1. A sixty-year-old drunk man, about 5'2 with a bright blue, grease-spotted cardigan, stops a woman in the street and says, "Hey lady." She might, just might, decide to pause for a moment because something about the way he said it made it sound soulful and reminded her of Bootsy Collins. He continues and says, "What a jewel!" with a whoop and a holler, and continues on his way. (Funny. Oddly touching.)

2. Riding along a crowded bus, a young woman is squished up against the pole. The man behind her is holding the pole just slightly above her head. As more people get on the bus, the two are pressed closer together, and the woman is trying to shift herself so that the man's crotch is not riding up her ass. He, however, decides to take advantage of the situation by thrusting his groin futher up against her and um...digging in. She pushes him off and jumps off the bus. (fucking gross)

3. A student is in her painting atelier. Her professor is sitting in his usual place on Tuesday mornings, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette, surveying the goings-on in his atelier. The student turns around to grab some more paint, and he says, "Just stop it." She looks at him and says, "What?" He responds, "When you turn your back on me, don't tense your butt muscles. Don't be so uptight." (funny, gross, and annoying)

4. Two girls are riding the metro. The man behind them has a strange, clown-like grin. One friend leans in to the other and says (in Pig Latin), "At-thay an-may is-ay eepy-cray" The other friend says, "Yeah, can we not talk about it? I'm pretty aware of that and we're all pushed up against one another." He leans into the that friends ear and whispers, "Pardon" as if he wants to sex her up. This is what people say when they want to get off the train, but the train is still in motion. He leans in and says it again. The train reaches the station, and the friends get off so as to let the eight or nine people stepping down through. He steps off the train, leans into one of their ears again and whispers, "Great big thanks." The girls laugh. (funny, but still creepy)

5. Two teenage boys from the suburbs have come into Paris for the day. Two female friends are walking back from their grocery shopping. It is a hot, hot summer day. One of them is wearing a tank top. As the boys pass by, one says to the other loudly, "Damn, that girl has huge tits." (annoying)

6. Repeat story 5 except make it college-aged boys and the girl alone on the street without grocery bags and with a sweater on. (more annoying)

7. A waitress is serving beer and cocktails all day long. A man drinks six or seven coronas calmly in the corner while listening to the band. When it comes time to pay, he walks up to her quietly while she is giving an extensive list of orders to the bartender. "Come here," he says, motioning for her to lean in for a secret. She cocks her head up towards him while still writing the rest of the order, "Mm-hmm?" she asks absent-mindedly. He plants a sloppy, cerveza-ridden kiss on her neck, draws back and says, "This is for you," dropping a 20 in front of her. She's so surprised she doesn't know what to say, but she certainly doesn't want his whore money. The bartender just stares as she folds it up calmly and puts it in her pocket anyway. (Granted, this actually happened in the US, but it applies, anyway because it's REALLY fucking gross)

8. A student has gone to a local bar for a drink. Randomly, she runs into the security guard from her university, whom she knows well and talks to on a daily basis. She waves and says, "Hi Dennis." He walks up to the bar with his drink and sits down, and she starts to chit chat. He insists on speaking of other things: "Oh, those girls at school really get me. I can just sit there and watch them walk by all day long; I have no problem with that. What I wouldn't give to have some yogurt to spread between some of those girls' theighs, and I would just lick it up slowly, slowly, slowly." The student gets off her bar stool, stands up and said, "You've always been nice to me at school, but you've got some serious fucking problems if you think you can just say that type of thing to me" and walks away. (abso-fucking-lutely gross)

9. The guy at the crepe place gives two hot mamas free drinks every time they go there. (not only is it funny, it's fucking AWESOME)

10. A drunken man on the metro around midnight is sitting across from a 20-year-old girl new to Paris. She is reading the newspaper calmly after returning from a day at the school computer lab. He gets up and saunters over to her. "Give me he kiss, " he orders from his standing position. She ignores him, but gets nervous. He leans down, grabs the back of the seat she is sitting on and says, "Give me kiss, baby. A kiss." She leans away from him. He leans in and she smacks him with her newspaper. He reels backwards in confusion and she changes seats next to another man in the same metro car. He comes back to her and puts one hand behind her seat and one against the wall, closing her off from the man and trapping her in his "embrace." "I told you, give me a kiss, baby." He is angry. He is leaning in and is dangerously close. The man next to her says and does nothing. She clearly cannot defend herself properly in the language as she is reading and English paper. In a moment of panic, she madly kicks his shins as they pull into the next station. He stands up in shock and in the small window between his arm (still against the wall) and the door she escapes. He yells after her, "That's right, you fucking slut! Run away!" (gross and disturbing)

I know these kinds of things - both the good and the bad - also happen in the US. I have encountered them myself. But why is it that it is so much more tolerated in France? What is it about the status of women that allows this sort of thing to continue?

Why? Because it's the bane of my existence. The reason for the majority of my guilt and stress. The aspect of my personality I wish I could change.

This week - two weeks before finals and two weeks before my big essay is due (that I haven't started yet) - I have managed to accomplish the following:

- intensive research on all of my future travel plans, including plans for next year. When I say intesive, I really mean intensive.
- the successful completion of several literary works - none of which are actually in any way shape or form associated with my classes
- the gathering and complition of mixed tapes
- the proper rearrangement of my filing system
- lots of baking

Not one of these things in any way advances my actual work that needs to get done. Not a one.

I know, and admit, that my life would be a lot more enjoyable if I were just to suck it up and do the work. But really, I can't seem to get myself to start. What's the deal? I've always been a little bit this way, but never to this extreme. I have fantasies of just deciding not to take my exams, not to write my essay, and not feeling guilty about it later. But those are just daydreams.

Today was to be my Big Work Day. It didn't happen. But now it's 23.00. I figure I can get SOMETHING done.

I start a job tomorrow. My parents are coming the weekend before my essay is due (which means no cramming). I have applications to fill out for next year starting next week. So really, I only have today to accomplish everything I need to get done.

Oddly enough, I'm not stressing about it. I have just calmly accepted that the majority of it is not going to get done and that I am going to do a botch job of the rest of it.

That's sort of a shitty feeling though. It's my own damn fault.

We fall silent for a moment. After a pause, he leans in to discuss something with the driver. He can't help himself. He believes that part of the fun of cabs is talking to the drivers. Do you work for the union? What time do you typically work? Do you find people are very rude, or are they overall quite nice?

The bald, burly driver in overalls is short, too-the-point, but reasonably pleasant. They have moved on to talking about traffic in Paris and the new plans to change the bus and bike lanes. I watch blvd Sebastapol whiz by and casually listen to their small talk: Boy's excited chatter mixing with the low, mellow responses from the front seat. They seem to be getting along wonderfully.

Boy is saying, "Oh, I couldn't agree with you more, Monsieur. Although it seems the bike lanes are much more useful for the bikers, I'm not entirely convinced that the traffic is getting any easier for the busdrivers."

"Yes," comes the quipped reply.

Hm. For some reason Boy and I exchange a nervous glance. Was that hostility?

"Do you not agree, Monsieur?"

Silence. Yes. That was certainly hostility.

"Sir?"

Silence. The cab has gotten rather warm, it seems, and the darkness of the streets has gone from exciting and crisp to slightly frightening and cold.

"Monsieur, have I upset you somehow?"

Silence. More nervous glances mixed with bewilderement. With our eyes we tell one another that this is sort of getting uncomfortable.

Boy steps in to take the lead. "I'm sorry if I upset you, Monsieur. If you would prefer that we get out of your cab, you can just drop us off right here. I'm not clear what exactly the problem is, but obviously you're upset. It's only another two blocks, Monsieur. We can walk it."

The driver raises one arm in absolute fury, a clenched fist menacing us from just in front of the rearview mirror.

"I AM NOT A MAN!!!! I AM A WOMAN!!!"

Silence. This time far more uncomfortable than the last.

"Oh. Sorry ma'am. I didn't realize it. So you're a woman. Ok then. I didn't know."

Not the right response. Then again, what is?

Certainly not the stifled giggles we have kept to ourselves for the remaining five minutes. I'm sure she gets it all the time. A bald, big woman in overalls with a manly low voice driving a cab?

We never saw her face. I'm sorry lady, we were just going with what you gave us. Maybe if you had put on some girly perfume we would have thought twice.

Faith - George Michael
Groove is in the Heart - Dee Lite
Kiss - Prince
Billie Jean - Michael Jackson (ok, I might play this everyday)
Rebel Yell - Billie Idol
Miss You - The Rolling Stones
Sex Machine - James Brown
China Girl - David Bowie
Anything by Jamiroquoai provided its not Black Capricorn Day
Just What I Needed - The Cars
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun - Cindy Lauper (sp?)
Everyday - Buddy Holly
Roxanne - The Police
Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen
Anything by Bob Marley, really
Rocky Racoon - The Beatles
Baby Got Back - Sir Mix A Lot
Do You Love Me - The Contours
Vogue and other hits by Madonna

Can you think of others? We'll be in the car for six days total. We are very silly girls. We need music to bop along to.

Of course, each of us might have our own style mix as well (me rap, her that weird shit she listens to), but we're looking for something both of us will enjoy...

Why?

Well, I called Kdogg, my best friend from the California daze, after several months of not hearing from her. You know those friends that are just absurdly, 100% on your wavelength? That sometimes know what you are saying whereas everyone else is still blinking at you blankly? Those friends that make you laugh for hours and hours and hours and that, even after several years of constantly being together, STILL make you do so? That's Kdogg for me.

When I decided to leave California, she was the only thing I was sad to leave behind. And she was also probably the only thing that kept me sane there in the first place. I reasoned with myself by saying that true friends remain so no matter how much distance or time seperates them. Despite the fact that Kdogg and I now lead seperate lives and have had lots of ups and downs in the last three years for which we have not had the other within arm's reach, we're still as close as ever.

This is why when Kdogg suggested to me that we go on a long, long vacation bi-annually, I jumped at the opportunity. She called this her Vision. And it is time to turn that Vision to reality.

We agreed that we will do the bi-annual trips until we're 40, 50, 60. Leave the kids and the job at home, even if only for a week.

Luckily, we're still young and free, and so we're planning on leaving for six or so come next June.

Of course, where to go was the immediate question. I suggested Chile. She agreed, but then pointed out that she will most likely be doing humanitarian work in Latin America next year, so maybe something else would be better. We went through the continents - Africa, Australia, the Americas - and settled on Southeast Asia.

She's sending me a big cow with a hole in the top so that I can start saving. It's like a giant piggy bank, only made with a Mexican cow. The good thing about this is that to get into it, I must break the cow. And I am forbidden to break the cow until next May, when I have to start dishing out the finances. In this way, I will be forcing myself to save. The great thing is that around here, a two euro piece is actually a coin. This makes saving feel like it's not ripping bills from me, but I will actually be saving quite a lot.

Kdogg has already begun to do the same. Her cow's name is Segundo -or Siggy for short. We discussed possibilities for mine, possibly Trecero (third in Spanish) - with Tracy for short. But what cow looks like a Tracy?

So yes, I am thrilled to bits. I have always wanted to go a-travelling, but I have not wanted to go alone. Not just yet. I feel I might one day go alone, although this is terrifically contradictory to my nature. Regardless, I am so excited to have such a wonderful friend who is willing to go on a six-week adventure with me. And because we lived together for over a year and were psychotically obsessed with one another, I have no qualms about our ability to get along well in cramped quarters in a foreign country. Even if one of us gets diarrhea.

Now, I have gone insane with researching and developing an itinerary. I am hoping that I can ask for the ticket to get over there for Christmas, even though I wouldn't leave for another six months. They're far less expensive than I had thought they would be, although it is cheaper to go from San Francisco than it is to go from Paris. I will handle the rest of the expenses on my own (thanks to an upcoming job and a handy cow). It seems feasable; the costs of travelling in that region are amongst the cheapest in the world. Yes, it's wonderful to open presents at Christmas, but I hardly compare one evening of opening yearly calendars and perfumes to six weeks in Asia.

So I have all these beautiful plans to take place in roughly the next 390 days. A road trip to southern France with K immediately following finals. Possibly Italy or Greece with my two best friends from high school this summer. A nice casual trip back to the States sometime in July to give my mom and dad hugs and kisses, and hopefully with the added bonus of seeing my brother and sister somehow. Spain and Portugal with the Boy come August. Some time alone in Espana in Septiembre. And then a long pause (ten months) before I go on the Mother of All Trips in my not-so-well travelled life thus far.

I'm already thinking of where we will go for the second biannual trip (I'm thinking southern Africa is next). If you could go anywhere in the world for 4-6 weeks, where would YOU go?

People tell me that couples always fight on vacation. My history would indicate that I agree, but really, I don't understand. Why fight? You're on vacation. There are none of those pressures and bullshit responsabilities that are normally weighing on your shoulders. Our fighting has always been related to driving. I secretly think this is because he feels as if he has been stripped of his manhood because he can't drive (expired permit), so he instead tells me to turn down one-way streets (in the wrong direction) to test my skillz. Which then causes screaming (out of fear of death), which only unleashes the typical chain of events that leads up to an argument ("Don't scream while I'm driving!" "Well, don't turn down the wrong way!" "Well, don't tell me to turn there then, Navigator Man!" etc)

Yes, so yes. We have decided to leap into the insanity of yet another vacation together. And this time, we are hoping to do so for three weeks. With a car the whole time. A two-seater. Oh yeah.

But hey, we've found some reasonably cheap car rates, we'll sleep in hostels, and yada yada yada. The whole romantic travelling thing people do when they're young and free. That's sounding mighty appealing, man (say that in a bad Jamaican accent - I'm listening to Bob Marley).

For the moment, we've decided on the following loose itinerary: train to Barcelona, car rental in Barcelona. Drive to Valencia. Drive to Alicante. Drive to Malaga (maybe stop off in Grenada). Drive to Sevilla. Head towards Portugal. Work our way through Portugal. Swing through central Spain while heading back to Barcelona, maybe hitting up on Salamanca or Madrid somewhere in there.

The good news (besides that whole going-on-vacation-for-three-weeks thing) is that 21 days in Spain/Portugal will most certainly turn me into a tan, blond goddess. Yes, I might have to work on my figure a bit before I hit the beaches, but I'll have such a deep dark tan that nobody will notice the cellulite once I get back from the beaches. And anyway, what woman doesn't have cellulite? Seriously. Have any of you ever met one?

Don't worry. I'll post pictures. Not of the cellulite. Not of the arguments, either. Just of me. In Spain. Or Portugal. Sunbathing topless.

(About sunbathing topless: I don't see why Americans think this is so weird. It's really nice, actually. I mean, I would probably do it full-blown naked if allowed. It's more logical anyway - no tan lines. Then again, it's always sort of fun to have something to gage your tanning progress by, isn't it? Yes. I'll only take off the top half after all.)

Time to get working on those mixed tapes. Too bad I don't have a cassette player. Cars should just come equipped with CD players as cassettes are becoming rather archaic.

But I'm gonna grow it out anyway. This is not the time to do so, I know, seeing as how the weather is turning and my neck will get icky hot with the new little whisps of hair that will begin crawling down it. And I will have no means of putting up said hairs in a cute and casual ponytail, so they will most certainly drive me insane and I will complain to anybody aware of my hair-growing projects about the unbearable hairs on my neck.

But I'm bored of the short hair thing. And sort of sick of it, really.

The real problem is that I am horribly sick of getting my haircut every other month. It's a constant issue - everytime I get my haircut, I hate it for two weeks, feel ok with it for three or four, and then start stressing about needing to get it cut again. I'm tired of that, and it's burning a hole in my pocket.

And I know people say that short hair is less work than long hair, but I don't agree. Granted, I'm the type of girl that puts as little effort into her physical appearance as possible in the morning, but I still feel that putting my hair into barettes will forever be more work than putting it up into a lazy bun. Barettes require some degree of precision, and, additionally, with my short hair, I cannot leave the house in the morning without at least having applied some water to calm the wildness a bit. I don't know what it is about sleeping, but somehow my usually rather obedient hair throws a private party while I am catching my nightly Zs. Every morning, I wake up with all 2-3 inches of my hair sticking straight up, and if I nod "yes" at any moment before I make some sort of attempt at styling, my head my hair does a most unappealing flopping movement with each nod.

All my friends make fun of it, insisting that it is cute - like a little kid who has just woken up. The problem is that it is far less cute when the delivery guy or a neighbor rings my doorbell at noon and I still haven't gotten out of bed. As I sleep in my birthday suit, when these sorts of things happen, I have to make the decision between answering the door fully clothed or with reasonable hair. Clothes always win, and I am forever amazed at how well the delivery people take not only having to climb up six flights of stairs to to get to my front door, but also the horrible head of hair that usually answers on the other side. I have only had a few that have outright laughed at me.

I figure I'll grow this mane of mine out and then chop it all off again when I'm sick of the long lustrous locks. I have no fear of chopping it all off because I know what I look like with short hair. Actually, I am sort of afraid of how I'll look with long hair. Drab, perhaps.

When I see before and afters of women who have chopped off their hair, I almost always prefer the short 'do to the long one. I know men almost unanimously prefer long hair, but I think it's so desperately unexciting. Short hair is usually more spunky and fun, and it opens up the woman's face so much more. Long hair is the norm, short hair indicates a sense of adventure and individualism. I might just be pulling this out of my ass, but I think part of it is true. The only thing that will make having long hair exciting for me is that I have forgotten what it is like to have it (although I have recurring dreams in which I have long hair), and I'll probably spend the first few months of officially having long hair just playing with it and brushing it.

So get ready folks. I am going to have a steady six months of bad hair days, one after another. We'll see if I can stand it. I might abandon this project as quickly as I have decided to take it on. That is to say, in 24 hours.

That was not, however, an open invitation to come into the bedroom, turn on the stereo, start downloading onto my computer, and to blast African music at high volume through the speakers - one of which was three-four inches from my left ear.

I like African music. I do. But if there's one problem I have with it at this moment is that it is not conducive to sleeping. There's a lot of energy involved in those rhythms, and they always makes me feel like I'm in an overcrowded bar and everybody's dancing on tables. This can be a great feeling. But not when I'm sleeping and I am trying to exhaust an entire day's worth of excessive - albeit welcomed - exposure to sunlight.

The real injustice here is that men can sleep through anything. So he who first turned on the music is out like a lamb on the bed, while she who once was sleeping is staring blandly at the computer screen, unable to do anything constructive and entirely too foggy-headed to even consider making an attempt.

It's 10 pm. Maybe we should eat something. I've been sitting at this cafe since four in the afternoon. That means it's been six hours. Shit. That's the definition of vacation. Nothing but sitting, talking, and pointing out the people passing us by. Life passing me by for a bit. Go ahead, Life, I'll just watch you and giggle and smile as the memories and thoughts run by, walk by, roll by, come back again, come talk to me, smile back at me, laugh at someone else, fall to the ground, get back up again, and order another round.

Yes, I'll call the Boy. He's up at the house. It's less than a block away. We all go to a restaurant. Sorry, we're closed. Who refuses five customers at 10.30 at night? Lazy ass mother fuckers, that's who.

No matter, we're off to another place. The cook there likes African music. Ha ha ha. He tells us about the maquis outside Paris - the soirées africaines. The Boy and him are on a first name basis by now. We order cider. The bottles are called "Magnums." The five of us finish off two. They're called Magnums for a reason. We switch languages - Italian Mama Mia speaks to the Down South Baby in Spanish. Sometimes I follow and I think of the word in English. How do you say that in French? Let's ask the Boy. Oh, of course! "La Mousse!" (the head of a beer, not the dessert)

I love vacation so much that my gut is hanging out and I can't even remember what the hell my point was. May I never forget how great that feels.

Him: Do you see those pants? That's the fashion this year.
Me: I know, it's all over the stores. My brother calls them pirate pants.
Him: It looks like that girl has shit in her pants and all the shit is has collected around her ankles.
Me: That's gross. I'll just keep calling them pirate pants.
Him: Ok, I'll call them shit pants. Look at her boyfriend. Do you think he finds those shit pants sexy?
Me: I hope so.
Him: What the hell is he thinking? Who wants to be with a girl who looks like she's just shit her pants?

* * *

Him: Have you noticed that guys are wearing girly sneakers nowadays?
Me: Girly?
Him: Yeah. Sneakers are usually kinda chunky. Like Air Jordans. But now they're wearing these fantastical spangly things - orange with red strips and green laces. And they're small, with thin material. That's not very masculine.
Me: Well, that's the fashion, I guess. But it's uni-sex, both guys and girls can wear them.
Him: Guys shouldn't wear them. It makes them look like pansies.

* * *

Him (two hours later): You know, this afternoon has made it pretty clear to me that I am no longer fashionable. I've been wearing the same shirt and sweater for the last two years. My sneakers are the same that I have had since you met me. I would never date a girl with those poofy, shit-holding pants.
Me: That's not a bad thing.
Him: Yeah, but when I was eighteen girls used to always check me out. I was stylish. But now I don't care about style. And so the girls don't check me out anymore.
Me: That's not a bad thing.
Him: You're the only one who checks me out.
Me: That's not a bad thing.

I personally have yet to see for myself some sexy khakis. Khakis to me say, "I work at Old Navy." That means that you're wearing a microphone/headset thingamijig over your head and you're calling back to Mike to wonder if there might be another pair of faded boot-cut, mild-flairs in a size 9. That's not really sexy if you're a lady, and its just plain disturbing if you're a boy.

I've read in numerous articles that khakis are a closet staple. But I am on an anti-khaki crusade. Who decided these were so necessary? And am I wrong in thinking that in 1976, the height of fashion greatness (come on, seriously, you'll never convince me that everybody in Saturday Night Fever isn't the hottest thing you have ever seen), that khakis had yet to be invented?

Especially traumatic are pleated khakis.

I did, however, notice that all the schoolkids in London wore the cutest damn uniforms ever.

Seriously, everybody. Things are all crazy and fucked up right now - the big world is going crazy and my little one is all discombobulated. Let me talk about fashion. Sometimes I needs to ground myself in meaningless bullshit that I happen to find amusing. Just go with me here.

Anyway.

What was really interesting was not the actually images being shown on the news channels, but instead the variety of them. The hotel room came equipped with about fifteen channels, and maybe three of these were British. The rest were French, German, Italian, Polish, Japanese, and Arabic. And then the obvious CNN because Americans just can't handle watching the BBC (I still don't get why people prefer CNN to the BBC).

At one point I turned on the tv to see the update on the war situation, and was struck by the contrasting viewpoints given between Al-Jazeera and CNN. I figured it would be somewhat different, but that the differences would be in the wording of the news itself. Normally I can't understand a word on Al-Jazeera, but I happened to stumble upon a subtitled bit of footage that had a voiceover in English, and it was fascinating to see. While CNN was showing pictures of cheering Iraqis along the roads as the troops worked their way into Baghdad, Al-Jazeera was showing a group of American marines terrifying an Iraqi family. The Americans had heard gunfire coming from a certain part of a residential neighborhood, and were going house by house looking for the shooter in order to secure the area. The Americans only spoke English, and it was of course impossible to communicate to the family that they weren't there to hurt them. The children walked out with their hands up, got on the ground and silently sobbed and shook with fear. The father desperately plead with the marines not to hurt his family, but the marines couldn't understand and the father began getting frantic. The mother worriedly put her arms over her two terrified daughters while she herself trembled and cried from fear.

The marines weren't doing anything wrong, and they weren't intentionally trying to be threatening. But the picture given of the American military was by no means a pretty one. It was obvious that this family certainly did not have the same feelings toward the marines as was being shown at the exact same moment on CNN.

Then I wondered: would an image like that - which totalled about two minutes of film footage - EVER be put on American television? I doubt it.

In one sense, we'll never be allowed to form our own opinion about current events because we'll always only get half the story. By feeding us half of the information, we are naturally being swayed to think a certain way. And if another part of the world is only being fed the other half of the same information, the two opposing sides will never understand how the other could possibly feel that it is in the right. Dialogue becomes impossible, opinions turn toward the outrageous, and people eventually get killed.

The media are not entirely to blame for war and conflict, but I think a lot of good could come out of understanding where any given opponent is coming from. Yet I know I'd be dreaming were I ever to believe that CNN would actually present a story objectively. So I guess we'll all just continue living in our bubble where we're always right, and we'll just crush other bubbles that disagree. Seems a funny way to do things, though, doesn't it?

***along the same lines, although not really, I picked up this link detailing all the ways in which Michael Moore duped us in Bowling for Columbine (via Boogie Church). I guess many of us understood what Moore had wanted us to understand, even if it wasn't necessarily exactly based in truth. It's pretty interesting - although terribly upsetting. Worth a look.

Dad had already taken off in the morning (he was to go to the airport directly from a meeting), leaving Mom and I to spend the afternoon together before saying goodbye around three. Mom had to be at the airport by quarter to five, I had to be at the train station by four. Our schedules fit nicely, and after a calm morning at the bookstore and in a neighborhood cafe, we set out to go our seperate ways.

We waited for the Central line train together, but as she had to get off in only one stop - whereas I had several more to go on the same line - we hugged before getting on the train (you never know how crowded it will be). A minute later it came thundering down the tracks, and the two of us snagged two empty seats.

One stop is awfully short when it means you won't see your mom for a few more months. She kissed me on the cheek, gave me a little squeeze and I said, "Be careful out there, thanks for coming, and keep your purse zipped." She said, "Ok, Big City Girl..." with a face my brother, sister and I warmly refer to as "Mom's sad face" (it rears its ugly head at all goodbyes). Before we got in anything we really wanted to say, her stop had come, and she was stepping off the train. My seat didn't face the platform, so I waved goodbye as she stepped down and considered that the end. She took a few steps down the platform and I turned around in my seat at the same time she did from outside the train. We caught one another through the glass window behind me and she waved a sad goobye. My eyes smarted a bit. Then she walked down the rest platform to make her connection.

I let out a little sigh and thought to myself, "That was less emotional than usual." It's always surprisingly difficult for me to say goodbye to my parents - especially my mom because she usually tears up a bit. As I settled back in my seat, the doors closed and the train lurched forward. Rolling by, I turned around once more to see if she was waiting to say one last goodbye. She was.

I glimpsed her briefly - her body sped by and was a bit hazy through the tinted glass, but in that instant I clearly saw how amazingly giving she has been in supporting my living overseas. I am sure it is more difficult than I can imagine - two of her children live on opposite sides of the country (whereas my parents live in the middle) and one lives on the other side of an ocean. I know that, were she to have her way, we would all live two doors down from one another. And for a second there, I found myself wishing that we were neighbors as well, and that our visits weren't always reduced to a few hurried days here and there in unfamilar cities.

The unexpected shock of a surprisingly thought-provoking goodbye left me feeling sad and lonely and a little bit lost - where am I going? Why am I living here? Am I hurting my family? Do they think I am being selfish? Where do I want to live in the future? Do I really want to be so far away?

These thoughts kept on whizzing through my head, always accompanied by the image of my lovely Mom waving at me from the platform.

My saving grace was that when I came home, the Boy was waiting for me at the station. He has never, in all three (plus) years that we have been together, come to meet me at an airport or a train station. It meant more to me that he chose this time to do it than he could have known. It felt nice to know that I had somewhere, and someone, to come home to.

But more than the shopping is the carefree nature my mom takes on when she's travelling. She's intent on having a good time, and honestly, she loves just walking around a foreign city as much as I do. We giggle at things we see, sit around and gab, squeeze one another's hands, hit one another and say, "Oh, look!", order dessert and say, "Oh, hell, I'm on vacation."

We'll get up early and discuss the options for the day. Most likely we'll meet up for breakfast in the hotel, I'll drink too much coffee and spend the first few hours of the day zipping around town and getting excited about stupid shit I see in store windows. The giddiness will be infectious, and we'll be walking arm in arm down the streets with caffeine-enduced smiles strapped across our faces. Then I'll suddenly get cranky and irritable, and Mom will intuitively know that it's time for me to recuperate. We'll pause and have a leisurely coffee - perhaps tea in England, I'll feel good because I'll make her laugh a few times, and she'll wink and say, "Oh, you're just so much fun to be with." Then we'll act like little schoolgirls on a field trip while we deviously plan where we're to go next. A funny-looking person might cause Mom to make her surprised, slightly mocking face at me after said person walks by, and the two of us will laugh together and Mom might store it away as something to tell Dad about later, over dinner.

When we do hook up with Dad, we'll be weary but happy to see him, and he'll let out his quiet smile that says, "I'm glad you two had fun, I wish I could have been there, but I know that if I was there, you wouldn't have been able to shop or wander around in peace." Dad does museums in twenty minutes. Mom and I take two hours. When the three of us are together we somehow have to balance each of our desires. Last time we were in London together, we all spent quality time shopping: Dad went to the bar across the street and read the paper while Mom and I stayed inside. A fun time was had by all.

We'll see if we all have a good time this time. I gotta go. London's calling.

The funny thing is that we made the reservation online. They give you all the information in a five-step process, but we wanted to be sure of certain things (that we would have unlimited mileage, that I would be able to drive since I'm under 25, etc). So we kept advancing in the steps. When we got to the step that asked for name/email address, we entered a random name (Johnny B. Good, as a matter of fact) and a random email address (johnnybgood@hotmail.com, of course) and clicked to go on to the next page. The next page said, "Thank you for your reservation, Johnny B. Good! You will receive an email confirming your request..." So somewhere out there johnnybgood@hotmail.com just reserved a 2-door economy car for one week.

We restarted the whole process again. With, naturally, the same dates, times, and other info as Johnny B. Good had selected. I received the email a few minutes later to my address. I'm wondering if the people over at Thrifty Rent-a-car are going to catch on.

In other news...God works in mysterious ways. Or some Higher Power works in mysterious ways. Or the world just does it on its own.

I had been stressing about my trip out of town this weekend because it would mean I would miss my Arabic class (on Saturday mornings). So much happens in that short, two-hour span that I feared falling behind. However, in the interest of everyone else involved in the trip, I went ahead and made early morning train reservations and decided to just skip the class and suffer the consequences later. Turns out, I received a phone call from the school office today and THE CLASS IS CANCELLED TOMORROW. Perfection. Absolute perfection.

Spring break starts in four hours. I'm off to my last four hours of class for the next two weeks. Smile, kids.

***editorial note: I realize that my having discussed the rental process and then spring break would lead any normal person to believe that I was renting the car for spring break. But no, no...the rental is for May. Just had to clarify.

I therefore felt rather cool when my pleading for understanding became a pleading for release from my one-room dungeon. He had the doorknob on his side. That just didn't seem fair. I kept ramming my body up against the door, but it wouldn't budge. I tried from every angle. I tried with ass, I tried with shoulder, I tried with palm. No force of mine would budge that fat door.

I could see through the keyhole that he was still just sitting in front of that fucking computer, acting as if it wasn't four am and I wasn't starting to get hysterical on the other side of the door.

Eventually, he sauntered over and opened the damn thing. I tumbled out on the other side and said an exhausted "Thank you." We didn't speak for the rest of the night - which wasn't very long because by the time the whole door episode ended it was time for bed.

The next morning we both had to get up and be out the door rather quickly. Good thing it wasn't stuck anymore.

We still said nothing. As I was leaving, I said, "Bye" coldly while he was brushing his teeth. He didn't respond. I got angry and my eyes got big. How dare he?

He saw me in the mirror and said, "Why are you looking at me like that, Sweetie?"

"I said 'Bye.' You could at least say 'Bye' back to me."
"Oh, sorry, I didn't hear you. Goodbye. Have a great day." His voice was sickly sweet.

I walked out without wishing him a good one, too.

"Hey. Wait. Why are you mad?" he called after me while hopping out of the bathroom in his boxers.

I unlocked the door. "I might have slept but I'm still pissed off. You are still an asshole."

He was on the brink, I could see it. An apology was forming in his mind. It was gonna erupt. He knew this was all pointless. That he had been wrong, so horribly wrong, and had to admit it. That he had to be a man, for once. And that I was going to go on like this until he was one.

"Oh. Ok. Well...ok."

Hm. That was no apology.

He had a morning train to go away for the day. I went to class before he left to catch his train; later I went out with a friend before he came back. He got home around midnight and the house was disturbingly dark. And there was no note, either. "Let the bastard worry." I did it intentionally, of course. He called me at one am wondering where I was. I said I wasn't going to be home too late. I got in at five (with an hour time change). He was still up.

I think I was making it pretty clear that I was angry and I wasn't going to let it go. Yes, it's childish to act that way, but sometimes its the only means us ladies have to getting our well-deserved apology.

Still, no nice frilly words were going to come out of his mouth that day. So I went to sleep, and he did shortly thereafter. We still said nothing. The tension was mounting.

Sunday morning we got up and I was still a bitch. By then I was getting pretty good at it. He again turned on the computer in his easy-to-read avoidance strategy. I cleaned, did some homework, read some, and then announced I was going to a movie.

He said, "Wait for me. We'll go together."
"It's in 15 minutes."
"But I won't be done with my computer stuff by then. Can you just wait for me?"
"Movies don't wait for people." And with that, I headed out the door in an overdramatic huff.

By the time I got back I think he had decided life was going to be a living hell if he didn't say something. I came in and told him about the movie - the most amount of words I had said to him since the whole stuck-behind-the-door incident almost 48 hours prior. He listened intently. Maybe it was just to soften me up a little, I don't know.

Then he said, "Would you still want to go to a movie with me tonight?"
Surprised, I said, "Well, sure. Maybe not right now, but in a couple hours."
"Ok. That'd be fun. Let's do that."

Strange, I thought, so I walked over to him thinking that he might actually be trying to taxi down that apology runway. Might we have liftoff? I couldn't help but let the right corner of my mouth turn up in a rather quirky smile as I moved in for closer inspection.

He put his arm around my waist and said, "We shouldn't be like this. It's better when you smile."

"Yeah. We shouldn't." (still mad)

Strange moment of silence. He was feeling the words rolling around in his mouth. I could see it. They were forming, slowly but surely, in their grotesque and unappetizing form that he was trying so desperatly to get his mouth around. Maybe he just wanted to spit them out and be done with it. I wanted him to savor them in all their bitterness, and then I wanted him to lick his plate clean.

"I wasn't good Friday."

Ok. Not the words I was looking for. But somehow they were even better in all their ridiculousness. It was like in the movies: that guy who just can't say "I'm sorry" ends up stammering and saying something even more painful and slightly embarrassing. "I wasn't good Friday" became not only his apology (the baby eyes helped), but an outright confession of his wrongdoing, albeit in a nervous and rather choppy form. It seemed as if it just sort of spilled out beyond his control. It wasn't an apology per se, but his heart was in the right place.

"No, you weren't. You really weren't. But I'm glad I don't have to make you suffer for it any longer."

Neither of us liked the movie, but we're both glad we went.