All I had planned to do this weekend was visit Washington D.C., see a few monuments, snap some pictures, spend time with friends and visit the neighborhood I will be living in once I move in August.
That, and read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows from cover to cover.
The three-day jaunt and the eight-hour read are not entirely unrelated; at least in my mind. They are both products of my inability to wait, to be patient, to enjoy this moment without constantly contemplating that moment. It’s either a character flaw or boredom.
I visited D.C. partially to see the new neighborhood, the next place on my list before I eventually return to Ohio. I read Harry Potter in two days because I could not put the book down (I would have finished it in one day if I had not been sick).
Both exhilarated me and, at the same time, left me disappointed. The trip raised my hopes for living in Washington — it’s a nice neighborhood with easy access to the metro and I shouldn’t have too much trouble getting in and out of town. The book, meanwhile, satisfied my curiosity. It ended the story that I loved in an imaginative and near-perfect way.
And yet, as I sit here, I know that I still have to spend another month in Erie, which has looked more and more drab since I returned — partly the weather and partly that this-isn’t-Washington feel. And the series, for all intents, has ended. I have no more Harry Potter books to look forward to.
Maybe I’ll savor the time that I have left with friends and co-workers that I’ve met. Maybe I’ll simply let go of Harry Potter. Maybe.
I’ll probably find a televised substitute and waste away the last few weeks discovering a new fictitious world.
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