Yesterday Windsor Buttons and Woolcot were visited.

Yarn was involved. Nice yarn. Lovely yarn. I showed admirable restraint.

Today we will be painting. It’s a little bit of a working vacation, but that’s OK. 😉

Am I the only one in the world who thought it was totally reasonable to assume that, if the flight numbers of two different legs of a trip were the same, the plane making that trip was also the same?

Apparently I was the only one surprised when that turned out not to be the case.

Was assuming that, should an unexpected plane change be necessary, that the airlines would make the effort to have the receiving and loading gates next to each other instead of all the way across the %@#& airport as far as one can possibly go?

Apparently I was the only one surprised by that, also.

Here’s hoping that the return trip does not have similar surprises.

The good news is that I’m here, and I was almost on time. Also, long plane trips afford one a bunch of knitting time, so progress was made on the java leaf socks. I also have with me the Pacific Northwest shawl and more sock yarn (of course).

I have the list of Boston area LYS that you all provided, and I’m rarin’ to go!

I have no way to get pictures out of my camera and into this computer (borrowed). But I promise there will be pictures when I return! Keep the home fires burning. 😎

a rainbow of yarn

Thanks to everyone who posted great places (i.e. yarn shops) to visit in the Boston area. I will try to hit at least a couple.

I have just a tiny bit more yarn pr0n to show you before I go.

I didn’t actually possess this yarn the last time we spoke, but it had been calling to me for months. Every time I went to Tangle I visited it, and petted it, and it talked to me and said take me home, Judy. But I had no project in mind for it, so I was strong and resolute and I put in my earplugs and didn’t listen.

It was hanging on a wall rack with the other lovely, wonderful Blue Heron yarns. Always it hung towards the back of the rack, like a slightly naughty child. But I could always pick it out from across the room. And I would eventually wander over and give it a little pat and say not yet… (You talk to your yarn, don’t you?)

Yesterday, as I plopped down in my favorite Tangle chair and started knitting, I glanced over to the Blue Heron rack.

It wasn’t there!

I felt a momentary twinge of panic. Did someone buy it? Alice had said that many people looked at it and commented about it, but then left it. Maybe it talked loudly enough and went home with someone else! Ack!

Then I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized it was still there. But it was an omen, I decided. So it came home with me.

I don’t know yet what it wants to be. But eventually I will see just the right pattern for it, and then it will be there ready to go. It’s a cotton/rayon/metallic in a colorway called Shadow. I have 425 yard of it, which is enough to do something nice with it. Or it may become a striking edging. We shall see.

Moo Cow the fiber junky
(gratuitous cat picture)

Someone else at my house was interested in it too.

Today the kitties headed over to the Cat Bed & Breakfast for a little fun whilst I trek across the country. I’m not sure how pleased they were. I take that back. I do know. They were not pleased.

Usually I either leave them with tons of food and water, if I’m not going to be gone very long, or I have #1 Son come over and take care of the kitties while the neighbors water the lawn if it needs it and pick up the mail. But #1 Son is on tour and if he is delayed getting home the kitties would be in dire straights. And the Cat B & B is a nice place, as such places go. The only really tough part is rounding them up to get them over there.

It was a hectic day. I first had to pick my friend M up at the airport. She was flying in from a visit with her out-of-town family. Being the geek that I am, I had gone online and set up an email alert to my cell phone for her flight arrival. When it came, it said her flight was early. The airport was a zoo. I fought my way around to the pick-up point through a crowd of insane drivers (is it the full moon?). M wasn’t there. I went around again. No M. I went around a third time. Still no M. (Early flight?)

I drank a big cup of coffee on the way to the airport. By the third time around, I was really hoping to see M. Nature was calling louder than that yarn had. When M wasn’t there, I gritted my teeth and went around again. She was there! Yea! She stuck her head in the window and said her bag still hadn’t shown up and so I should go around again (it’s pick-up only, no parking). I said OK. And as I started off again, I said a few other things under my breath, but gently because my teeth were starting to float if you know what I mean. So instead of going around one more time, I drove away from the airport and far enough down the road that I found a fast-food restaurant where I ran from my car double-quick and ran inside to take advantage of their facilities. With my mind, and other parts of my anatomy, eased, I drove back around the airport, where M was waiting with bag in hand. But I felt a whole lot more relaxed about the whole pick-up thing, and didn’t mind at all driving over to SE Portland to this great little vegetarian Oriental restaurant that #1 Son had turned me on to.

On the way to M’s house after lunch, I mentioned that the kitties were going to the Cat B & B, and how hard they are to catch sometimes when they don’t want to be caught. Be careful not to think about your vacation, M said. Cats pick up on those things and you’ll never find them because they’ll go hide.

So all the way from M’s house to mine, I tried to not think about my vacation.

Do you have vacation coming up? Or maybe dinner? Or a good night’s sleep? Or that project you really need to get to? Try not thinking about it. Go ahead. I’ll wait right here while you give it a go.

What luck did you have not thinking about it?

Yeah.

I pulled into the garage trying to think of other things and mostly not succeeding.

Cat rounding up must be done carefully. Phoebe and Kidd both have a place they can hide where it’s not easy for me to get to them. Once I’ve grabbed one, the jig is up and the other heads for cover. Kidd, once he sees that you’re heading for the garage and so he is destined for a journey, lets go in the same way that I almost did circling the airport to pick up M. So it’s important to keep him… aimed the other direction, if you catch my drift. And all three are big cats. I only have two carriers — a big one that can hold two cats and a smaller one. It can be interesting to stuff a second cat into the big carrier while keeping the first cat still in residence.

So I pulled into the garage trying to think happy catnip, mouse-chasing, kibble-munching thoughts. And not thoughts of vacation and Cat B & B and such.

All three of the kitties were there when I walked in the door. Hmm… I carefully didn’t think… just maybe I could get at least one of them.

I bent down and scratched Phoebe’s head and told her hello, and then just picked her up. She was surprised because she doesn’t like to be held, but she didn’t argue much. It was almost too easy.

Kidd was yawning and stretching on the sofa, only half awake. I carefully didn’t think that I could maybe grab him as well and have the two hard cases wrapped up. I nonchalantly wandered towards the sofa, Phoebe in my arms. Before Kidd knew what had happened, I’d scooped him up, too. I headed towards the garage, only a few feet away.

Now they both knew I was up to something nefarious. Picture this intrepid reporter, arms full of 25 lbs of angry cats, trying to hang on to Phoebe and keep Kidd pointed the other direction while still having one hand free to open the door. If I were an octopus, it might have been easier. Only having two hands made the journey, as short as it was, interesting. I made it to the garage and tipped the big carrier up on end. I put Kidd in and Phoebe right behind him. Whew. Two down.

I cleaned up Kidd’s mess. Missed me, fortunately. And then left Phoebe and Kidd to complain bitterly (and at the top of their lungs) in the garage while I went in search of Moo Cow, The Queen Of The House. She was no longer hanging around the living room. I found her back in my bedroom with a puzzled look on her face. She wasn’t running or hiding because that would not befit her royal station. But she did seem a little miffed that I was doing something not OK with two of her minions. I gave her a reassuring pat while I walked with her to the garage and told her that everything would be just fine, appearances notwithstanding. I’m glad that the small carrier can be opened from the top as well as the side, because Moo can make herself really, really big and plant all of her paws firmly on the sides of the carrier so it’s as difficult as possible to get her inside, and once in she arches her back so you can’t close the top. Tricky is Moo.

I delivered the kitties to the Cat B & B, and gave the staff all my kitty-mom advice: Don’t give Moo anything string-like because she’ll eat it but balls are OK. Don’t give Kidd anything but his regular food because it will make him sick. Phoebe likes her head scratched and sheds when stressed. I almost added wear a sweater if you’re cold, but decided they probably didn’t need that advice.

Margaret just called. Can’t wait to see her. I promised not to drag her around to every yarn store in Massachusetts. She replied You know me. I’ll shop for anything. heh heh She might not know what she’s saying… 😆

[ed. 11:56 pm] P.S. Speaking of lovely things, you must check out Fibergal’s herringbone lace socks. That stitch pattern will need to see my needles soon, I think..

I’m not one of those smart bloggers who can plan ahead and say, I’ll save that one for Friday because I already have something to talk about for Thursday. This has always just seemed to me sort of like a little coffee klatsch with yarn thrown in. So I talk about everything all at once. Because that’s what I do when I coffee klatsch. Sometimes I’m sitting at the table knitting by myself (yes, I realize that means I’m talking to myself too). And sometimes I’m joined by a few friends. Every now and then it’s more like a few thousand friends.

Using free blogging software and being my own webmaster: Worth every penny (ha ha).

Being linked to (in the nicest possible way) by both Wendy and Grumperina on the same day that I boast about the completion of Clapotis #2 on the Mason-Dixon Knitting Slogalong: Priceless. Welcome visitors! Pull up a chair and I’ll pour you a cuppa.

But the sudden 12-fold spike in bandwidth usage (sinking back now to its normal level of semi-obscurity) did point out the need for a few tweaks around here. I’ve been working long hours and what few blogging minutes I’ve had have been mostly spent in shoring up the framework. WordPress is really great software. But I sort of hack it around a bit. So PI is kinda held together with baling twine and bubble gum. I think the comments are working OK again, and hopefully the pages will load a little faster now. I added a bit more baling twine (knitted into I-cord) and propped it up with a couple of extra 2x4s.

I’ve been working long hours the last couple of weeks to get ready, because — drum roll please — I’m on vacation! Ahh…

My cousin Margaret lives near Boston. For years she’s been trying to get me to come over to the right-hand coast for July 4th. Last year around Thanksgiving I told her that this year I would come for sure and she could plan on it and we were both really excited and I made arrangement to take the time off no matter what. And I kept thinking that really I should call her and let her know that really I was coming… really. There’s a 3-hour time difference. And Margaret and I both keep rather odd hours. I usually remembered to call her around midnight here, and I thought she probably didn’t really want to hear from me at 3:00 AM, even if it was with (hopefully) good I’m coming to see you news. But I kept thinking I really needed to call her. And I kept remembering at midnight.

Then I realized that it was… June… and I still hadn’t called her. And wouldn’t she be surprised if I just showed up on her doorstep? Did she remember that I was coming? And would she even be there? So maybe I really, really needed to actually call her. So I tied a piece of yarn around my finger and remembered to call at a reasonable hour. ring… ring…

Margaret: hello.

Me: Hi. It’s me! How have you been?

Margaret: oh! How are you! It’s great to hear from you!

Me: I’m great. How has your summer been? (Then, because I’m not sure if she remembers I’m coming and I don’t want to look really pushy and such if she’s got other plans) What are you doing for the 4th?

Margaret: (in a sad, slow voice) Nothing. I’m sitting here all by myself. (a slight exaggeration, as her son lives with her)

Me: Would you like some company?

And that was how I ended up planning to travel to the Boston area for a few days around the 4th. But I took extra vacation days, because I need them.

Margaret was not sure she could find things to entertain me with. Although she knows, and I reiterated, that I don’t require much in the way of entertainment. Besides, as I told her, there’s probably a yarn shop or two in Boston. Margaret, who is a muggle (but a very much beloved muggle), said I think there’s one in Marblehead.

So, gentle reader, if you know where the best Boston area local yarn shops are, please comment so I can go armed with a list. 😉 Don’t know if I’ll be able to make it to any, but here’s hoping.

java leaf toes in the making

And here are the starts of the Java leaf socks for my Sockapalooza pal. I’m finding this yarn hard to photograph. Of course, it can’t be my skills as a photographer that’s to blame. It’s the yarn. (Right) So I plopped them right on my window sill where I’d get the best possible light.

I wanted to start the leaf pattern right at the end of the toes. But I didn’t want lace all the way at the end, because I didn’t think that would be very comfortable. So I started with stems twining up into the leaves. There are two brioche stitches on either side of the leaf panel. I had planned on a knit/purl sort of diamond pattern on the sides, but as I knit up an inch or so I didn’t like the way it looked. It just wasn’t defined enough on the dark yarn. (It’s darker than it looks in this over-exposed picture.) So I laddered the sides back down and made them stockinette. I’m now planning to twine stems up the sides to the ankle, and have four leaf-panels around the legs, separated by the brioche stitches. And maybe brioche instead of ribbing at the top.

It’s still a work in progress.

The leaf pattern is a fun knit, though. Not so complex that I can’t do other things like watch TV, but still lace and complicated enough to keep my interest.

yarn pr0n

And I think I mentioned that there might have been a little purchase from The Loopy Ewe to assuage my Blacksheep-Gathering-less self.

Just a little.

Left to right —

Stonebarn Fibers Gypsy Girl Creations in Crocus Valley (I love the twist on this yarn and it’s going with me to Boston!)

Seacoast Handpainted Superwash Sock in Meadow (The label says 100% merino, but it feels wonderfully soft and silky.)

Dream In Color Smooshy Sock Yarn in November Muse. (Smooshy is a perfect description for this yarn!)

Cherry Tree Hill Supersock in Peacock (Needed more to see if the first was an aberration or I’m going to fall in love with this yarn as others have before me.)

Scarlet Fleece It’s Tubular X 2 in Lapis Woodland (thick and warm and I think it will wear well)

I notice a preponderance of minty green, orange/brown, and purple. Hmmm… I don’t have much in the way of these combination in my stash. Well… just a little, maybe. I wonder if my color sensibility is shifting. Or maybe it’s the season.

Now… what projects to take to Boston with me…

Thank you, gentle readers, for your comments on my last post. Really, it was meant to be humorous. The whole trip was so absurd. And what could I do but go along for the ride? I was at the mercy of the weather and Continental Airlines.

One more self-indulgent travel-and-life post, and then we’ll go back to the knitting content. I promise. And there will be knitting content to show you, because what else can you do for 3 hours while sitting in a plane? But for now we will return to my little story. Skip if you’re not interested – I won’t be offended.

When we last saw this intrepid traveler, I had arrived in Miami a day late. I found the location of the forum I was supposed to be attending, but there was nobody there. I knew they were all eating lunch somewhere, but I couldn’t find them. Later I learned that a marvelous lunch was served outside on a patio overlooking Biscayne Bay. I was too tired to be very hungry anyway. I found a bagel and a banana left over from the forum’s collective breakfast, and poured myself a cup of coffee. (Really, gentle reader, this wasn’t gross at all. Piles of various foodstuffs were available at all times in case anyone felt a trifle peckish.) I have no idea what was discussed that afternoon. I was asleep on my feet. So I skipped the semi-obligatory Opening Night Reception in favor of room service and bed.

At midnight, my cell phone rang. Sleepily I answered…

#1 Son: Hi Mom. Were you asleep? How come? Can you move my car?

Me: Yes, I was asleep. I was asleep because it’s midnight and I’ve just had the plane trip from hell. I’m in Miami. It would be very difficult to move your car. What’s wrong with it? [ed. I will interject here to add that #1 Son lives in a neighborhood that requires permits to park on the street, where he parks sans the permit he’s never bothered to acquire. Currently he’s in Canada on a band tour, thus it would be difficult for him to move it himself.]

#1 Son: My roommate said I got a ticket or something. So I thought maybe you could drive over there and move my car so I don’t get another ticket.

Me: Can’t your roommate move it?

#1 Son: I didn’t leave them my keys. So there’s only your set.

Me: Well… right now I’m going back to sleep. I can’t do anything about it until Friday. But I really don’t want to spend the next three weeks juggling your car, so I suggest you find someone who can come and get the keys from me and park it some non-permit-required location.

#1 Son: OK. I’ll get back to you.

The rest of the stay in Miami was uneventful. Part of it may have included drinks that should have had little umbrellas in them had the bar not been out of umbrellas, and a whole bunch of shrimp at Bubba Gump’s, and my ever expanding and contracting hair.

At the Miami airport, I changed my seats when I checked in. For some reason, I’d been booked at the back of the plane on all of the flights. I moved myself up to the front. My flight left the Miami airport almost on time. There were severe thunderstorms in Houston. We circled Houston for 90 minutes while the tower debated what to do with us. Eventually they gave in and let us land. Since I was at the front of the plane, I was off quickly — and with 8 minutes to make it all the way across the Houston airport to make my connection, I needed to be quick.

Right there at the gate was one of those cart things that they give people rides on. I hopped on and asked for a ride to gate E8. The driver started off. First we went to the C gates. Then we went to the D gates. Then we stopped to find out where someone needed to go who didn’t know where their flight was. Then we saw the high-numbered E gates. I started sweating into my ever expanding Houston hair. Can we hurry? I asked the driver. You’ll get there. he said.

I was off the seat and to the gate before he even came to a complete stop. Portland? The gate attendant asked. I handed over my boarding pass and was allowed on. I was the last person on the plane. The doors were closed and the plane was pushed back. The pilot moved the plane out towards the runway, then parked and turned the engines off.

We sat on the tarmac. For. 3. Hours.

I didn’t care. I was on a plane bound for Portland, and they were going to have to drag me off kicking and screaming if they tried to end the flight before arriving at my intended destination.

On Friday, #1 Son’s friend fetched the car keys from me and attempted to move #1 Son’s car. Except the car wasn’t there.

It had been towed.

So friend and I went to get the car out of hock instead, and then friend drove off to park the car in some non-permit-required location. He promised to treat it gently.

And now the story stops being amusing.

On Saturday morning my phone rang with the news that my former father-in-law, #1 Son’s grandpa, had passed away. He was a gentle man, active in his community and his church, who loved his family and his friends and his grandson very much. He will be sorely missed by many, including this reporter.

I called #1 Son in Toronto, his tour stop of the day, and we discussed logistics. I can’t figure out any way to get him home for the funeral. Get a passport was one of those things, along with moving his car, that #1 Son was supposed to accomplish before leaving on tour. The key words here are was supposed to. Like moving the car, the passport didn’t happen. And wasn’t needed since they drove across the boarder. But he can’t fly out. He will not be allowed through customs at an airport without a passport. I have extended his apologies to grandma. I think she understands.

But, you can understand, gentle reader, that I wasn’t too surprised when #1 Son called me later Saturday morning to tell me that his amp had blown while taping a show for a Toronto radio station. I wasn’t too surprised at all.

If I had read this series of event in a novel, I would have tossed it out as being way too unconvincing and way too much.

The amp, fortunately, was repairable. My sanity, unfortunately, is questionable.

We will now, hopefully, return to the mundane existence that is normal at chez PI, in which I have to search long and hard for interesting events to blog about and where knitting content is the rule rather than the exception.

Thank you for your patience.

I love to travel for pleasure. Traveling for business is another story that usually consists of a series of rather mundane plane/train/auto trips with meetings sandwiched in between and not much time for sightseeing. What I usually see on business trips is the inside of airports (mostly looking the same), the inside of hotels (mostly looking the same), the inside of conference rooms (mostly looking the same), the inside of an office building (mostly looking like offices everywhere). It can be hard to remember what day it is and where you are. Nonetheless, I was happy to get the opportunity to travel to Miami for a yearly meeting that is usually quite interesting and that I’ve been unable to attend for several years. So Monday started out with promise.

I arrived at the Portland airport with plenty of time to spare and breezed through security with no problems. I had been booked on Continental with a plane change in Houston. The plane arrived at Portland on time. It left on time. The flight to Houston was uneventful. The only rather sour note (pun unintended) was my seat. I was in the very last row in the plane, on the aisle, right across from what Mama used to euphemistically call the little girls’ room (little being the operative word, here). A steady stream of travelers paused by my seat (some actually leaned on it), on their way to visit the necessary. On the other hand, it was convenient. On the whole, so far, so good.

I had been lulled into a false sense of confidence.

As we started our approach into Houston, the Captain came on the intercom: Ladies and gentlemen, due to severe weather in Houston we will have to circle for approximately an hour before landing. (collective groan from the captive audience) We don’t have enough fuel to do that, (gasps all around) so I am diverting to San Antonio. (sighs of relief followed by groans) We’ll refuel there and then be back on our way to Houston. We won’t be using a gate, so just sit tight and we’ll have you back to Houston as soon as possible.

I was scheduled with 45 minutes on the ground to make my connection in Houston. I looked up the long row of seats, each filled with a person who probably had a bag to get down from overhead storage. I kissed my connecting flight goodbye.

We sat on the tarmac for 3 hours. 3. Hours. We were allowed to get up and walk around and use the necessary. Cell phones were OK’d. The flight attendants passed out free soft drinks and, when I asked for it, coffee. But. It was. 3. Hours.

The woman sitting next to me actually lived near San Antonio. She asked the flight attendant if it would be possible to get off the plane. She called her husband and he was on the way there to pick her up. It required what amounted to an act of Congress to finally get stairs pulled up to the plane and and find someone to escort her to the terminal. The captain offered to let others off while the door was open, but, he added, if you get off now, your flight with Continental has ended and you’re on your own. I had a long way to go yet, so I stayed on the plane.

When we finally taxied down the runway and the wheels left the pavement, the passengers erupted in spontaneous cheering and applause. If we could have given the captain a standing ovation we would have. Except we couldn’t because, you know, we had to have our seat belts fastened and all that.

It was late when we arrived in Houston. We were told to see the gate agent when we deplaned. The people ahead of me — that would be the entire passenger list minus the woman who deplaned in San Antonio — were told go to gate such-and-so for standby or even we have you booked on flight 999 and it’s waiting for you at gate blah-blah. When I got up there, I queried Miami?? I was told go up the concourse, and take a left turn to the ticket counter. I knew what that meant. No more flights tonight.

I have what might be called incredible, amazing expandomatic hair. Just add humidity, and watch it grow. Even in Portland, by evening it’s usually bigger than it started in the morning. It was very humid in Houston. I could actually feel my hair begin to expand.

As I walked to ticketing, hair growing larger with every step, I noticed that all of the restaurants were closed. All of the shops were closed. There weren’t a lot of people around at all. At the ticket counter, there weren’t many people in line. As we all waited our turn, a helpful Continental employee told us that there were no hotel vacancies in the immediate area, but we could have a cot in a group room. No, there was no food. No, there was nothing to drink (even water). The woman behind me in line offered to share 1/2 of a cookie purchased in Seattle, but I declined.

I was booked on a 7:30 AM flight to Miami. I didn’t think the group room cot without even bread and water experience was really what I was looking for. The baggage area of every airport has a kiosk with lists of area hotels. I stood around the kiosk with a bunch of other stranded people and dialed hotel numbers. I had about a bazillion conversations that all went like this:

me: I’m looking for a room for tonight.
hotel: We’re all booked.
me: Do you know anywhere there’s an available room?
hotel: Nope.

The very last number on the kiosk was for the Hilton. The conversation changed slightly when the wonderful front desk person at the Hilton offered to connect me to their 800 number, where they could check hotels all over Houston. And they found one room. One. It was downtown — a 30 minute cab ride — there was no airport shuttle, and it was expensive. I said: I’ll take it.

When I hung up, I was mobbed by fellow strandees wanting to know what I’d found. Hilton downtown, I said. Only one room and I took it. Sorry. Groans from the crowd. I left them to their fate and headed for the taxi stand.

Pounding his hand on the wheel in time to the dulcet tones of very loud hip hop, the cabbie drove at 20 MPH over whatever the local speed limit was. I’m not a wimpy passenger usually, but I spent a good deal of time first closing my eyes because I didn’t want to know and then opening them again because I thought I should really see it coming so I could brace myself. I reduced his tip. He left his windows open. My hair reached maximum expansion and stuck straight out from my head.

At the Hilton, the front desk guy looked at my drivers license, then at me, then at my license, then at me. He seemed puzzled. With both hands I pushed my hair back from my face and held it forcibly down. Ah! he said. I see the resemblance now! Gentle reader, I am not making this up.

Do you have room service? I queried. Yes ma’am! Our room service is open 24 hours a day. I knew there is a god after all. I ordered food. I ate food — I don’t remember what. I remember that the room was obviously set up for business travelers as it had a huge marble table with an internet connection, and a 25″ flat-screen TV, and a humongous tiled shower. The bed was exactly perfectly firm and piled with down pillows and a down duvet. I would so stay there again if I am ever in Houston and money is no object.

I fell into bed. It was midnight. At 4:30 AM my alarm went off. I can’t begin to tell you how hard it was to get out of that bed. I started a pot of coffee, showered, and liberally doused my hair with what my long-suffering and wonderful stylist euphemistically calls product. I poured a coffee into a to-go cup, checked out and, leaving my key, headed down to the cab stand. The valet banged on the cabbie’s window to wake him up, loaded me in the taxi, and we were off. To the airport, please, I said.

I realized that I’d left my untouched coffee upstairs in my room.

Then it occurred to my sleepless and caffeineless mind that there are two airports in Houston, and I couldn’t remember the name of the one I’d arrived at. I started to babble You know. The international airport. The big one with all the planes. Continental airlines. Right?

The cabbie smiled and nodded. Yah, mon. George Bush. No worries. I doubled his tip.

We drove at a sedate 10 MPH under whatever the local limit was, listening to the dulcet strains of Bob Marley, while I pondered the absurdity of George Bush and no worries in the same sentence.

On the plane, there was coffee. The plane left on time. The plane arrive in Miami on time. There was an airport hotel shuttle for which I only had to wait about 10 minutes. My hair, that had congealed into waves in the cool, dry plane-cabin air, began to loosen up and threaten bigness, but contented itself with simply curling a bit extra.

The Portland area used to boast a business that was a combination Radiator Shop & Deli. They had wonderful sausage, and you could pick up a few links while your radiator was being flushed. I chalked it up to keeping Portland weird and was sorry when they closed quite a few years ago. In Miami, I saw a sign that promised: Auto Insurance, Acrylic Nails & Puppies. I felt almost like I was home.

The picture is moon rise over Biscayne Bay. I don’t remember much of Tuesday. I remember that when the front desk clerk asked brightly You’ll be with us for two nights? the ability to subtract whatever the current day was from Thursday and come up with two totally escaped me, and I finally replied, I’m leaving on Thursday. She nodded wisely and asked what size bed I wanted. Just a bed, I replied. Any size that’s bed-like.

I think she felt vaguely sorry for me because that was the view from my room.

On the other hand, she booked me into a room that was right next to an ice machine that sounded like a plane was about to land in my bathroom. I kept thinking that I’d left the fan on. Except there wasn’t a fan. I decided to call it white noise and ignore it.

I was in Miami.