St.Patty and the Mesmerizing Samovar
A samovar is a kettle. And Patrick is a saint. Therefore, a sainted kettle blessed our delegation in its own, well, boiling way.
It all began, as all things should, at 5am on Monday, March 17th, in the Main Parking lot. Seeing most of the delegation in the laundry room a few short hours before was very heartening, because it meant no one was sleeping. In fact, it was bonding. Who needs new t-shirts when you’ve got to wash your old ones, anyway?
Unlike every year, our preferred mode of transport this year was the Amtrak Crescent Line, and Lynchburg was pretty much the only rural stop on it, from New Orleans to
New York. And unlike every year, all of us ladies realized that we had a weight limit on our luggage. Jessie Rowe, who went first, clocked about fifteen pounds over, and the numbers increased steadily, as did the red in the ticket clerk’s face. But we haven’t been living behind the Brick Wall for nothing. The waiting area soon looked like an assembly line, with everyone’s bags in a row, and all of us trying to stuff shoes, clothes, and more clothes into each other’s already splitting bags. It was a quick and concise session of Packing 101.
After a train journey rife with snores (others of course, never our delicate delegation) and forest fires by train tracks (yes, the firefighters were cute) we rolled into Penn Station, ready to take on the city, the colors, the noise and the people.
Like last year, we arrived here on St. Patrick’s Day, which meant that we felt it necessary to pay him tributes, because the conference didn’t start until the next day, and because
New York was begging to be discovered. That meant, of course, that we had to check in.
We arrived at the reception of the Sheraton, expecting to be free in a few minutes… Three hours later, we had been moved out of the lobby into the “Refugee Camp” on the third floor— a room stuffed full of six other delegations whose bookings had been mixed up too. We were in danger of turning from future diplomats to future hoboes.
After reiterating for the tenth time that “No, we cannot come back tomorrow,” we were ushered, finally into our rooms. Matea and my patience was rewarded because we were put in a room complete with a king-size bed, an iPod deck and a view to die for. Very different from the original plan, but also very welcome.
We did eventually disperse to worship St. Patrick, and I found myself in the quieter parts of
Manhattan, at a Russian place, where the owners were very happy to explain the qualities of a samovar, depending on how “mesmerizing” your eyes were, and how many glasses of beverages you could stand. I wonder if they realized that eyes have a tendency to get like that, especially when not in focus.
The night was finished up with all the delegation toasting the conference, and ourselves, and promising to work harder than ever for a better world. Then, we made it back to our hotel, singing of a fair one, and dreaming of making it a reality.