Sorry, City

Atlanta never stood a chance with me.

A weekend in New York, then the rest of the week off to bum around home, then one day back at work and then, 1 day, 3 airports, and 8 travel hours later, skip skip stop cruise to the gate in Atlanta.

Only maybe just a tiny sliver of a smidgen of a chance.

It was cold there. I didn't expect that. I didn't expect it to be warm, per se, I'm not an idiot, I checked the Weather Underground, but the WU didn't tell me how bitey the wind would be. Or how the February sun lacks warmth in Georgia too. I didn't expect the meeting rooms at the W Hotel to be nearly air conditioned. I didn't expect I would be so busy trying to learn and keep up with work I wouldn't make it outside till 5 pm.

Maybe the sun was warm at 2.

I was tired. From being out of my routine and this the third one I was trying to make (let's count: the laze, fuck, rest, walk of New York; the loll and putter of days off at home; the schmancy elegance of my ersatz boutique hotel). I was worn out a bit emotionally from the pendulum swing of New York intensity to my empty house and bed. I just couldn't get it up to explore Atlanta alone.

Maybe Atlanta's a great town. Maybe if I had had it in me to walk far enough. Maybe if I'd wandered aimless. Maybe if I'd cared enough to do anything other than the easiest thing. So I ate at the same restaurant 4 days in a row because I could sit at the bar and eat buttery winter greens and drink a delicious local oatmeal stout. I didn't wander out of my business area neighbourhood because nothing I could find online or in the paper seemed worth the effort.

Strangely, though I didn't love being there, I did love taking photos of it. Its streets and tall buildings make beautiful angles; its surfaces are stone and reflective. Randomly, it seemed.