a future for pies

     Tonight I went outside to take an exercise walk, and found instead it was a re-acquaintance walk. I fell in love again with the green barn and the white horse and took stock of the honeysuckle-laced blackberry bushes (verdict: another two weeks before cobbler stage). After the storm, the evening sky illuminated the purple-grey clouds with brilliant pink; now the hills are wrapped in a pocket of purple mist. Strange and lovely.

 

And lovely it is to be home, after a series of nightmare delays getting home from the Pacific coast. I can now mark off Life Experience #47: Spend the night in an airport. The worst part was not the cold or the nasty cots or even the fluorescent lights. But they played these three announcements over and over, like something in a South Asian POW torture camp.

Speaker One (male): “IMPORTANT AIRPORT ANNOUNCEMENT – smoking is only permitted in designated areas and blah, blah, blah”

Speaker Two (also male): “No es permitido fumar en blah, blah, blah”

Speaker Three (female and the object of our most bitter hatred): “Remember that you’re only allowed to bring THREE ounces of liquid onboard in ONE one quart bag, in your ONE carry-on bag. Remember, THREE-ONE-ONE.”

 

It was a very long five hours. And a very old cot.

 

***

But the rest of the trip makes up for it. I’ll list just three highlights.

 

1. STUMPTOWN coffee(!!!) I never get this excited over any caffeine. But this is the same Stumptown coffee of the Nickel Creek instrumental piece, and I just ordered $24.40 worth of the Honduran blend because it’s smooth and amazing and it has a Nickel Creek song for goodness’ sake. I think this may be my favorite part of the trip?
2. I was not excited about whale spotting with my family on a random overlook. If it happened it happened, as far as I was concerned. I shrugged, cursed Ranger Bob, and flicked imaginary ash off my imaginary blasé cigarette. Then I saw its back and spout and flipped out like a little kid. Next thing I knew I was standing on the fence (meant to keep excitable tourists from plunging to a wet and rocky death) waving my arms and shouting things like “Two o’clockWHALE, don’tyouseeit, I mean, three o’clock!” Yes, it was cool.
3. I stayed at a 1920s hotel that Valentino frequented. And I got my fill (almost) of the gorgeous peonies which I have loved these six years and do not grow below the Mason-Dixon line or something.

 

And now, since I haven’t slept in 48 hours, bed sounds nice. Good night, my fog-shrouded moon.