I went to the Lost Dog Café last night, across from the Ithaca Commons. I was by myself. I brought Waiting for Godot, because I’ve been wanting to read it for a while and it came up in a conversation recently.
After I ordered, I got up to wash my hands. When I returned, the lady from the couple sitting next to me leaned over and said, “I was beginning to wonder if you were doing performance art. You know, just leaving and never coming back, with Waiting for Godot and a solitary glass of wine sitting there at your place.”
Things to love about Ithaca: people will talk to you in restaurants. And they’ll find it entirely plausible that you might be a performance artist. Because who isn’t, in Ithaca?
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