Formicidae, at Lanta

I've been blogging from my phone — a real pain on such a doll-house-sized keyboard, but internet service has been spotty. At an exhibitor's party tonight at the Capitol City Club, there was no service, zilch. I suppose rich southern gentlemen have more important things to do than check their email.

Currently this building is dwarfed by high-rises, and exists amidst the exhaust fumes of downtown traffic. We did, however, enjoy a few moments on the veranda in the 66-degree January evening. (Cough, cough.)

I sat on a red velvet couch beneath a massive oil portrait of this man —

— a Mr. Livingston Mims, who was elected mayor of Atlanta in October of 1900. (And another great name for a character in my not-gonna-happen great southern novel.)

America's Mart — the massive, multi-block many-leveled facility where this gift show is happening, feels like a massive ant pile. We connect from wing to wing in narrow tubular walkways, and our 150 square-feet booth seems like an ideal place to stash ant eggs.

Since our arrival on Tuesday, we have passed through the larval stage to the pupal stage, and will emerge as fully-fledged adults at 9am tomorrow morning when the show opens. We are of the caste of artists.

In this massive colony, there are literally millions of categories of "stuff" to be had. As we pass through the narrow corridors (with low ceilings), goods to be had to the left and to the right and seemingly-never-ending with every step, I get a little dizzy. Lose my true north.

Though there's no question which way is down —

Hold tight.
Here we go....