Yesterday evening, after a mani/pedi in CDG in Paris (I had a long layover) and a combination several planes/buses/trains, I finally arrived in Cambridge. My sister greeted me near the T station and we immediately ducked into Boloco for refreshing smoothies before preparing for the first event of Harvard graduation (for me): a picnic at the athletic fields.
It was unseasonably warm (though I wonder if every spring day isn't unseasonably SOMETHING in Boston, since the weather vacillates between too cool and too warm) and after the fifteen-minute walk over SB realized the necessary tickets remained in the drawer in her room. Several unsuccessful calls to friends who might still be in her dorm proved fruitless and so we prepared to charm our way in. Unimpressed, Harvard's own Cerebus (decked out in a Vineyard Vines sundress) informed us we could buy new tickets and sell the others back if someone brought them over the river. Sheepishly we entered the picnic.
SB left early to warm up for Grad Jam, her final a capella concert as a "Fallen Angel" in Sanders Theater. I meticulously took down her friends' phone numbers (it remains unclear how I managed to avoid already having them after four years of friendship) and followed my sister away from the stadium. I had duties of my own to complete before playing the parents and watching her sing: the new Steig Larsson book came out yesterday and neither the airport in Marseille or in Paris sold it. It was time to visit the Coop.
The Coop, Harvard's bookstore, groaned under the weight of the over-excited parents and extended families of every student graduating from Harvard in 2010. Had my intentions to purchase "The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest" and possibly a copy of Time Magazine marinated within me for an entire international flight (during which, I might add, I could have finished the book if France had the decency to sell it), I certainly would have turned tail and retreated to SB's dorm room. However, resolute, I pushed forward, and half an hour later ended up in line at the register.
In front of me stood a pair of average Asian parents. I watched them take their time browsing the books specifically about Harvard (I don't know why bookstores insist on having books at the register and distracting customers in line. It always extends my waiting time significantly) and changing their minds about what they would purchase. After another half an hour they made their decision. As the husband paid, his wife took a picture of the transaction.
I stifled something between laughter and tears.
An hour later I sat in Sanders Theater while my sister sang her last college solo, Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al" (incidentally, she had the best solo of all the girls in her group). Determining that the small size of the crowd gave me license to use flash after several blurred pictures without it, I snapped as many pictures in two minutes as my little camera that could was able. My sister's time in the spotlight over, I turned off my camera and replaced it in my bag. A moment later a woman came up behind me and said, "I wasn't going to say anything if it was just one or two pictures, but there's no flash in here."
No, the irony of the situation did not escape me.
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