The international terminal at the Ottawa airport is a sad little collection of three gates, the rest of the Canadian flights behind a glass wall, H. said she’d join J. and I for lunch if only she could be subatomic gastronomy. Instead J. and I went to the bar area and ordered food and sat and ate and chatted and if you’d told me ten years ago when I first found his work that we’d be lol’ing at an airport bar a decade later, well, it’s been a good life so far and I’m lucky.

I ordered a pepperoni pizza using the pizza ordering app and waited for it to come so I could eat it with a beer watching the football game. Not the worst way to spend a Saturday.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a beer that tasted as good as the beer at the taco place post-Brooklyn Half, utterly spent, exhausted, O. eating chicken tacos across from me, splitting an order of chips.

J. and I hit the organic vegan cafe after Pilates to gossip and catch up. You know, how you do when you’re ladies who lunch.

K. and S. fed me nachos and beer while we watched the Jets game, such a ridiculous victory, it was like being at a spa.

One thing that’s changed about Boise: so many local beers! I had one, a rosemary IPA, with a BLT, mom had the turkey melt and a glass of water, felt good to be out on the town.

E. and I walked through the park to the restaurant and sat and ate and talked about getting married and babies and work and navel-gazing and athletic pursuits. It had been too long.