Hello San Francisco

My internet starter page flashes these two bits of information: Rome 94°F; San Francisco 51°F.

Earlier today, I can tell how tired I am by how long it takes me to remember the word sponge in English.

My first twenty-four hours back in SF are characterized by restlessness: I try to nap, but am rebuffed, bouncing off the surface of sleep back into the purgatory of my churning thoughts. These thoughts are not very interesting to relate, and mostly involve making little decisions about the new locations of my belongings (i.e. I should put the dental floss behind the mirror on the first shelf).

I must be having some feelings about this large ending—saying goodbye to a community of people I have lived with in such close quarters for a year, and to Italy for the time being—but I have little sense of what they are at the moment. I am bewildered, and possibly sad. After big endings, the awareness of what I'm feeling often eludes me, at least at first, though I've noticed how the experience of loss tends to lurk behind the screen of just this brand of mental agitation.

On the up side, jetlag does afford me the opportunity to watch the sun rise.