In my current, temporary apartment, I and a couple of other refugees from our evacuated building are surrounded by students.  I have nothing against students, having worked with them for thirty-three years, but they are no longer “my people.”

On a recent Saturday evening I was waiting outside of my building to be picked up for dinner at friend’s home. I stepped aside as a gaggle of young people approached.  Everyone (about two dozen) was going into my building.  I asked one of them if they were going to a party, and they said “yes.”  I asked them what floor the party was on, but didn’t get a reply.

I had a lovely time at dinner and rather dreaded going home to a raucous party. But by the time I returned, either the party had moved on, or it was thoughtfully quiet.

A peaceful night’s sleep followed.