I'm more than capable of feeling nostalgia for New Jersey (though not so much so that I was happy, yesterday, when I realised that I was flying back here today, and not, as I thought, tomorrow ...). Especially at this time of year, I think of its blossom, and driving out to Lambertville and walking over the Delaware, and that faintly steamy sense that summer is coming. But. My nostalgia doesn't extend to arriving at Newark airport at 10 in the evening, and finding that the air train isn't running, and that there's a dearth of substitute buses, and then when one clanks through security gates, and and sways past all those lots with Russian limo drivers playing cards, and new cars that no one has the money to buy, and then eventually deposits its load of cross people at the station, discovering that the train I wanted has just left ... On top of this, New Jersey Transit on a Saturday night, together with the tobacco smelling rusty shared taxi cab from New Brunswick station work their customary magic, and make me very, very grateful to live in Los Angeles.
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