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excited like she's really got me there. Me, I can't see myself as an Aztec, not at all.
    With such smoothness our conversation carries on as we cross the cold bridge and pass First, Second and Third streets, along Third Avenue. I don't know why of all the people at the bakery, most of whom are my own age, it is Mme. Nisot I get along with best. Most people don't, but I do.
2 Florence
    When I get to Florence's I look in my bag. There are two notebooks, two novels, tapes, pens and markers, a zine I got in the mail yesterday, a bag of muffins, and four unwrapped loaves of bread. The way everything is randomly shoved in pleases me. Plato says that when things are rubbed together understanding comes forth like sparks, and this looks a lot like what's happening in my bag. I give Florence a loaf of bread and some muffins. Free bread tastes good, but giving out free bread feels better.
    Florence has made salad and put olives in a bowl; we eat. She tells me about a girl she met, a boxer. The French word
boxeuse
is nice and she knows it, repeats it, breaks into a laugh. She sounds like she might be in love. She explains to me the workings of RRSPs, interrupting me when I protest that the chances of my buying RRSPs are slim. She kicks my ass at Scrabble as we drink beer. We're playing bilingually, so I can't blame the language. I want to blame my letters, first all worthless vowels, then fastidious consonants. The truth is she's just a better player.
    Florence was the first friend I made in this town. We haven't seen each other for a long time, but it's as if no time had passed. Does that mean that she's an “old friend?” Can it really be that I have old friends here? And if so, is it time to go?
3 Your punch tastes like capitalism
    The night before last, I found myself at a party. Lately I've been staying home more than usual, but when my roommates came home I was at the kitchen table by myself, drinking a 40 of Black Label, so I couldn't pretend I had anything better to do.
    I don't normally drink by myself, but it happens. I have that thirst that is never quite quenched. I can keep it in check because I can usually find something more compelling to do. Sometimes I can't.
    The party was at one of my roommates' lover's house. The boys and girls who live there are anarchists, meaning they don't believe in monogamy, steal their toilet paper from the university, and throw a wicked party. I'm being cheap; many among them find ways to turn their beliefs into practical, meaningful action. I admire theirconvictions. My politics go deep but they are quiet, private. Yes, I know politics is by definition public.
    â€œI wonder what it would be like to not be politically gelatinous?” my friend Luke asked me in a letter once. I wonder what it would be like not to be riven by doubt.
    Someone complains: “Why didn't you make the punch with real oranges? It tastes like McCain's. It tastes like capitalism!” Everyone laughs. These people know how to negotiate taking themselves too seriously and not seriously enough, and that's probably why they get things done. And the punch sort of does taste like capitalism — oily and artificially sweet, concealing the taste of the poison we love because it helps us forget there was something we were looking for, something we haven't found yet.
4 Working is the best thing to do when you're hung over
    Working is the best thing to do when you're hung over. Where would you be otherwise? You would be lying in bed, sleeping, holding your head, complaining or just feeling sorry for yourself. Cool. Working is better: not only have you gotten up but you even get paid for your troubles. Then there is the added challenge—whose job couldn't stand to be made more interesting? And finally, there is the suspense. Will you pull it off, or will someone notice? Will Betty the matronly Salvadoran bust you like she does every time, all “So, what were
you
up to last night?” winking knowingly,