I’d meant to write about this, but I forgot about it, so you get it now. I was coming back from downtown on Saturday afternoon on the red line, and right before we got into Harvard Square, we stopped. The car started filling up with smoke, and as I sat in the dark tunnel my thoughts turned from annoyance to fear. We eventually moved and slowly rolled into the station; people started pouring out.

If I were being sensible I really ought to have gone with them, but I wanted to get home and was sort of interested as to what was going on. I breathed through my knit hat and waited. We were finally told there was a trash fire, and it was under control, and not to worry. If it was a trash fire, it was a lot of trash — when I finally made it to Davis Square, two stops down the line, that station was also filled with smoke. People stood at the top of the escalators, waiting for the train to arrive so they could descend into the cloud of smoke, hop inside, and trust in faith to get them to where they were going. Will they ever return?

Fortunately no one, myself included, was burnt to a crisp, and accordingly V and I are headed of to Jolly Old Texas, where we will visit Buckingham Palace and have tea with the Queen. Alternately, we’ll have a few days in Houston with my parents for Festive Season. Barring internet access calamity I’ll be writing through the festiveness, but if I’m not, picture me happily entwined in high fest and expect me back soon.