, but it was Dayum Brisque tonight in midtown Manhattan! I have a sore throat to boot, so I finally peeled off from our crew and parked myself in a Starbucks, so they could still go see the blinking lights, and enjoyed an apple chai while catching up on the ‘net with my mo-bile.
I’d forgotten a book at home, but fortunately, had a book stashed at work that I hadn’t read yet: In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote. Certainly a classic, and two winters ago, I was riveted by the movie version with Phillip Seymour Hoffman (of course, most everything he does is riveting to me.) Anyway, I am utterly enthralled. This book is written so well, to even try to describe it feels like I’m automatically doing it a disservice. You know, as I’m in one of the biggest cities in the world, and everything’s moving at this accelerated pace – people are walking along, texting, plugged in, a constant barrage of instant information, incoming and outgoing, I just am struck by how FAST it all goes. How fast we expect everything to happen, to communicate. And that is not this book. In the first 20 pages or so, I caught myself wanting to skim, to gather the main nuggets of data, give me the Tweets here, Tru. But I forced myself not to, and slowly that desire to push through faster gave way to sinking deeply into the text. Reading the minutae of descriptors, how the post office in town was drafty through the roof, the boxes didn’t shut, and so on he goes, page after page, painting this utterly detailed, gorgeous account of a terrible, horrible murder of a family and the men who did it.
I’m as guilty of it as anyone, hurtling headlong into the tunnel, running the race, thinking a mile a minute, chasing the next project and to-do list action item, plurking and twittering more than I write paragraphs. But the excrutiatingly beautiful detail falls away, and while you don’t always need it to understand what is happening, you realize how much it adds to the experience when you re-encounter it. It’s an inspiring read, and I want to read the rest of his work, because I sense I have utterly missed out on something fantastic and engaging.
Now it’s time to head to bed – tomorrow will be filled with exciting, energetic meetings, and another long journey home. Which is kind of nice, because it means more time with my book. (though now my knitting is suffering!)
See you in a day or so!
