Friends, old and new

Friday evening started out as planned. I headed home early, immersed myself in the weekly domestic chores of cleaning and laundry, and lazed around in the lounge bantering with Rohinton and Jeet. I was knackered and looking forward to hitting the sack early, but just then Seagull called with a proposal that sent my plans awry.
"I'm with some friends in a bar five minutes away," he said. "Come join us!".
Oh why not, I thought. I'll go for just the one.
Famous last words.

Turns out one of Seagull's friends is the president of the "just-one-more" society. So it was some considerable hours/bars later that we all ended up saying goodbye, a bit worse for the wear.

Despite feeling somewhat shattered and fragile the next day, I woke up on Saturday an excited bunny. My old pal Ximmix is in town for three weeks, and she, Inihtar and I had fixed up to meet for brunch. The last time I'd met Ximmix was in London three years ago, and was looking forward to a hearty catchup. Of all the marvelous places to show her in NYC, we took her to the Starbucks on the third floor of Macy's. But I don't think we would have noticed our surroundings no matter where we went.

As we exchanged hugs and beams, the distance and years somehow melted away and it felt just like we were all in high school again. Except a bit older (but not wiser). So over brunch we slowly caught up on our lives - boyfriends, finances (!!), relationships, work and studies.

When finally it was time to leave, I schlepped over to Penn Station to catch a train to Providence, where I was headed to visit
Shan-K.
What is the worst way to spend a Saturday afternoon?
Waiting in Penn station for a train delayed by three hours. Even at the best of times, that station is a skanky place to be. Looking at the 200 other disgruntled passengers camped on the floor around me, I had visions of the Katrina superdome.

My experience, predictably, was compounded by having to use the bathroom at frequent intervals. Please, please, people, if you have even the most rudimentary sense of self preservation, do NOT hazard a visit to the Penn Station toilets.

When I stepped out of the train in Providence to find a patiently waiting Shan-K, I instantly forgot all my pent up ill-will.
"Hope you're hungry," he beamed at me. "I don't normally go out to restaurants with people here, so I've got a bit of an agenda worked out for us."
And boy. Shan-K was not kidding around. First we went to a lovely Italian restaurant on Federal Hill. After walking around on the highstreet and curling our noses at a couple of restaurants, we finally found one that met our standards (ie was affordable). Then we proceeded to eat ourselves to the point of sickness. Why do Italian restaurants always serve enough food for two people in each dish? And why do we feel compelled to try our damnedest to finish it, even when stuffed to our gills? Or maybe it's just me.

As we finished our dinner, Shan-K must have noticed the seam-bustingly pained look on my face, because he said, "well, I was going to take you to a lovely dessert place after, but if you're too full..."
Huh?
Dessert??
"Oh there's a separate stomach for desserts," I assured him.
So we ambled over, through a network of quiet back alleys, to one of the quaintest little dessert cafes I've ever been to.

There, over steamed milk (??! - can't take that chap anywhere in public) and apple tart, we continued to exchange the reminisces, tales, predicaments and anecdotes that you can only recount to one of your oldest friends ever.