Not Paris

Sitting at a traffic light tonight after work on my way to the post office, 84 degrees, the smell of exhaust: oddly nostalgic of my first summer in Europe, 1977, backpacking with two friends. Who would guess that nasty exhaust would drum up such a memory? But there I was, late afternoon, just off a train in some city (Paris/Florence/Barcelona), in search of a cheap hotel, a place to unload the backpack, get a decent night's sleep, if lucky. I could feel the hunger rumbling up in my belly, anticipation for dinner — what would it be tonight? Would I understand the language of the menu? Would there be an odd translation? ("Mixt, with Starters".) I pulled out my dog-eared copy of Let's Go Europe and headed for the closest one-star restaurant for my $2 dinner.

All these recollections, and the traffic light hadn't even changed yet!

A long line at the post office, and there I was again: American Express office, Paris, checking for mail. Back in the day, in the previous century, friends and relatives at home could address mail to me at any American Express location. All I had to do was flash my Amer. Ex. traveler's checks  — proof that I was a customer — and I'd pick up a stack of letters.

Heaven! I received funny antics-reportings of my cat Alex from my little sister ("Alex pooped on your bed the day after you left"), tales of my mom's daily activities ("went to an Altar Society Meeting yesterday and I was elected secretary; I don't want to be secretary") and missives from various older sisters. I still have those letters, archived in a box in my basement.

The one I recall most vividly, though, was from a semi-boyfriend: a man who was twenty years too old for me, twice married, once divorced (and unfortunately, still married), who explained to me why he wasn't going forward with our "relationship".

I remember sitting on the stone steps of the Amexco office, sizzling in sun, feeling my stomach lurch down to my feet.  The world got really silent for a moment — all the street noise, the traffic and constant rush of people — silent. It wasn't a surprise, but damn, I was in Paris. I was twenty. The world should've been more glamorous, but here was proof that it wasn't.

I can still see his handwriting — precise, cursively taut, in fine green ink. (He knew I loved green ink, damn him.)

And then, in a flash,  I was back in line at the post office in Seattle, listening to a clerk speak way too loudly to a customer, as if volume could make up for a language barrier. It wasn't Paris. There was no bundle of letters for me behind the counter, no sad-sack last story from Mr. What's-His Name (who, according to my mathematical calculations, is nearing decrepitude).

Back in my car, windows rolled down, I imagined for just a moment that I was leaning out a train window, baguette and a round of camembert in my backpack, bottle of cheap Côtes du Rhone ready to be uncorked. Life was ready to roll, man or no man, and I intended to roll with it.

For a moment, I imagined I'd have to find a hotel, find a place to eat, possibly do a currency exchange. I was hungry, and tired, but I was confident I could manage every detail of it. Those things were, after all, only details.

By then (back to reality in Seattle), I was pulling into my driveway. Not Paris. Leftovers in the fridge. A bottle of two-buck-Chuck already uncorked, and chilled. And thought: here is my life, 37 years later.

Two years forward, I would return to spend the entire summer in Paris, work permit in hand, going broke while becoming culturally wealthy. I thought then that my entire life would be different after this trip, but the truth of it was, when I got back to Seattle (okay: Renton), I rented a room from my mom, and started graduate school in Creative Writing at the U.W., feeling stuck, not wanting to be where I was.

It took me another 25 years to understand that those first two trips abroad informed every decision I would make from then on out. My job in the art universe today stems from those summers where my days were suffused with lush visual imagery and the sense of infinite possibilities. Growing up in the shadow of the aerospace industry, my logical career path pointed to Boeing. But I ran in the other direction, and haven't regretted it for a moment. (Except when it comes to dental insurance, ha).

And here I'd intended only a quick stop at the post office, and ended up, instead, immersed in the scents, sounds and tastes of summers abroad three decades ago. (Maybe I should go to the post office more often.)

Anyway.

I'm about ready for that glass of wine. Anyone have any camembert?

Not Paris, most likely London. 1977.

Aviary

Was so close to a baby robin tonight (she was perched in my hazelnut tree, dozing), that I could see her heartbeat: with every breath, her tail feathers moved up and down. I was immediately brought back to my early years of nest-climbing, those impossibly blue eggs and a mother robin frantic nearby as close as possible as I peered in, counted the eggs. Lucky, later, if a broken shell-shard littered the ground at the base of the trunk. What was so beautiful had been cast off to make room for the new.

My hummingbird was as curious as I was — she fluttered around and around the dozing baby (who opened her eyes halfway, then returned to napping).

Last week a long trail of tiny amber ants took over the nectar feeder, gorging themselves into a drowning stupor. It took several tries and I finally had success (for now), by moving the feeder to a hook suspended from a rope strung to support the rampant kiwi vine. Farther for the ants to travel, but time will of course tell. At first I had it nestled in amongst some of the large roundish kiwi leaves, and was sternly reprimanded by my resident birds. Too hidden, I'm guessing. So I moved it to a more open space on the rope, and they immediately took up to feeding once again.

Such drama in my little back yard!

Drilling, Crowns, and A Suggestion for the Overhaul of the Insurance Industy

Somehow, it seems wrong to continue on about this tooth business, but after a conversation today at work, I just couldn't resist, insurance hoo-ha and all.

First off, I  wasn't going to let anyone go away without viewing this gem (REQUIRED VIEWING):


One of my new work-mates found this for me, and I watched it today while screaming. SCREAMING! I felt almost every one of those teeny drills boring into my jawbone, because the lidocaine shot into my gums wasn't sufficient. The dentist had to shoot it directly into the root, and work it in as he exposed the root bit by bit. Had enough yet? I have.

The really bad news, though, came later, when he was finished. He told me I need four crowns. Well, of course I do!  I want one to be diamond-studded, another emerald, the third sapphire, and the fourth in rubies and pearls. Let's get on with this immediately!!

But four. And not an exaggeration.(Cracked/worn/unstable/chipped.)

Four!

Four.

Feels like if I type that number enough times, it'll become real. Not quite ready to sell my house to finance my mouth but I'm veering mighty close to it.

And now, for the insurance/lack-of-insurance rant.....

I'm proposing that the insurance companies divide the human body into segments, and price their policies according to which parts you choose to insure.

For example:
The Torso Policy would cover everything from neck down to groin.
The Limb Policy would cover arms and legs.
The Head Policy would cover brain, skull, face, ears, eyes, nose and mouth (including teeth).

For those unwilling or unable to parse the body in such a manner, there could be the Grand Corps Policy, covering everything form the top of the skull to the soles of the feet.

Or there could even be a more itemized list of options, such as The Hangnail Policy, or The Hair Policy (which would cover bad haircuts). The Earlobe Policy. The Eyelash Policy. The Elbow Policy (handy for tennis players).

For ages 13-17, there could be The Acne Policy.

For men there could be the Erectile Dysfunction Policy (I mean, why should I pay for their ED Rx's.?).

The possibilities are infinite!

Honestly, I'm surprised that the insurance universe hasn't descended to this insidious level of trivial itemization.

I'm happy to know that you can purchase a policy which will cover what your primary insurer won't cover, ie, deductibles et al, euphemistically called "Supplemental Insurance". I'd like it renamed to "Bleed Your Wallet Insurance".

Is this madness?
Yes?

An Early Bake

Up early to bake a cake before work
for a friend's birthday, in cool morning air.
Outside, the Sunday Times crossword
where I left it last night, the paper rippled
with dew, perpetually unfinished.

Later: chocolate ganache
and 90 degrees. Few words.
Summer crackles forward.

Summer, Summer

It was a slow-maneuvering day, yesterday, at 91 degrees. We are a temperate people here on the far northwest tip of the USA, more at ease with damp and drip than crackle and flame. And lord have mercy it simmered down sometime in the night, the air a sweet cool ribbon that wended its way in my window-in-the-trees, carrying the scent of the lake like an offering to all of us with heat-prickled skin and moss crackling, drying up behind our ears.

No desire to be indoors; the flung-open blue of the sky calls me out at all hours, no matter the time, equally inviting at noon or 3AM. If only there was no need for sleep.

No Matter the Mindfulness —

No matter how many slow walks in the woods, in the company of many
thousands of ferns. No matter the single owl I saw last Sunday,
who swiveled his head away from my gaze. No matter how
many evenings I spend on my balcony gazing at clouds.
No matter the hummingbirds with their scritchy-
almost-no-song. No matter the red rose, well
past petals, and no more buds. No matter
waking at dawn with the sun on my
pillow. No matter the dawn birds
in song at once. No matter the
dinners in the garden.
No matter the
watermelon.
No matter
the hour.


Today opened to another month,
and damn if I can't get time to ease up, just a bit.