In a fortnight I returned to New York.
The morning I flew was chilly and cloudy. The sea was all foaming, sluggish, dull olive, under a delicate haze. Subtle hints here and there of the inevitable change of the season.
Suitcases packed. Grandma and grandpa kissing good-bye. Miles and miles of French countryside from the windows of Sud Express. Paris. Charles de Gaulle. Nine hours among the clouds. La Guardia. Another world.
Indian summer reigned on Manhattan in its ultimate gorgeousness. New Yorkers were coming back to the city from the Hamptons. And I, as never before, enjoyed the merry bustle of the Madison Square and Broadway and Park Avenue. It even seemed at times that my wounds were healing, although I knew that the poison was still in. I went shopping buying new clothes and shoes and in the pleasant fuss of it hardly noticed the arrival of the fall. The cool wind from the coast prompted at times that the season would click soon, until, at last, shy rain at night quietly whispered that a new season had officially begun.
It was my first fall at university then. Paying due tribute to the presence of the itchy French genes I went on studying the Romance languages at the philological department of Cornell.
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