Ahhhh... Ithaca, land of my coming of age. Ithaca, the place where I can truly say... er... I lived in when I lived in Ithaca. It's a Hell of a place. One of the rare places I've actively missed living in. One of the rare places I still miss when I'm gone.

Getting off for the trip was a bit difficult, because I started the day yesterday with a lot of things in a row I needed to take care of at work. First and foremost, I woke up late -- the alarm failed to go off, and I missed All-School. Fortunately, I didn't need to be there today. I was in by quarter of nine, just in time to meet Margaret, the Dean of Summer Session, and go over my teaching evaluation for the program.

Which, I'd add, went really well. I'm apparently good at this teaching thing. This was a nice way to balance the rather unpleasant feeling of waking up late. It also gave me a chance to give her what assignment I wanted the kids to do the next day, while I was in the bright state of New York. And we went over some other stuff -- all told it went nicely.

From that, I grabbed coffee and taught my class. Finished up Networking, more or less. This is a lovely good thing to do -- we're now ready for a few days of review next week, then a final on Thursday and they graduate on Friday. So, it should wrap up nicely.

Eleven was when I was supposed to leave, originally, but I still had a ton of stuff to do, including getting my paycheck (a necessary thing, as my car payment would come due while I was on the road). And, of course, there was work to do. I finally made it out of work at one, with about a half-hour to forty-five minutes of stuff to do at the apartment, before I hit the road.

It was a gorgeous day for driving. Perfectly lovely. At least in the beginning. Down in Concord, I went to a Key Bank branch I'd learned about (they're beginning to appear in New Hampshire -- which means maybe one will appear close to home), deposited my check, and headed east.

It's relatively straightforward to get to the highway in New York, but it involves taking State Route 9 through Vermont. Which sucks. I mean, really sucks. It's all winding roads and twisting turns, and no passing lanes at all. It has a few "truck lanes" to keep drivers who want to break thirty-five miles an hour from going insane and killing everyone in Burlington, but even they're rare.

On the other side of it, you hit the highway... but I hit the Thruway right at five, and got locked in traffic. So I got stuck for some time. Which left me there in time for the thunderstorms.

Nasty thunderstorms, at that. One lightning bolts slammed a tree about twenty feet away from me. It was really nasty and loud and, in its own way, exhilerating. It was a good break from NPR and Garrison Keillor, which are my usual traveling companions. And I was enjoying them this trip, but they could hardly compete with the wrath of the Heavens slamming down about me, driving rain and wind pushing at me and the car.

But it was okay. Hell, it was exciting. I was alive, and the world was full of portents and magic and power and any number of others. New York was welcoming me with thunder and lightning -- and while I could have interpreted as portents of doom, I didn't. It thrilled me. I was alive and I was going back to Ithaca.

I barely stopped, pulling over once for gasoline. It didn't really tire me out in the travelling. Not at all. My foot, generally injured, got sore, and I decided it had something to do with the fact that my sneakers were about to give up the ghost. For the most part, I simply didn't worry about it.

And then I was passing through Cortland, where thirty-five years ago my sister Kristen was born, when my father was working on Interstate 81, working for his uncle. And then I was passing through Dryden, where I played Mister Beaver in a particularly fun production of Narnia with the Dryden Footlighters. And then...

You don't simply enter Ithaca. You pass through Lansing, and down a hill past the Triphammer Mall on Route 13, and then circle around a bend and you can see the valley that is Ithaca. On West Hill and East Hill you can see the colleges -- the twin towers of Ithaca College, the Bell Tower "far above Cayuga's water's" which is the hallmark of Cornell. And Lake Cayuga itself, spread out like the finger it's named after, all along the side of you as you drive down towards the city. Ithaca, New York. Home of culture, the last great bastion of unrestrained Liberalism in America, near as I can tell.

I felt suddenly powerfully homesick. I loved Ithaca. I love Ithaca. I love it in ways that I've never felt for another place. I miss Ithaca where I don't miss Seattle or even Fort Kent, where I was born. I miss Ithaca and I miss who I was here, back in 1988 with Frank and Karen. I had to remind myself that I love my life at Brewster to keep from looking for work while I was here.

I knew the streets. I was home.

It was late -- past ten pm, but the night was young. I hit the Holiday Inn and picked up Russ, called Eagle, and one of my closest friends. If I had to name the five people I'm closest to in all ways in life (not counting family), they'd be a coterie of guys I've known. Russ. Mason. John (who I'll get to see tomorrow, God Willing and the Creek Don't Rise), Gary. And Semper Fraternis, Frank. My best friend. My brother.

But Russ is definitely in the list, and it was fantastic to see him again. I can sit and talk to Russ for hours at a time, and be perfectly happy.

Russ was well, and enjoying Ithaca quite a bit, despite the fact that Ithaca is currently dug up. We drove up to Frank's (taking an unintended side-trip through the wrong bridge of the new "multiple" bridges that took the place of the old Octopus -- a series of six different roads that all collapsed together into one bridge that was high impossible to get through during rush hour. We found a connecting road and drove down what seemed like an 89 degree angle to the proper road.)

Reaching Interlaken, we pulled into what looked like the right house. It wasn't. Hey, it'd been a full year since I was there and it was a dark night. We got out of the car....

And a man in a seed cap and flannel shirt, backlit from his door, got out of his house, followed by a woman with the telltale facial shape of inbreeding. Somewhere, I could swear I heard a banjo playing Dueling Banjos. We couldn't see their faces clearly. They were not Frank and Becky. They didn't say a word. They seemed alien. Or seemed like natives of a world which Russ and I had accidentially driven to (perhaps when we plunged down the hill to the right road).

We apologized. They wordlessly returned to the house. We got in the car and left, and made it to Frank's.

Frank looked good, as did his dog and his three cats. Beckie was already in bed. We told him about the encounter.

"Oh no," he said. "You accidentially met... the Blue People?"

I'm scared of people they call the Blue People.

It was really late, so of course we went out to dinner. Friendly's is open late. We went, ate food, and chatted. Russ and Frank seemed to like each other quite a bit. I like them both, of course. Things were cool.

The Pet Shop Boys started to play on the P.A. system. I declared that meant it was time to go. We did, dropping Russ off at the Holiday Inn, and we headed for Frank's place.

"Good to see you, Bro," he said, and I had to agree.

Of course... it wasn't all smooth. There was... the matter of my bed.

You see, I visited last year, but Frank and Beckie didn't have multiple beds any longer. I had my choice of sleeping on the floor, or on a couch in the living room. A short couch. A love seat, almost.

After a couple of days of this back then, I bought them a lovely new futon as a housewarming gift. It's one condition was that if they had a bunch of friends over, including me, this was my bed. Neener neener neener.

All well and good -- but Frank and Beckie had brought it up to the cabin they were renting for the Rennaisance Festival. This makes sense. I'm glad they did so.

But they forgot to bring it back.

That love seat's no longer than I remember....

(It's still worth it to sleep with a cat on my head again. I've missed cats in my life.)