To the beat of your own drum.

[Nightcap Clothing lace jacket + Paul & Joe tuxedo romper + Jeffrey Campbell fringed booties + Dannijo purse + Gara Danielle turquoise necklace + J.Crew bracelet.]

Coming back to Richmond is all about digging up old memories for me. It can be any(every)where—a guy I knew in 7th grade sitting at the table next to us at dinner last night at Edo’s Squid, the hair salon where someone first (bravely) tried to straighten my hair next to the market, run-down Chinese food restaurants on Broad St, or a stroll around an eerily empty U of R campus.

Which is where I parked my bike the other day after 5, in the still 97+ degree heat, pulled my hat out of the basket, jammed my hands in my pockets, and walked up to the chapel where the Westhampton freshmen girls had that letter writing ceremony the night the boy freshman with the football scholarship drowned in the lake.

[Outside Edo’s Squid.]

The premise is this: you write yourself a letter they hold on to until senior year, when it’s handed back to you and you can reread it. I wasn’t paying attention to why; probably picking nailpolish off and meditating on my cat back home. So you could open your letter, older and wiser, and see if you met your goals, frat parties lived up to your expectations, or whatever your eager paws scribbled down. This was—what, a week in? I remember what I wrote, knowing I’d be transferring out as soon as I could.

Carey: If you’re reading this, you obviously weren’t smart or brave enough to recognize you made a huge mistake in coming here.

Jesus. I’m certainly not too hard on myself, am I?

Anyway, I got back on old green and pedaled over to the duck pond and started to think about the girl I’d met that first week who went back home after only 4 days. She was my favorite person there—I think I clung to her soft voice and obvious terror. When she left, and went home to Connecticut, I received a letter in my school mailbox. It was a little more encouraging than the one I’d written myself.

Carey: Don’t be afraid, and I hope you stick it out. It’s weird to be back home. I’ve been diagnosed with something they call “panic attacks” and I think with some help, I’ll be able to go back to school next semester. I hope you’re feeling better and aren’t as homesick.

I love how just being in a city affords me thoughts of lucky graces with special people like that. After being on a quiet mountain all winter with my own head? That’ll do.

Stay tuned for an Edo’s Squid post. This was round two for me and I loved it even more than the first time. Conch salad, veal picatta, mussels in white sauce, and wine out of those tiny glasses followed by a rainy drive around the Fan—not too shabby.

Back on the mountain and wishing I was back on those cobblestones.

Have a great week…

-Carey