I’m re-reading Heartburn by Nora Ephron because if any sentence can shove you out of writer’s block and into a room where you have no option to create something just as good as the thing you’ve just read, it’s her casual description of the “other woman” on page 2.
Contrary to multiple acquaintances’ declarations that I would encounter “some real weirdos” on the train, the first person I met on board my first sleeper car after boarding the train in Penn Station was a man in a sparkly cardigan and leather pants who breezily identified himself as “a prophet,” which is perhaps the world’s second-oldest profession. And forgive me if I find nothing “weird” about being gainfully employed under a supervisor with the kind of multinational name recognition God has.
As he doubtless expected, the prophet and I were in opposite Viewliner roomettes — private compartments Amtrak describes as “designed for one or two passengers,” although a roomette is both narrower and shorter than a standard porta potty.There Is No Reason To Cross America By Train — But I Did It Anyway – New York Times
When they bring lunch back to their desks, they know not to buy green bananas.Inside The Two Years That Shook Facebook – Wired