On Thanksgiving the city was eerily quiet. You could have frolicked around in the middle of Beacon Street and no one would have cared. It was so quiet that as we got ready to catch a train to my parents' house I had a foreboding that maybe the T wasn't running after all, contrary to what the papers said. It was in fact running and it got us to South Station quickly enough, since hardly anyone got on at most of the stops.

South Station, however, was nearly as crowded as rush hour on a weekday. You could tell the difference, though, by a more relaxed attitude and less frantic rushing around. The briefcases of the work week were gone, and had been replaced by, oddly enough, baked goods. I had thought Cynthia and I would look funny carrying a box of postre de tres leches, a magically delicious Honduran cake, on the train with us, but when the train was called a throng of people holding cakes and pies made their way out to the platform. Desserts were everywhere: on seats, on laps, in the overhead luggage racks. Everyone had baked in the city, it seems, and everyone was taking the products of their labors to the scattered suburbs for admission to Thanksgiving dinner.

ah, yes, the magical cake...which did in fact drip on me :) so much sweetly goodness