I got drunk at book club.

Well, that's not exactly true.  I got tipsy at book club, and I haven't had that much to drink in the last few weeks, so it felt like much more than it was.  Our club is called "Read Between the Wines," after all.

We read Race Against Time.

Most of the club disagreed with my (admittedly somewhat radical, but probably true) notions about pharmaceutical companies and governments and such.  And that's fine; I don't need people to agree with me.  I do need them not to frown and cross their arms because clearly I am some kind of weird hippie.  Hee.  Actually I didn't mind because the person who was doing that is ridiculously nice otherwise.  I expected to be in the minority.  I expected that my particular club would be mostly made up of people who didn't have the kind of background I do on Africa (thanks to Ethan) or AIDS (thanks to my insatiable thirst for information).  I tended to wonder whether most of the people in the room have even been tested, which is not a pejorative thing, I just wondered how close it hit home.

I really like these women, and I'm glad that when it came time to drop the book and move on to topics as varied as who brings wine next time and bikini waxing, we really dropped it and everyone relaxed.

But I wonder how different the conversation would have been in Cambridge.  I'm so desperately spoiled in that way. 

Next meeting, back to fiction, oddly enough a book that takes place in part in Cambridge.  Hee.  Fiction good.