Sitting in a Starbucks on N Street. Don’t roll your eyes at me, we needed the wireless connection. Where the air in New York seems electric with wireless possibilities everywhere, the AirPort signal on my iBook has been a sad grey all day up till now, the four curves positive and black with affirmative connection. The background accompaniment is sounds of steam and thumps of coffee grounds being discarded and calls of “grande latte tall skim mochaccino tall latte venti cappuccino iced tall green tea.” The day’s adventures so far have led us down and up and down Connecticut Avenue looking for an eye doctor for Yaël, who developed an infection overnight. We crossed the same bridge thrice before Maud got the bright idea to call the office and ask for directions. “It’s on Connecticut between Sixteenth and Seventeenth and H and I,” she reported off her cellphone, and we were flummoxed that something could be between four things. But then there it was, Sixteenth, Seventeeth, H, I, and now Yaël has a Kill Bill eyepatch, trop style. I guess she won’t be driving for a bit, which is too bad, because she is genius at parallel parking.

This is a lot of adventure for twenty-four hours.