Since last we spoke, I’ve been to New York and back. Come this fall, Abbe will live just across from the UN building on 43 Street. Her building doorman told us that we could park the UHaul despite the street signs which reserve the curb for diplomat and consulate parking only.

I don’t normally like New York; this time was no different. However, I got a pair of sunglasses at one of the rest stops. With UV protection, polarized lenses, and a pink and orange glaze, they make me look like the type of man who sells space credits in clubs in between glow-in-the-dark shots served in test tubes.

After moving Abbe, it was Michelle’s turn. To celebrate, we hosted a cookout in the courtyard. Beef kabobs with peppers, onions, and zucchini with a bananas foster � la Boy Scout camping trip.

We got lost some where in Roxbury. Thinking that we could drive around all night without ever finding the Green Street station, we pulled into a gas station for directions. I strolled inside sporing my Fast Park uniform with Jose name tag and glasses hung carefully on my collar. There I found five or six “urban youths.” They didn’t seem to notice me for a few seconds. It was impossible to catch any of their eyes, so I spoke. “Hey, do you know where the Green Street station is?”

I wasn’t prepared for their response.

“Yeah, I know. — No, wait. I want to tell him. — I’m going to tell him. Go up here. — Yeah, go right up here. — I’m going to tell him, yeah. Go up here and you’ll see a school. Is English over there? — Yeah, but you’re going to see Ruggerios. — Ruggerios, and then there’s a police station. — Okay, okay. Yeah. I’m gong to tell him, go up here and you’ll see Ruggerios and then a police station and then turn right right after the police station. That’s Green Street.”

I tried to keep my smile from growing to wide, thanked them, and was off.

Michelle lives in a place called the Pirate Ship, and they don’t take the name lightly. Perhaps I’ll have something more to say later.

But even though I had started my day at the Miracle of Science Cafe, and even though I had had more than a pound of meat and half a dozen bananas at the barbecue, I was still hungry. For helping, Michelle offered to feed her moving crew. We hit up IHOP, which is just off a scenic driveway in Watertown on which only pleasure vehicles may drive. How else could you classify the Stratus, I ask.

The stuffed french toast tasted something like a jelly donut, but the hashed browns and bacon were redeeming. The recess lighting above our table was cut off and on by the ceiling fan positioned between to a rhythm which caused us each a headache.

I still have a headache. Not the same one, of course. After IHOP, I dropped Mary and Michelle off, then DJ. Except that DJ doesn’t live on this end of the Red Line and I wasn’t in driving form. Since I woke up, Howard Stern has been talking loudly from the online archives; Soul Caliber has been equally loud and visually confusing for just as long. Between them, it’s hard to compose full sentences.

Perhaps I’ll go home, recover, and give a proper post later.