The end of an Era

It's my last night on D Street. Ah, so sad. Wait, I'm not sad at all. Except I will miss this room. It really is quite a cute little space. And it's the perfect size, the perfect sunniness. The perfect writing place. But alas. It does not have a perfect landowner. Can I blame her? I am not a perfect person. I try, but it's not happening. So I'm working on other things.

Like packing. I think it's going pretty well. I'll do it tomorrow morning.

I just want to say that I actually appreciate Nancy a lot. I think she's done a lot for me, and I will always be grateful. I have never before had the opportunity to confront pure evil. Plus, she has provided me with endless sources of amusement. And if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then she has paid some very enormous compliments. So for that, I am thankful.

And also for the fact that she is, or has been, out of spite, doing exactly the things I had politely requested her to do before, and which she didn't do, for whatever reason. Things like turning the TV down at night, and leaving her gross nasty food out of my side of the fridge, and staying out of my room. It's like she is just so completely angry at me that she'll do whatever I say. It's amazing. I feel almost powerful. But I'll try not to let it go to my head. I just hope she gives me my space when I'm moving out tomorrow.

Stray Cat

There is a stray cat that hangs around our back yard. I want to adopt it. It’s mostly white, with some black patches. It’s a little bit scraggly, but I think if it got cleaned up and put on some weight, it would be quite charming. I am not sure if it’s a male or a female.

But the wonderful thing about cats is, no matter where they are, no matter what their circumstances, they are always regal. They will always find the best place to sit, and they will sit there. And they will look around, and they will enjoy the sunshine.

For example, I looked out the back window one day to see the black and white kitty calmly resting, like a normal house cat, on the blue pillow of the white wicker chair in the back yard. The back yard itself is scraggly. The landlady hardly pays any attention to it. But there is a concrete sort of patio area, with one high-backed wicker chair, complete with armrests, and this mussed-up, mangy yard cat was sitting on it, like it expected someone to come home and read the newspaper. It was just so delightful.

And I began to wonder how I could possibly capture this kitty and maybe subject it to a cleaning process. I wondered if it would like it. I wondered if it would like people, or if it ever lived in a house before. I even wondered if my cat would get along with it. I would never love another kitty like I love my Camilla. But I do have a special place in my heart for the odd little furball that clearly belongs in a place in which it is not.

Motorcade of Mystery

I am also wondering how I got to be on a mailing list for a motorcycle ride in Biddford, Me. Something tells me my uncle had something to do with this...But maybe it's a sign that it's time for me to join a motorcycle gang.

Social Networking

So I just joined facebook last week. What's that? You're saying. Yes. Last week. I joined facebook. And already it has gotten surreal. People have messaged me out of the blue. (I've done the same.) I've come across the profiles of people I forgot I knew and learned things about them I probably never would have learned otherwise. And I've probably spent a total of 20 minutes on the site. Well, ok, more than that. But what's up with this wall-writing business? And applications? Ok, I haven't gone on to check it all out yet. I just have to say I am already quite amused. But I don't know how seriously to take it. However, I am looking forward to possibly reconnecting, and staying connected to people through there. It has its drawbacks, but I think it is a useful tool, when used healthily. But above all, it is stalker software. And to me, it begs the question: Why stalker software that both enables and encourages invasions of privacy in this era of otherwise stalker-phobic personal privacy protection hysteria? That's what I'm wondering.

Quote of the Day

If somebody sends me a mango plant on facebook, does that mean I should download the application, just to make sure they don't feel bad? - Margot

On Sickness and Health

Being sick is an amazing thing. It really cleans things out of your system like nothing else. And it’s like a forced vacation. You have to rest, because there is literally nothing else you can do. And afterwards, you not only feel better, but you can appreciate all the more the sort of general feeling of equilibrium that you normally have, but mostly take for granted.

I think everybody needs a good sickness once in a while. I’m not saying I like it. I’m not saying it’s enjoyable or in any way comfy to be puking and groaning at 4 in the morning. But I do think it’s a good idea. Me, I get a little wonky when I go for too long without being sick. The trouble is, my immune system is apparently pretty effective, and most of the time I go years without a cold. So this last weekend’s performance was quite a feat. And even though it sucked, I must say, I am quite pleased with the result. It’s all about opposition, juxtaposition, compare and contrast. You can’t know what healthy is, if you haven’t been sick.

And this is true for the planet, too. OK, you’re saying, I am making a huge mental leap here. I guess I am. But actually, this other thought came first, when I was reading Bill Bryson’s “A Short History of Nearly Everything” this summer. He was talking about ice ages, and how they actually carve out the earth and make it more fertile and ready for good times ahead. I’ll quote Bill Bryson quoting Tim Flannery: “There is only one question you need ask of a continent to determine the fate of its people: ‘did you have a good ice age?’” And the thought in my mind at the time was actually that what applies to the earth applies to people, too. That these “sicknesses” and sort of depressions that we go through, actually serve a purpose in that they make us more mentally and physically ready for what’s going to happen to us next, which is the good stuff.

Not so much on the Overalls

So here's my fashion comment for the day: Overalls - Not Sexy.

I don't care if they are teal-blue short-short coveralls. I don't care if they are skin-tight, low-slung in the back. Overalls are NOT SEXY. To me, they seem like about one step down from a cowl and a hassock. And everything about them screams non-sexy for a woman. It makes me cringe to see someone wearing them, at least with the intention of looking attractive. And I am talking mainly about women here. They are work-horse attire, which is really only sexy if you are on the job. They were not built at all with the female body in mind - they do horrible things to your hips. And think how much trouble you have to go through going to the bathroom? Why bother? And I don't know what guys think about them, but seriously, I wouldn't want to mess with that. Might as well wear a chastity belt. I imagine the CB would be less effective.

I did see one obviously style-informed woman wearing an overalls-like piece of clothing that actually was almost sexy - except for the fact that it was basically an overdone set of coveralls. And therefore, I said: No.

The only instances where overalls can be sexy are if you:

a) Actually ARE working a labor-intensive job (i.e. woodshop, etc.)

b) You just don't care

My advice would be, don't wear overalls if you actually even minutely THINK they might be sexy, because you will be wrong. Pure functionality? OK.

That's my advice for the day. Take it or leave it.

The Value of Speech

If there is one thing I learned in France, it is the value of non-verbal communication. Not having a massive vocabulary, I could get by, but only on the minimum of speaking. The rest I had to do nonverbally. And it was nice. It was nice not to have to follow up my "bonjour" with some kind of random inane comment. It was nicer, actually, to savor that moment of connection without dropping in extra stuff it didn't need. I felt like more a person, actually. I felt more solid, more polite.

But in America it seems there is almost always an expectation that you are going to say something clever. Or make conversation. Or maybe that's just me. Maybe it's just too easy when you know the language.

The true value of this was brought home for me last weekend, where I was hanging out with a guy who, in my opinion, talked way too much. I mean, I like a chatty guy. But he could not leave even one moment of free air space, and he would go off on tangents about things I really felt like I didn't need to know and had nothing to do with what we were talking about. It was all I could do to steer him back to the conversation.

And what it amounted to was a kind of verbal worrying. He was making me anxious with all of his talking. I thought he was a fairly nice guy. But I really thought if he sort of didn't say some of the things he was saying, I would have liked him a lot more. At some points I had to kind of tell him to stop talking. Most of the time, he didn't know he was doing it.

By the end of the night, it was practically unbearable.

So we said goodnight. And afterwards I had to wonder - do I do that? Do I talk so much sometimes that it amounts to a kind of worrying that I don't even know that I am doing? I hope not. But it's possible. I used to know this guy in High School who would sometimes just decide not to speak for an entire day. You could talk to him, but he wouldn't respond in words. It was interesting. Maybe I should try that. Or maybe I should try to pretend I am speaking French and I don't know the language. It might take some of the pressure off. Hm. We'll see. Or maybe I should just move to France.

Change of light

On my way to yoga class last night, I noticed the sunlight. Something about the angle said "fall." It was the timing, the color, the particular direction it was coming from. I looked at the trees and half expected the leaves to be changing color. They weren't. But it still felt like fall all of a sudden. Like every day up until that point felt like summer, but now the crucial point had switched. And we are in Fall mode. I wasn't the only one who noticed it, either. But I thought to myself, this is the first year where I am going to have to gauge the seasons entirely on the timing of the sunlight. I am going to have to be like a plant. Because I am not going to have drastic weather changes to cue me in. And I thought, this is interesting. San Francisco is a very interesting place.

Dream Interpretation

Okay, I have a new theory about the meaning of my dream. Maybe it wasn't a doomsday prophecy after all, hey? What if I was literally dreaming about how my body was being invaded by foreign particles, and maybe the "aliens" and the little "chips" were just this stupid bug that kept me up all night puking last night. Yeah, it was gross. And I never puke. I can't even make myself do it if I try. So for that to happen, there has to be something really very wrong.

But what's funny is that my yoga teacher was dead on. At the end of class, she warned me that, because of some of the movements we had done, I might experience "stuff" coming out of me. She indicated the abdominal area. Of course, she meant emotional "stuff." How could she have known I was sick? But on my way home, my stomach was feeling less and less good. I couldn't really eat dinner. I had a piece of cheese.

And I thought, maybe this sickness is just messing with my head. There are forms of the flu that can make people quasi-schizophrenic. So I decided that my doomsday prophecies were all a part of this whatever it was. Maybe the world wasn't going to be attacked, maybe it was just me. I put a bag beside my bed, just in case. And sure enough, eventually, a whole bunch of "stuff" came out of me.

In the morning, I couldn't even stand up with out feeling woozy. And so I had my first sick day in a long time. I don't remember the last time I was really physically ill. It doesn't happen that often. Like maybe once every few years. But I think I was due for an illness. Feels good to get it out of my system.

I pampered myself and slept all day. I took a bath with my "bring it on" bath salts. Although I don't really know how much I want to tempt fate. But I just had some chicken soup. It feels okay. I think I'll probably be fine tomorrow. Oh, but my head hurts. 8 p.m. It's bed time.

Looking for Pants

If dating is like shopping for pants, then I do it the European way. I know what I want, and if the store doesn't have it, I just keep looking.

Break it Down

I like to think that my breakdowns help me put myself together.

Alien Invasion

I had the weirdest dream last night that I think I have ever had. I dreamed that the world - or at least San Francisco - was being invaded by aliens. Literally. And I even had the music going on, just like in the movies and whatnot, and there was like this news announcer's voice going in my head that said things like, "...and 40 million people will have tiny chips implanted in their brains, and..." And, see it was weird, because it interrupted a totally normally weird dream. You know what I mean. You have weird dreams, and that's fine, because your brain is processing all kinds of information, so that's okay. But here I was in my dream, and my friends were dropping hints, like, okay, something weird is about to happen. And I didn't believe them (in my dream), because I thought they meant something normal weird, like I'm going to find my sock in this box, but it's going to have a purple heart pin, and that means my teddy bear is really my uncle. I'm just making that up. But in my dream, I really was looking for something in a box, something which belonged to a friend, and I went off to go do this alone on like Dolores Avenue, with the palm trees, and then there was the music. And the giant blue creature spaceships, popping out of nowhere - they were like the loading cranes at West Oakland port, and the giant walking robots from Star Wars, but ten times larger, and more sinister. And they were spewing these little tiny lights that were flying through the air. And you couldn't get away from them. I got one in my hand, and I felt a little twinge, so I knew they'd got me. And I was going to be one of "them." That's when I woke up. And my room at that point seemed really frighteningly normal. I have to say I was taken off guard. Because I don't usually think about alien invasion. Or if I do, I pretty much think it's a silly idea. I used to watch the X-files, but now I don't, because I find it basically creepy, and not in a good way. And I always just watched it for amusement, not because I "believed." If anything, I believe it's not going to happen. And I also don't go in much for horror flicks. So why the scary dream? I don't know. Maybe we are all about to be invaded by aliens and we're all just sitting around, blithely unaware while I have this prophetic dream. Maybe it has to do with soaring gas prices or the state of world politics in Israel. Maybe I shouldn't take Ibuprofen before going to sleep...

Life

I am really excited about life today. I don't know why. I just am.

Snow Day

If there is one thing I miss in San Francisco, it's the thunderstorms. And snow days. But this morning, waking up to dark fog outside of the window was like both. It was like a gathering thunderstorm that will never happen. And peeking out between the shade and the window-frame, seeing only white above the rooftops, it was like a warm, comforting snow day. It just had that sense of all-encompassing peace. And being all alone, I could just enjoy and revel in it. I like drinking my coffee on a day like this. I like having breakfast. It's a real weekend. I could get into this.

Camilla!

I miss my kitty today. So I am going to post a picture of her.

















She is:

a) The cutest cat in the world

b) Incredibly cute

c) You can't tell how fat she is in this picture, but she's fat. Which means - more of her to love!

And she reads the New York Times...

I miss you, 'milla!!

Hot Socks

My socks today were AMAZING. What's that, you say? My socks. They were fantastic. They were stripey, two-toned pink, white, and grey. What was amazing was the fact that the hot pink stripe on the toe section of the socks matched up PERFECTLY with the little cutouts on the toe section of my new flats. THAT was amazing. Problems? What problems? I've got impressive and highly put-together socks. That's what I'm talking about.

Fashion Forward

I have a fashion prediction to make. I think that soon, very soon, the toga is going to come back in style. You think I'm kidding. But look at the way things are going. All these drapey, loose-fitting tops and dresses with big belt cinches and hanging off the shoulders. Pregnancy tunics. It's all about the gathering of the fabric around the body. It's not the tailoring anymore. Designers are still making straight-jackets, and of course the corset made a recent resurrection. But that's not the trend. The trend is flowing, gathered swaths of fabric.

And just look at our gladiator sandals. Hello, they're called gladiator sandals. Anyone for a day at the Coliseum? It's like old-fashioned reality TV.

Just you watch. If I were a betting man, I'd say Dolce and Gabbana, Belenciaga, and Christian Dior are all going to have some version of the toga on this fall's runways. And everybody else will follow. But I'm going to keep my pants on.

Hitting it

I hit the Bong early this morning. As in the James Bong building, because that's where my new job is. That's Bong -- James Bong. I guess that would make me a Bong girl. I couldn't resist.

The Walls of the Universe

It's my 100th post!!

~*~

An Artist Once said, It's my job: Straightening the Paintings on the Walls of the Universe.

I said, That's very Deep.

Nuggets

My High School drama teacher used to talk about Nuggets. Mr. Shailor. He was a good drama coach. At least I thought so. He had a lot of good things to say. He'd always make us do weird stuff, but I learned a lot. Anyway, he would talk about nuggets of wisdom. Little things you could glean from everyday life. Tiny experiences, quotations. Just something somebody says on the street.

Finding them is like panning for gold. You're sifting through dirt and gravel, just to find that tiny speck of shimmer that makes it worth your while. And it the end, it's not the dirt that matters, it's that little piece.

And sometimes they just come to you. They are delivered to your door. Possibly in a dumptruck. A dumptruck filled with dirt. But every time life dumps a pile of dirt on me, I get a handful of solid gold nuggets.

Pulp Friction

I rented Pulp Fiction on Friday night, to make me feel better, which it did. I had this feeling like I should watch it again, since I hadn't seen it since 1996, at which point I didn't really get it, because I was a straight-edge High School student who was scared of pot. So I was even more taken aback by, oh, things like drugs, needles, bodies, thugs and gangsters. And I always wondered why everyone said it was such a good movie. Until Friday. And now I know. Because the writing is so amazing.

And maybe now, since, while I am no gangster, I have seen my fair share of shit go down, I can more fully appreciate the dramatic tensions and awkward situations in the story, as well as the intricacy of the plot and character relations and the real artistry with which it is all presented. It really is an excellent film, right from the opening line, the opening scene. And it holds itself together the whole way through, until the very end, where I found myself laughing out loud because, as the story clearly shows, gangsters are people, too.

The Doctor's Visit

Are you ready for some information? My right ear produces a lot of wax. This is usually not a problem. But last week it got really excited, or maybe there was something in the air, and suddenly it was completely stuck up and clogged, and there was nothing I could do. So today I had a fun adventure going around the various clinics of Berkeley, trying to find a doctor who could flush it out for me.

It's a silly thing, and it's always slightly embarrassing to go in to somebody and say, hey, can you clean out my ear for me? Because, let's face it, ear wax is Gross. And who really wants to deal with somebody else's ear wax when your own is bad enough? So I feel bad for these people. And you might say, well, can't you clean out your own ears? Well, sure I can. And I do, but when you have lovely ears like mine, well, the reality is that sometimes you just need a little help.

Help in the form of what turned out to be a kind of hose gun hooked up to the sink faucet. It was a lot cleaner, I'll say, than the big metal syringes I have been presented with in the past that kind of got water all over the place. This one had two tubes: one in, one out. I could even see my "wax off" going down the tubes. Isn't that exciting?

It probably took a good 12 minutes to do the procedure, and when it was done, I felt like a different person. It was amazing.

But while I was waiting, I noted the labels on the little box drawers they had in the office. Cotton swabs. Betadine. Cleansing wipes. Hemoccult testers. Hemoccult? Is that to test the blood of the Occult? A misspelling? No. But you never know. This is Berkeley. When I filled out my medical information form, my sex could have been male, female, or transgender.

And I'm not sure, but I think the doctor/nurse who was evaluating me might have been checking me out, in a more than medical sense. She seemed to glance down at my chest quite often, and when she complimented me on my necklace, as I was sitting on the table, her generous bosom grazing my arm, she touched the leather chain and said it looked especially soft. My doctor doesn't normally touch my necklace. I asked her name on the way out, and she told me and said I should take her card out front. It sounded almost like there was some innuendo in her voice. I couldn't be sure. But maybe I should call her for a drink.

No. On second thought, I think I'll stick with boys.

Trashy Music

This came up on my ipod yesterday (yes, I have this on my ipod).
So I thought I would share.

Synchronicity

So my friend, and former intern master/slave driver (just kidding!), the great and wonderful book artist and printmaker, Johnny Carrera, is showing his stuff this September at Synchronicity gallery in New York City. He does politically and culturally themed works of art using cut currency (as in US paper money). I worked with him on his Pictorial Webster's Dictionary back in 2002, doing typesetting, paper-cutting, and general help with the presses. Check out his website at www.quercuspress.com. His show will be in New York from September 9 to October 4.
I'm giving him a plug because he deserves it.

Quotation Marks the Spot

Wow. And I just found this amazing blog. Should be hours worth of fun. For those of you who like "grammar." As much as I do.

The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks...

Bring it On

Bad Luck Month

I have heard that in Brazil, the entire month of August is considered bad luck. I have to say I might be getting on board with that.

If July was a month of exceedingly good luck, then August is just the opposite. What started off with a Marathon, and also what were, to me, great expectations, has quickly taken an unexpected turn for the not-too-pleasant. At least in some ways. Not that I believe what I get is what I "get," but in some ways it probably is.

Because I believe of course that we each make our own luck. Things just don't happen randomly, even when they seem to. Surely there is a lot that is out of your control, but I think a lot of the time, if you look closely you can see the connections. I realize I am being vague. That's because I don't feel like broadcasting all the dirty details.

But this has been a very challenging month, and it's only August 11th. That doesn't mean it is all bad, though. I had the Marathon. I came back from Europe. I'm looking for a job. I am planting the seeds right now for good things to come, but unfortunately, right now it sucks. Pardon my language.

I am lucky, however, because I have good friends to support me. And good friends, to me, mean everything. I don't think anybody can survive without friends. I know I can't. It's like the Beatles. I need my friends, and they make me want to try.

And, as always, even though "bad luck" seems to have arrived, it's not all bad. And maybe this bad situation is really an opportunity for a lot of good things to shine. I get to see my good friend from Boston. I find out I can call my ex-boyfriend from college at 4 a.m. if I need to, and he will respond, even if he is in Portland. And I am happy to discover, too, that I have a friend who supports me possibly more than my own family does. These are all great things. But that doesn't mean I like August.

Which is why, maybe in a few years, when I get a Visa, I'll be moving to Europe. Their government offices all shut down for the month of August, and 80% of the European Union takes a vacation. It's standard practice. Because they're onto it, too. They know. It's August. You don't mess with it. But that just means September gets better.

I cannot wait until Labor Day, let me tell you. I will be happy when this month is over.

Pure Evil

I never saw pure evil until it was staring me in the face. I didn't really think it was possible. But now I know that it is. Now I know that there are just some people who are so bitter and unstable that they will sink to unimaginable depths of depravity to try to prove a point, when the only thing they prove is that they are sinister people whose lives are worth not really quite as much as they think they are. They will frighten, attack, lie, cheat, and steal, to make the people around them miserable, just because they can. Just because they themselves are so miserable that they can't stand another person's happiness.

But you know the really sad part about it is, I look at this woman, and I say, there was a little girl there once. She played outside in the summer. She liked flowers and butterflies. She felt safe. She felt happy. Now she has nothing. Because her life isn't what she wanted it to be. She feels insecure. There is nobody to protect her. And she has no friends, because she is so rotten and mean.

So ultimately, I feel bad for her. I feel bad for a person who has to debase herself to a degree which I never really thought possible, just to gain a sense of power, which she doesn't really have, never will have, and never had to begin with. It's kind of pathetic. And she thinks she's got me. But I don't feel like I lose. I feel like I win.

*note on grammar: I have decided to use "which" where I would normally use "that" for artistic reasons. i.e. it sounds better. I claim poetic license.

Better Communication

The phone rings. You pick it up..."Can you hold on for a second? I'm on my hamburger phone. It's just like really awkward to talk on."

Race Day!

This is me with Tess, who was in town visiting her sister, and they came down to meet me after the race. Why? Because Tess is AWESOME.
Yeah, Tess!! (And her sister.)





















And this is me after the race (actually, about two hours after).

The other thing that hurt at the end of the Marathon? My FACE, from SMILING. Why? Because I SMILED THE WHOLE DAMN 26.2 MILES, that's why. I couldn't stop smiling. Even when I was running through broken ugly Potrero Hill area under the freeway and my legs were cramping and I thought my feet would end up just one big bruise or two. But I didn't care. Maybe I like being in pain? Let's not go there. Let's just say it was AWESOME. Because it was.

Aftermath

Wow. That's all I have to say about the Marathon right now. Actually, that's not quite right. Let me modify that by taking off the first "w." Ow. That's about what I was feeling after crossing the finish line. Also a few miles before that. Try ten. the last mile was kind of numb. And I sprinted the last 50 feet. Then, when I got to the end, I thought, is it really over? I felt like I should ask somebody, just to make sure. But sure enough, other people were crossing over and stopping, too. So I just kept walking. And I walked straight to an open place on the curb and sat down. And then I did what my body really wanted to do, which was lay down, right there on the cobblestones. Did I care about the dirt and sand? No I did not. Who has time to think about these things when you've been running 26.2 miles? I was surprised, actually, that there weren't more people like me, gratefully taking the weight off their poor, overworked feet. And man, it felt good. A couple of people asked me if I was okay. I couldn't have felt better. I grinned. I put on my plastic blanket thingy, downed a bottle of water and some other liquid they were handing out. It wasn't beer. A bunch of people actually were handing out beer on the course. Somewhere in Golden Gate Park. They placed themselves right after the water station, dressed in Devil costumes, with a sign that said "beer." "You know you've been thinking about it!" A blond he-devil looked at me. "Nice try!" I said. He was wrong. I hadn't been thinking about it at all. In fact, until they turned up, I had completely forgotten that beer existed. And once I got past them I promptly forgot about it again. But I still thought it was funny. Only in San Francisco, I guess. So, back to the finish line. I did eventually get up off the sidewalk. Then I walked about 50 paces and sat down again. After some good sitting, and a little bit of child's pose, I got up and slowly hauled myself past the tables of more snacks and freebies from various companies trying to promote their stuff. Funny thing, but even after running that far without really eating, I somehow couldn't think about putting a lot of food in my stomach. I guess I had had too much water with electolytes. Or else I had forgotten how to chew. I ate something. I forget what it was. Then I had two bites of granola with yogurt. When I heard the girl say "free massage," I said, "Where?" She pointed to the big white tent. And that's about as far as my feet could get me.

After that, I was better, but it still hurt. I have never felt that much pain. But it was awesome. I wouldn't trade it for anything. It was quite difficult getting myself around for the rest of the day, though. I did not want to move. I did not want to locomote using the lower portion of my body. I was jealous of people in wheelchairs. Today was better, but I would have been quite happy walking with a cane. Stairs are a bit slower than usual. I felt like I should have been wearing a sign. "I ran the Marathon yesterday. Deal with it." But it really wasn't that bad. As long as I'm on level ground, I'm fine. And it comes and goes. I have to say the coffee helped. Or at least I think so.

But experiencing this makes me really glad that I don't have to deal with this level of pain every day. Because I know there are people who do. And let me tell you, those people deserve a medal just for being ALIVE.

My medal is staring back from the wall at me.
It says "San Francisco 2008."

I ran a Marathon.

Marathon

So, while I was at the Louvre, I grabbed this shot of a statue of Marathon









Dying his last breath after traveling, presumably sprinting, 26.2 miles from Mount Olympus to Athens, I believe it was. Here he is, handing over the message, his precious cargo.

And this is what I am going to do tomorrow. What once was a deadly mission is now a cultural pastime. I find this amusing, yet somehow profound. More on this later. For now, I am going to feed myself, massage my feet, and put myself to bed.

Looking forward to the morning.

This is how Coordinated I Am

You might have thought I was disorganized. Embarking on a month-long trip to Europe with virtually no planning, save for the actual dates of travel to and from the US, but consider my choice of toiletry casing.

In a five-minute trip to Walgreens, pre-departure, I selected a rectangular zipper-case for my shampoo and face wash, and a matching little pouch for my jewelry in pink and orange multicolored stripes. Not only were they inexpensive, but they had cute little pink plastic toggles for the zipper pulls, so I figured it was a pretty good deal. I find them quite enjoyable. And they have served me well. And perhaps it makes me less organized than most backpackers, the fact that I waited until the last minute and was up at midnight before my flight to Paris, booking my hotel, because everything was so expensive, even on Hostelbookers.com. But I like the place I found.

The room is a bright, sunny orange, and there is a cool rectangular shower-head with excellent water pressure. The room is noisy, with windows right on the street, but for three days I don’t mind, especially since I have nifty French windows with miniature iron balconies and a good view of the Patisserie and roof gardens across the street. And what do I find in my bathroom in the morning? The little waste-paper basket in my bathroom has a pink-purple-orange stripe pattern almost EXACTLY like my toiletry kit. I am not even kidding. I checked it several times, just to be sure. Mine has black where they have purple, but from a distance of a few feet, they look almost exactly the same. It looks exceedingly coordinated.


So maybe it was random, my coming here, to this country, to this city, to this exact hotel, at this particular time, and being given a room at the end of the hall with a waste-basket that matches my belongings. But I couldn’t have planned it better if I had tried. I think it’s just another good sign that this was a trip that was meant to be.