I was with roommates L and C, and we were sitting on a wooden bench, peering through the trees to the gray, rippling lake. L had a whole grain pumpkin muffin, C had an indian samosa, and I had an egg roll. Behind us Ithacans were bustling around underneath a mammoth structure made of wooden planks, lugging bags overflowing with produce and cups full of sweet cider. Ithaca's farmers market is the strangest combination of experiences (hence our cuisine), but it all felt entirely natural.
While we were watching the lake, I thought back to yesterday when I was actually on the lake, learning to row with varsity. Torrential, freezing rain poured down our backs and soaked our shoes, the girl in front of me could hardly hold her oar from the shivers. I was experiencing two things for the first time. One was the sensation of wet spandex. The other was the thrill of a single successful stroke, when you hear the rush of the water underneath the boat punctuated with the thunking of the oar locks.
We finished and headed back to the car, dodging puddles and breathing in the smell of dew on leaves just entering fall.
And I realized I lived in Ithaca as we laughingly piled into the car to face the adventure of manual transmissions on Ithaca's hills.
Now I'm here, in my dorm room, typing up a blog post and eyeing the stack of reading I've got lined up for me this afternoon, and I feel at home.
