SUNDAY

We slept until 7 and, once roused, had a cup of tea and started the job of packing--a task that's always a bit easier the last time, when you can just throw things in and squeeze the suitcase enough to be able to zip it up.  It happened, as I discovered on unpacking, much, much later in Los Angeles, that I threw in the TV remote control along with my clothes, and had to call this morning with the promise to send it back.

Amazingly, Abby still had the energy to host brunch at her home for what seemed like the majority of yesterday's wedding guests.  A nice spread that included lox and bagels along with quiche and several other delicacies.  Good coffee, and good company.  Ellie and I found ourselves in conversation with the Broadway celebrity, Brian Stokes Mitchell (I confess I had not heard of him before; we make it to Broadway only relatively rarely) and his wife, Allison, both of whom have that rare and fine quality of listening with attention in addition to generously sharing of themselves.  It was a pleasure to talk with them.

Hugs all around as we left, around noon, with some time to spare before we needed to head across the state on the Mass Turnpike to the airport.  Not hungry for lunch yet, we decided to drive over to the Norman Rockwell museum, where we admired the singular precision of this icon's draftsmanship and his skill as an illustrator; but, speaking for myself, found his sentimental streak and his rather cliché'd vision of American middle class life to be less interesting.  Sharing the museum space was an exhibition of the cartoonist and graphic memoirist Roz Chast, whose sharp wit and insight into human nature--and, not least, her own--were worthy of more time we had to give her.

The turnpike sped us towards Boston at a healthy clip, at first, but slowed to almost a standstill halfway there.  For miles, we inched along, starting to worry whether we had left time enough to catch our return flight to Los Angeles.