Once fully recovered, I flew to Portland and back to visit my sister and brother-in-law (and their band of amazing friends) over the weekend. It was an absolute success -- everything a visit with family should be. My sister and I were on the same page in most ways, and I think we both felt that it was more just like I was hanging out with everyone for a bit instead of making an official visit. We just chilled, and it was awesome.

I also got to see my sister 'in action' at her job. She is a high school math teacher, and I am so glad I got to see her classroom and some of the students who fill it. I found some of them so endearing that when she was grading papers on Sunday night, I requested she keep me up-to-date on a few students' progress. I am so happy that I now have the visuals to go along with her stories, so that now when we talk about her job and how it's going, I can actually picture her standing at the wipe-off board. Also, she's the advisor for the high school's trivia club, a group composed of such freakishly dorky and excited-by-trivia types that we were both giddy with excitement. They are just flat out ADORABLE.

Portland is such a nice place. I say this every time that I come back from there, but it really is. On Saturday, we went to the farmer's market with some friends (and toddler! Oh the cuteness!) and I just loved it. The weather was perfect: a little crisp, but sunny, and the leaves were falling all around. Everybody at the market was so chill and relaxed ("We're just trying to race through the market...") that I couldn't help but compare it to the Parisian market outside my apartment. They both have their merits, but damn if the Portland market didn't want to make me just sit around and sip coffee on a park bench for awhile. It was just beautiful, and the atmosphere was lovely.

The highlights from the trip abound, but probably the ultimate high point was that my sister got the coolest boots ever. We did some serious damage with the credit card, but all were excellent purchases. Embarrassingly, I have to go back with an extra piece of luggage. But I got new shoes, new pants, and a snazzy new coat.

Tonight I am off on the plane that should get into Paris tomorrow morning. I am excited to see The Boy, and Kathypath, and even to just be in my own bed again, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to stick around for a few days. This last week has more than made up for the hell of my first three days here, and I am so happy to have been able to spend time with my family. They are great people and they make me laugh constantly.

Also, it's in the mid-70's and sunny here, and for some reason the dog is cuddling more with me than usual. When you take everything into account, it makes it pretty hard to leave.

Landing in Delhi at 5.00 am in 1.5 days. Next update will be from India...

So I am pretty much ready for the heat thing to be over and done with. My magic feet are swelling so much it's becoming painful, so I know a rainfall is coming soon. Thank God, too, because I just can't handle this shit anymore.

Ironic, I know, seeing as how I'm leaving for India two weeks from tomorrow. India, where the air is mountain fresh and humidity is never a problem -- especially in August.

This morning, I went to the doctor to get my assorted medecines for the upcoming trip. I said I was there for malaria pills and she said, "Right. But I'm going to prescribe you stuff for diarrhea and vomiting, too, because you're pretty much bound to need them."

I laughed and said, "I know it's a risk, but hopefully I can avoid it."

And she sort of jerked her head up and said, "No. You can't, really. I was being very careful, but I puked for three solid days. I still don't know what did it to me. I think it's just the spices they use. I mean, the water is one thing -- you can be sure to avoid fresh fruits and vegetables. But the spices are not exactly created in sanitized conditions, and pretty much everything you eat has spices, so... yeah. I ate chapati and yogurt for the rest of my trip after that."

OK!

I also went to H&M to buy myself some fake-linen pants to move around town in while a-travelling. During the Southeast Asia Trio, I wore the same two pants throughout the trip, as they were pretty much the only thing my sweating body enjoyed having stick to it. I bought them at H&M, alongside a few 5-euro t-shirts that I threw away at the end of our travels. As I don't really have a lot of clothing, I prefer to just buy three shirts and two pants knowing they'll be pitched, that way I don't destroy any of the more durable things I own. Plus, word on the street is that women shouldn't look like skanky hos around India, so I thought I'd buy some shirts that cover my shoulders and breastesses.

Surprise of all surprises. I haven't been shopping since last December (no exageration), and I was positively overwhelmed by the awesomeness of H&M's t-shirt selection. They're long (refreshing change for us tall girls) and in great colors, and they cost 6 or 7 euros. I picked up a bunch - V-necks and normal necks - and then I threw in a sweater for this winter. My total came to 48 euros, which really felt like a lot to me, especially since I sincerely cannot remember the last time I bought myself new clothing without the presence of my mother. But damn if it's not cool having so much new clothing for that price.

So now I have a dilemna - I actually REALLY like most of the shirts I got. So I no longer want to wear them to India and pitch them. I want to incorporate them into my pathetic wardrobe permanently.

I'm thinking I'll go back to H&M and buy two more t-shirts (no sweater) and suck it up. Pay the 12 euros and make those my throaways. Everything is on sale. Everything is cheap. And that's how H&M just lures you right on in...

So this is one of the crazy things I didn't have the time to talk about during my (useless, apparently) exam prep:

My friend Kara and I thought it would be great to go to India together. We have been speaking very vaguely about this until a few months ago, when we both confirmed that we weren't just talking out of our respective asses. 80% of our conversations on the matter have been done via cross-continental text messaging, so it seemed fitting that the final decision was made (for me, anyway) when I received a texto that said, "India it is! Should we go north or south?"

She is an airline stewardess, and thus she gets free(ish) airfare. She also doesn't exactly know what flight she'll take and when, as it all sort of depends on free seat space. The airline is generous, but not so generous as to give preference to non-paying flyers. In other words, her date and times are TBD, and will be approximative until she actual gets on a damn plane headed east. That means I'll have something like 15 hours of advance notice.

So this all lead us to come up with August 12 as a potential date for meeting up in Delhi. Kara warned me that she might not be able to make it to town until the 18, but she thought I should go ahead and get tickets because they're not getting any cheaper. And she's pretty sure she can get there on the 12th. Maybe. We hope.

I started checking prices, and they were floating happily in the 700-something range for awhile. But then they started going up, and I started panicking. And then I checked again a week or so later, and there were only two flights in the 700-something range and the rest were well into the 1,000+ range.

My decision was to possibly reserve a flight, but only if I read that I could change the dates with little trouble. So I clicked on a 700 euro Air India flight and I got a message to the effect of "We're sorry, we cannot access your flight information. Please try again later." So I figured, ok, maybe they're updating the site or something. I'll try again in 20 mins. Which I did, of course, but I still couldn't access the flight info, and other flight prices were rising.

I freaked and called Air India, who then referred me to a travel agent. She was very nice and helpful, and she also informed me that Air India is really weird about online reservations, and that they'll give you ticket info but not always let you reserve online. They pretty much require you to go through a travel agent. Before I knew it, I heard myself saying, "Well, as long as I have you on the phone, could you tell me what the real prices -- for planes with actual seats available - might be?"

And suddenly she was saying frightening things like, "Only one seat left at that price... " and "Friday there's absolutely nothing at all... " and "The only other option is over 1,000..."

And wouldn't you know, I reserved myself a ticket. For August 10, actually, so now I am not only running the risk of spending some quality alone time in Delhi, I am pretty much guaranteed to do so. But, the chick got me a super sweet deal (even 50 euros than the flight I had seen online!) and it would have cost 200 euros more to fly 30 hours later, and I just couldn't justify it.

Honestly, this is all a bit unexpected, so we'll see how it all goes down. I've never really done the travelling alone thing. I mean, sure, in Europe, but that so doesn't count.

I remember the moment of absolute panic that I felt when I first landed at the Dakar airport two years ago. I had had hardly any email exchanges with my friend who was living there at the time - Laura - even though I took the trip there to pay her a rather exotic visit. I knew she knew my flight date, but we never agreed to meet at the airport; never set up a plan B. And it dawned on me, as I smelled the fishy, sticky African air for the first time just above the turmac, that I might have just stumbled my way into a very strange adventure indeed. When I gave the customs controller my passport, my hands were fumbly and weak, and I realized - with a mixture of disapproval and awe - that I was actually scared shitless.

The panic didn't mellow very much when I started to filter out of the dinky airport alongside all of the boisterous Senegalese passengers. While I tried my best not to draw any attention to myself, I was convinced that everyone was staring at me. Of course, this is not true: most people were reuniting with loved ones or bustling their way home. It was 11 pm after all. But I had no idea how to get anywhere, and where exactly where I would have gone should I have to come up wtih a destination. I had visions of myself asking some random taxi dude to take me to a hotel, any hotel. What a bad idea that would be.

I paused for a moment of reflection near some windows before stepping out the main airport door, and jumped out of both excitement and fear when I realized it was Laura's face that was plastered against the window on the opposite side, trying to get my attention. Oh, she got it alright. And I was relieved... especially since the screaming taxi driver chaos that awaited me outside was definetly a force to be reckoned with. It was nice to have Laura, and her Senegalese no-nonsense friends, there to do the dirty work for me.

But I'm glad I had that little experience, because I have a feeling I might have a similar reaction upon landing in Delhi. Sure, I've travelled a lot more now. And yes, I think I'll be a little less freaked out in general. But I am pretty sure I'll still have a moment where I'll think to myself, "What the hell are you doing?"

A good question to ask oneself from time to time, I suppose.

Also, something very cool about going through the travel agent: I get to pay my ticket in three monthly installments. I really don't have enough to pay for the ticket as it is, but I only had to put down 200 euros to make the reservation. And now I have a few months to pay the rest. Seems reasonable.

And finally, my boss has told me that he wants to buy a better, more high-tech camera for the store (and web site). He's getting very into the whole thing - apparently he's going out to buy the whole deal - lights and reflectors and special boards and God knows what else - so that my photos can be all extra professional. I'm thinking about requesting that he bequeath the older, CRAPPY camera (it's so not crappy, it's so hard-core nice) to me for the duration of my trip. Is this a risky move? I don't think he would even notice, and I know for a fact that he's never going to learn how to use it himself. I am determined to take more photos this trip, and why not do it with a "crappy" camera that takes perfect photos?

So anyway: I'M GOING TO INDIA.

Highlight of my trip to Lisbon with my parents:

Walking down a wee little staircase in the Alfama, I turned around to warn them to be careful. "These steps are slippery," I noted, and promptly fell on my ass.

They were very considerate, and made fun of me for the rest of the trip.

*****

Now the parents have come and gone. They left yesterday morning on an uber-early flight, and I pretty much slept until ten and spent the first three hours of my day doing nothing but paperwork before going into work. To do... more paperwork!

The parents' departure is always bittersweet. In some ways, I was ready for them to leave; as awful as that may sound, it's not: I have work to do and exams to study for, and that's not so easy when mom and dad are offering to feed me M&M's and do crosswords instead. I had a lot of things that fall in the "responsibility" compartment of my brain that were pushed to the wayside (rather successfully, I might add) while they were here.

Also, it's a bit tricky to play hostess at this point. They know the Paris well enough to not want to visit the Eiffel Tower or the Musée d'Orsay. I'd honestly prefer to avoid them myself. Yet, they don't feel quite right about going to the movies or just sitting around a café for four hours, which are my favorite ways to relax around town. So there's a delicate balance to be found - somewhere - between being a succesful tourist while still doing things that don't bore them to tears.

Not always easy. It's easier in Portugal, of course, where you can rent a car and drive down the coast. Or you can wander the streets of Lisbon. Or you can fall down the stairs. That's entertainment, right there.

But when it comes to actually saying goodbye, I'd be lying if I didn't get a little teary eyed. I make fun of my mom for tearing up (jokingly, of course) but I do it myself sometimes, too. They're great people - funny and fun to be with. Besides some notable bumps in the road, we got along swimmingly as usual. They leave a sort of gaping hole in my life once they're gone, which it takes 24-48 hours getting used to.

I'm now on hour 26. The realization of just exactly how much work I had been neglecting hit home yesterday, and I had a mini panic-attack around noon. I haven't seen any of my friends for 10 days, and I'm having a hard time getting back in the social circuit. W eird how that happens.

In the meantime, I'm playing catch up for at least another three days.

I've been to London several times before, but each time I like it more and more. Besides missing my parents something awful (I most often go to London either with them or to see them), I had a great time during my 2-day trip. A few thoughts:

1. I witnessed a magical moment in the Underground. As the people filed off the train and went towards the escalators, there was a bit of a traffic jam. I was shocked when I realized that everyone was waiting to get on the right side of the escalator, thereby still allowing for those in a hurry to get by on the left. The Londoners (?) actually got in a single file line (in fact, they queued up) on the right-hand side. I cannot even explain what kind of an effect this had on me. I am constantly amazed by the apparently genetic inability to wait in line properly that is passed down from Frenchie to Frenchie. If we had been in Paris, everyone would have smooshed onto the escalator - taking up both left and right sides - and then those in a hurry would have huffed and puffed and made their annoyance clearly known to the others on the escalor. Nobody would have done anything about it, of course, but someobody would have to make a big scene. Just for added tension.

But to create a line for just the right side of the escalator? Allowing those in a rush the space they need to walk up the escalator? How polite! How practical! How British!

2. So it's official: those UK fellas are hawt. Ok, not all of them, but I found myself silently approving many a man as I went about my business. I think there's something in the blend of styles that I appreciate: American men are too burly and gregarious for my taste; French men are too whiny and effeminate. But the men I saw in London had the perfect combo; many were tall and broad-shouldered, but they were stylish and not afraid to wear a scarf. Of course, the accent just does wonders for their sex appeal. I regularly thought to myself that if something goes wrong with The Boy, I'm crossing the Channel to find myself someone who speaks my language, but sexily.

3. I ran into a friend of mine from Paris (T-Man) while in London. I know! How cosmopolitan! He was there for the same professional reasons as myself, so we chatted business and agreed on dinner later that evening. I know! I know! It was like something that real adults would do, right?

So we went out and spent the entire evening speaking English - hilarious considering I've only spoken to him in French for the last two years. It was a great evening; we had Thai and sort of splurged on a bottle of South African wine (Thai and South African wine... interesting combo for me, too).

When T-Man drank the wine, he made a face and said "It's not like French wines," and I got a little worried that we had splurged on crap.

"How do you mean?" I asked, and he said, "Just... just try it. You'll see..."

And I did, and I said, "Yeah, you're right. Totally different."

I took another sip and said, "Actually, I really like it..." a little worried about offending T-Man and his precious French taste.

"I LOVE it," he said, in all seriousness, and then jokingly made a signal to order another bottle.

But we stuck to one bottle, as apparently T-Man rarely drinks. He was adorably tipsy by the end of the meal, taking pains to maintain accurate English phonetics (the work "bankrupt" proved particularly difficult).

4. Oh yeah. The whole "professional" part of the trip went well. Really well. We've been struggling to accomplish stuff in France for the last two months. As we finally got through to some people in the last few weeks, The Boy and I were congratulating each other for sticking it out and making ourselves heard. Funny thing, though. I got as much done and more in 24 hours in London. There really is a huge difference - culturally - in the ways of doing business between the two countries. The French should really, really be ashamed. I was honestly embarrassed for my adopted homeland. And I seriously considered picking ourselves up and plopping ourselves over there. It's just RIDICULOUS how hard it is to get shit done here, and eye-opening to see how easily things can be accomplished in the UK.

Perfect example: we're in touch with a publisher in France who is pretty important. They have something like 200,000 books, and we're interested in a signficant portion of them. The Boy went to their offices to talk business with them, and it turns out they only have ONE computer in their entire office, nay, their entire WAREHOUSE. That means all of their books, all of their catalogues, all of their information is only availalbe ON PAPER. This presents a huge problem for us, as we need all info in electronic form. The Boy offered some services to set up a database for them; we're still waiting to hear back from them several weeks later. Typical French problem with the typical French time delay.

On the flip side, yesterday, I went to see a small-scale publisher based in the UK. Technically, they are an umbrella association bringing together even smaller-scale publishers from around the world. Tiny company, really. So I discussed some stuff with them, and they agreed to work with us (realizing right away that it's in their best interest to do so... something the Frenchies are still getting tripped up on). She forked over a catalogue or two, and then said, "Actually, would you prefer I just sent the whole thing to you by email? That way you can just funnel it into the database however you see fit." I think I might have actually heard the angels sing "Hallelujah!"

5. I saw Tony Blair on "Parkinson" on Saturday night. It was a RIOT. I was actually laughing out loud, alone in my hotel room (which, I will point out was in the basement. I had the cheapest room in a budget hotel, and my room had no windows. Sort of weird, really). I've never actually had an opinion on Tony Blair; I guess I was too busy spending my time obsessing over our own incompetent leader whenever I saw the two in a press conference. However, I found him unquestionably charming and level-headed, and I actually never wanted to damn interview to end. Kevin Spacey was the other guest, and he provided some amusing remarks as well, but Tony Blair really stole the show. He has a great sense of humor, or at least he did that night. Everybody was all up in arms about the comments he made about God in the interview, but I didn't find them shocking in the least. But then again, I guess I've been broken in by Bush and his own remarks on the subject.

I still don't have my luggage yet. We are three days from my arrival date, and still no equipaje. I'm having a harder time with this whole just-take-life-as-it-comes philosophy I thought I should incorporate into my life (see previous post) than I had thought I would. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that all of my underwear is stuck in a bag in some mysterious airport.

Did you catch that last bit? Yeah, not only have my bags not arrived, but NOBODY KNOWS WHERE THEY ARE. The Airport Baggage Expert Man informed me, "Yes, normally at this point we would be at least about to locate your bags, but they're not even showing up as being in the system." The outlook is grim. ABEM closed the conversation by saying, "While I'm sure you're not exactly comfortable, don't start panicking yet..."

First of all, the phrasing is not exactly comforting. Second, doesn't he know that I have all of my Christmas presents in there? I hate to sound greedy, but damnit I want to try out my new pots and pans. I told The Boy I was upset that I might never get to see my new pots and pans again, and he said, "Think of all the poor people in India." Normally this sort of phrase just annoys me, but today I felt justified. What a cruel joke to at least SHOW me that I would have new pots and pans (and a new cutting board, and new books, and some yummy teas, and. and! AND!) but then yank them out from under me.

Airport Baggage Expert Man told me that they don't start worrying until 5 days post lost-baggage claim. I tried calling American Airlines again today just to double-check and ABEM was not kidding: they have no idea where my bags are. They're just nowhere to be found. They could be in one of three places: Chicago, London, or some theif's living room.

Let's pray for one of the first two options, mmmkay?

A fair amount of this past trip home was spent wondering what I am doing with my life. I ask myself this question frequently. The first week of my vacation was luxurious - I read and watched TV and generally spent my time rediscovering what it's like to live with little stress and a full night's sleep. Most mornings, I would get up before or around seven. Most nights, I was in bed before or around ten. It's amazing to spend an entire day with sufficient energy. It made me realize that, if given the choice, I am an early riser and that my lifestyle here is not conducive to getting enough sleep. Something needs to change. Sleep is an awesome natural force.

In some ways, I was dreading the return to Paris. I can honestly look around at my life right now and say I'm overwhelmed. It was so nice to not have to run around all day, to not have my usual worries plaguing me. Taking myself out of my everyday life for a few weeks was revealing: I can live better than this.

However, I did want to come back. I missed The Boy, of course, and I have things here I am excited about. Although I loved spending time with my parents, there are small inconveniences - namely that I'm not in my own home and that my mom kept putting out bowls of readily available chocolates.

With mixed emotions, I went to the Detroit airport yesterday morning, saying hurried goodbyes to my parents and dog. At check-in, the woman told me that my flight would be delayed, and that I woud most likely miss my connection in Chicago. I envisioned a repeat experience of my westbound flight two weeks prior, and told myself to remain calm. The worst case scenario would have me stuck in London overnight -- it would be a pain, but there are worse things in life.

I was told to just wait until I got to Chicago to make arrangements. My flight out of Detroit was delayed almost an hour, and the plane landed at almost 6.00 pm exactly. My flight to Paris was to leave at 6.05. The nice man sitting next to me told me he would ask the woman at the gate to call the other (Paris-bound) gate to let them know I was running to the flight. I think he saved me -- I showed up and asked if I could still board, and the flight attendant said, "Yes! Are you Lee?" When I said yes, she exclaimed, "Nice hussle!"

So I made it, and my luggage didn't. This was absolutely to most ideal situation, as my luggage was too heavy and bulky for me to consider riding home on the trains with it. I was going to have to fork over the 50 euros for a cab, and that was sort of killing me inside. Instead, my bags will be delivered to my apartment tomorrow, and I rode the train home free (using up my last day of my Carte Imagine'R) of charge and free of baggage.

Walking into my house, I took note: yes, The Boy has not exactly been tidy in my absence. But overall, the place was cozy and I was happy to come home. The Boy was still sleeping, so I snuggled into bed and he made a face that said, "What IS that?" in his sleep. Then he mumbled something, put his arm around me, and said, "La Frontera..." quietly, before shooting up in bed and saying, "LA FRONTERA!" when he realized what was happening.

Then I passed out for six hours.

I'm taking the entire journey as a metaphor. I was a little on edge before the trip. The heavy bags, the close connection at Chicago, the general fears about coming back to my crazed schedule here. But I was oddly zen from the moment I checked in, and remained so until I wiggled my way into my bed this morning. I'm going to do my best to remain in this state - to get enough sleep and to not rush myself all the time. If I have to cut back on something, I'm going to do it with as little guilt as possible. During this trip, I have realized that I need to slow down, and damnit, I'm gonna try.

As evidence of my new attempts at peaceful living, I am spending New Year's ordering food in. We may drink a bottle of wine, and we may not. I am already in my pajamas, it is not yet nine at night. I don't feel like talking to anybody or going out... and I won't. Just me and The Boy, with one of us struggling to make it to midnight awake. Hey, maybe it means I'll get up at seven tomorrow, jet-lag free...

Happy New Year's to everyone!

I made it. Let me just say: I hate Chicago-O'Hare. I have slept in that airport due to snow storms. I should have known not to pass through there again.

Let me give you a breakdown of my travels:

2.00 am, morning of departure - Finish packing. Send final emails. Prepare paperwork to be sent on the way to airport.
2.40 - bedtime
3.30 - wake up to phone call from my father, worried about meeting points
4.00 - attempt to fall back asleep
5.00 - dream of missing my plane, wake up in panic
6.30 - wake up for real
7.30 - leave house, after discovering some odd sort of goop leftover on my suitcase from the last trek to the airport. Scrub, scrub, but damnit, I'm going to have to deal with the goop because it's there to stay.
8.10 - show up at neighbor's to pick up (the famous - in certain circles) jillyc, to trek to airport together. She has heavy bags, so I carry one. We embark.
8.20 - We stop to catch our breath. Did I mention the heaviness of the bags? Yeah...
8.30 - More breathing required. After being sick for several days, my muscles are working on 50%. Plus, I am painfully aware that I have 0 nutrients in my system.
8.30 - 9.15 - Lots of train changing, stair-climbing, and breath-catching.
9.15 - We learn that the train going to the airport is, in fact, never going to actually go to the airport. The workers are on strike, so we opt to take a cab. Fuckers. Had we known, we wouldn't have destroyed our back muscles in the metro for an hour.
10.15 - Arrive at airport and meet up with the FellowMichigander
10.15-12.00 - Hang around the airport in our exhausted delirium.
12.00 - Seperate to go to our respective check-in counters. Mine is just beyond the terminal that has been closed off due to a bomb threat. Great. I opt to walk outside to the terminal.
12.30 - 13.30 - Check in and stand in longest security line ever. French woman tries to cut in front of me and the 55 people waiting behind me and I am not about to let that shit fly.
13.30 (Paris time)-17.00(Chicago time) - Air time. This is definetly the best part of my travels. I watch 'Mona Lisa Smile' and 'Madagascar' and two episodes of 'The Amazing Race.' I recognize that I am hormally at a fulcrum when I start crying at how beautiful the ostriches are on 'The Amazing Race', and then cry AGAIN when the husband in one of the couples cheers his wife on in the most supportive and adorable way. Nine hours and fifty minutes of air time pass, but oddly, I don't sleep. For the first time in days, however, the food stays in my system. I actually have a moment where I feel wholly and entirely content as a result of the food.

Already I am exhausted. But wait, it gets better.

17.00 Knowing I have a connection to make at 17.45, I freak out at customs. I get my bag and run, check it in, and book it for the other terminal. I get there at 17.20 and know I still have to pass through security before getting to my gate. Time is short, but I check to see which gate I need, exactly. It's not on the screen.
17.22 - I ask the woman at the American Airlines desk why my plane isn't on the screen. She tells me because it's been cancelled.
17.22 - 21.30 I wait for the later flight. Somewhere in there, I buy a smoothie. I do my best not to fall asleep in the lounge. My biggest fear is missing my flight. I desperately want to be in a bed, any bed, but I know I don't want to spend another night at O'Hare if I can help it.
21.45 - I learn that my flight is going to be an hour late. I have a deranged conversation with the guy sitting next to me, and I can't tell if he's being weird or if I am just wacky because I am so sleep-deprived. I buy some Mentos.
22.45 - We board.
1.30 am (Detroit time) We land, and much to my glee, my dad is waiting there for me.

In total, I travelled over 24 straight hours, and I only slept about 30 minutes. And that was going on only three or four hours of sleep from the night before. Last night, we got back from the airport and I got settled in, and was in bed and asleep by 2.30. Despite myself, I woke up at 9.00 this morning, so I'm thinking tonight I will be in bed by 20.00.

Regardless, I am here, and am so happy to be so. My parents' house is such a nice place to just BE. I made myself some fresh coffee, took the dog for a walk (there are 6-8 inches of beautiful, brand-new snow on the ground, and there is that blessed post-snow quiet), shovelled the driveway, and watched a re-run of the 'The Daily Show.'

Tomorrow, I think I'll get some work done, and hopefully do some more on Sunday. Monday, I hope to finish my Christmas shopping. Mainly, I just want to sit and be mellow.

I'm going to go get my knitting now, and sit down to watch some Mexican soap operas. I'm not a big soap opera fan, but it's way easier to follow the Spanish in a soap opera than the Spanish on a talk show or the news, which are my two other options. I like to get in practice.

I have been absent from this site for two reasons: one, because the domain name expired and I forgot to renew it (anybody know how many days it was down?) and two, because I have the greatest parents in the world.

Last week was my 26th birthday. It was honestly a rather somber affair -- everybody besides my brother (and parents) forgot. Fortunately, I had little time to be upset about it because my parents flew into town, and we left the following day to spend some time in London.

Dad had to work, but mom and I absolutely trampled the city - we must have covered a third of it on foot. I have to admire how well my mom held up - I'm thirty-five years her junior and my legs were wobbling by the time we got back to our hotel. However, we only rested a wee bit, as we had tickets to see "Guys and Dolls" (with Ewan MacGregor, no less!), so we charged our way (again, on foot!) over to Picadilly Circus for an entertaining evening.

The next day we managed to shop a bit (surprise, surprise) before flying back to Paris in the evening, the three of us hungry, tired, and dreading getting back to the airport - once again - the following morning.

But we did. We met up at 6.30, watching Paris come to life. After five hours of sleep, we had a coffee before getting back on the train, and then the plane. A few hours later, we found ourselves in Rome.

And we spent three lovely days there. We wore ourselves out, but also managed to eat lots of ice cream and drink enough cappucino to not feel stressed or over-tourisized. We giggled a lot, did crosswords, spent a day at the Vatican, another at Pompei, and putzed around on the streets. And the Gods (Greek, Roman, or otherwise) were obviously smiling down on us because we had picture-perfect weather throughout our entire trip. It felt like spring, but in October. It was an amazing time to visit Rome - much preferred to what I imagine could be a sweltering summer trip.

Two small remarks to sum things up:

1. Italians? They're really quite nice. I was surprised that even in the biggest, most annoyingly tourist-filled areas, the waiters/servers/etc all did their jobs with a smile. Even with laughter, sometimes. Maybe it's just because I come from the land of the freakishly reserved, but I found the Italians to be incredibly sweet.

2. My parents? Really great people. Considering I just spent a week straight with them, going from over-caffeinated to extremely tired and grumpy, we managed to get along swimmingly. They really are fun to travel with, and I feel lucky to be able to say that I get along with them like friends, not just as parents/daughter. We had lots of fun, and I would go again in a heartbeat.

So now I have a rather busy week ahead of me: school is starting and I have to sort out my work schedule, and I have random errands to run. But mom is here until Thursday, and I'm determined to make the most of her visit. Dad left for Beijing yesterday, and it already feels a little sad without him. When mom leaves it might just feel downright empty.

Anyway, all-in-all, a great way to spend the first week of my 26th year. I have no complaints, except that I wish every year could start of this way...

I had a seven hour layover in Heathrow. I was dreading it, but I went into the Business Class lounge (because I flew back in style, too, yo) and curled up in a chair and slept for six straight hours, waking only when an elderly woman getting out of her wheelchair whacked my head with her cane. I was so tired that I just mumbled a "It's fine, you didn't hurt me..." as she apologized profusely.

Upon my return to Paris, I found The Boy sleeping in bed. Yes, he was asleep at 19.00 (he had gone to bed at 6 am and has been sick for the last three days), and when I bent over to kiss him hello, he didn't make a move. Then, ten seconds later, like a freaked-out cat, he jumped up. He thought there was an intruder in the house, and smiled a big sleepy smile when he realized it was just me. I snuggled into him and he slowly woke up; it felt so nice to be in our bed and sleepy. I think I also just needed the physical closeness for a bit.

Things got really rough towards the end of my trip, and there was one point where I was ready to just get a taxi and go to the airport. I stuck around, however, and no matter how awkward and uncomfortable that got at moments, I'm glad I did. Although I'm still hurt and confused, I think the air has cleared a bit... or something. Honestly, I don't know what to think anymore.

I don't know. So much sadness. But I can't dwell. I've got too much to do.

My mom was supposed to teach me to sew yesterday, but when we went downstairs, we began talking about the basement layout instead. This turned into an all-day project, reorganizing furniture and demantling and reassembling the desk. It looks better, and was sorta fun. The theme of this vacation, apparently, is that new houses can be a really enjoyable experience.

Here I am, for example, in New Mexico, staying at the house of the boyfriend of my best friend from high school. He bought the place, and that makes me sort of sick because he's my age and has a house that comes equipped with two adorable Huskies. They are literally the sweetest balls of fur on Earth... all soft squishiness and snuggledom.

So THAT'S the second part of the trip: dogs. In my dog-starved normal life, petting a canine is an event. Here in the States, it's the norm. And a beautiful one at that.

I've decided to extend my trip by a few days. It seemed too short, anyway, and my mom still has to teach me to sew. I discovered the shit ton of various gluten-free flours available at Whole Foods, and I have already baked some convincing chocolate chip cookies - but I need to try some other recipes. The sweater I am knitting is half-finished, so I need some more hours in front of the television with my yarn. These are the things on my agenda for the upcoming week.

When I go back to Paris, I will have to whip out the 100-page thesis I have yet to begin writing. Can you blame me for wanting to stay on this side of the ocean a little longer?

I am using a dinosaur to type this entry. Not only do my parents still have dial-up (Hello Patience! I rediscovered you today!), but their keyboard is also American (wha...) and I keep messing up my letters.

So this will be short.

Briefly: being home is nice, as always. I am reading and jogging - two things I generally like to do but seem never to have enough free time to do them in my everyday life. Portland was beautiful, and it was even more beautiful to see my beautiful sister so happy. She seems she's at a good place in her life, and it's so great to be a part of that for a few days. Plus, I love her dog and her house, and I ate some vegan cornmeal pancakes that were damn tasty. She keeps pushing Portland on me (and my parents, I think), but as I said in the ride to the airport, the city pretty much sells itself. The vegan pancakes are just a bonus.

Now I am back in Michigan and the weather is beautiful. I have spent most of this vacation getting up early, going for jogs, having a coffee then SHOPPING. Then I come home, walk to the dog, read some, do a crossword, play Jeopardy! and putz around until bedtime. Which is, you know, somewhere around 10:00.

I could get used to this.

Oh! And? First-class? REEEEAAALLLLLY nice. They served smoked salmon, people. It was lovely (say that with a British accent, cause I was on British Air). It was especially nice because I missed the airline strike by 24ish hours. I don't think my first-class travels would have been so glamorous if they had been accompanied by a days' wait at the airport.

Next, it's on to Alberquerque. No idea how to spell that, to be honest. Maybe I'll find out when I get there?

I'm off tomorrow to fly (first class!) to Detroit to see my parents. I'm excited because I am going to sit in a comfortable chair (first class!) and watch movies (in first class!) for several hours.

This is probably the first time I have actually looked forward to the FLYING part of travel. It might have something to do with sitting in MASSAGING, RECLINING chairs with on-demand videos an arm's reach away. That's first class (!) for you.

Not that I'm excited or anything. I'm totally, ahem... um... used to first class travel. Yeah. This is totally not a big deal to me. At all.

In fact, last time I flew home, I got bumped up. I tried to play cool - I fly first class all the time and what have you - but when I couldn't figure out how to operate the damn chair, I gave myself away to the guy next to me. By the end of the flight, he was teaching me about getting an extra helping of sorbet, which was rockin'. THEY FEED YOU SORBET IN FIRST CLASS, PEOPLE. Not ice cream sandwiches. SOR. BET. Mango flavored, too.

This time, I'm just going to kick back. If I have to ask the damn stewardess to show me how to use the chair, so be it. Hopefully she'll give me a manicure, too. You never know what's possible beyond that curtain.

I don't want to sleep on this trip. Too much first-classness to be enjoyed. Ironically, I know this is going to be the one trip I'll sleep like a baby on. I can feel it. Those fully-reclining chairs are like that for a reason.

It's gonna be tough.

Because I have this strange obsession with being REALLY early for flights (don't tell me I'm alone here), I have to keep this short.

1. Didn't fail my exam. In fact, I prepared two questions, praying that they would be on the exam. They were. Maybe not flying colors, but the colors were definetly sort of waving in the sky, if you will.

3. Immediately after I breathed a sigh of relief after the exam (literally... I was sort of surprised to hear it as I did it) I went to hand in my paper and book at the library. I finished that task, and felt free as a bird. Then I promptly fell down the stairs. Sort of ruined the moment.

4. Did anybody else notice that I totally skipped number 2?

5. It is VERY hot in Paris, and I am thinking it will be toasty in Italy. I have not had contact with my parents for a few days, so I am guessing the plan is just to meet up at the hotel? I have no idea. They're probably on board, though, so I guess I won't find out. It feels pretty funny to just fly to Italy, hoping that the people you are going to meet there are, well, there.

6. WonderBoy is really wonderful. I always get so sad when I have to leave him. After almost six years together, I think that's a blessing in disguise.

I am back from Prague and thus back to the normal life. Mom left this morning, which was sad for two reasons. One, it meant that mom would be gone, and two, it meant that I have to start doing things other than sip coffee and work on crossword puzzles.

The madre and I agree on Prague: it's a beautiful city that has been completely and totally hijacked by tourists. Shame, really, but I suppose that's what happens to precious things these days. With a little advertising, Prague has made itself a tourist haven (and I am sure quite a profit), which is good for the city but bad for its charm

Mom summed it up by saying, "Prague is sort of like a cold, rainy Florence." And although that's a bit simplistic (ya ya, different architure, different culture, different people...), there's some truth to it. The bridge is the main attraction. The buildings are cool. The place is swarming with tourits. And puppets are on sale everywhere.

I think Prague is worth a visit, but not a long one. We felt our two full days there were the perfect amount of time, although had the weather been a bit nicer I am sure we could have whiled away another day just sitting on a cafe terrace, guessing the nationalities of passersby. But I wouldn't go out of the 2-3 day range. There are only so many strangers' home videos you want to be a part of, you know?

Also, another tip: if you're going to Prague and you want to visit the Jewish neighborhood, don't save that little excursion for a Saturday.

The real deal of this story is that I enjoy hanging out with my mom, no matter where we are. I feel very lucky to be able to say that. And that's the great part about the trip, outside of discovering a new, beautiful city. We giggled a lot, and we bitched about the rain, too. We talked about some serious things, and some not-so-serious things, and we walked in silence, and we bitched about the rain again, and we did another crossword, and we rested our feet when needed, and we poked fun at one another, and we occasionally got on one another's nerves, and we miraculously avoided going on a massive shopping spree, and we ate good food, and we spent a fast and fabulous week together.

About Czech food: I like cabbage.

Anyway. Usually after a visitor goes, I feel a sort of relief, as in, "Oh that was fun but it's nice to be able to go back to my normal life." But you know what? I would really like it if my mom always lived down the street from me. And maybe my dad, as well, because I love him and how many times he called "just to say hi" a whole lot, too. It's great to be 25 years old and to want your parents to live a block away.

(Their solution to that would be to move back to Michigan. I suggested they buy a house in France. Obviously, we're in a bit of a bind here.)

And, finally, totally unrelated: my mom brought me lots of knitting stuff - well, enough for two projects anyway. It is going to be a knitting extravaganza here! Also, I have several books to read, some courtesy of mom, some from my recent trip to the English bookstore. And? My tortilla press came in mom's bag, too, so tortilla experimentation will be had in my kitchen.

In other words, I feel fully prepared to start working on my thesis now.

Mom and I are off to Prague now. She came with yarn for me, so this means that I will be knitting on the train to the airport, knitting while waiting for the plane, and knitting on the plane. I think I will put down the needles for the first few minutes in Prague, but I am taking it as a good sign that I am already looking forward to the transit part. I hope the city is as pretty as everyone says... we've got rain on the forecast for the weekend but, as mom said, "Nothing can stop us."

I technically have work to do, and I don't know when I am going to find the time to do it, so I'm not bringing any of it with me. Just my knitting needles and some books, and good walking shoes to get to know Prague in. It will be great to take a mini-break.

Just rediscovered this picture after uploading the rainbows for the previous post. This picture is of me in Cambodia at Angkor Wat. God, I really loved that trip. The pictures make me so happy it's sort of ridiculous. Stumbling across the pix on my camera, I realize I have never published them on the site. I'll get there some day. I want them recorded somewhere, not just stocked on my machine.

When I was little, I remember having a love/hate relationship with the last few streets leading up to my house. Ordinarily, I would wish and hope that we would move to a new house soon, because frankly I was sick of the same old route back to our boring, fake-tudor house. It was the only house I had ever known, and I wanted to move just because I was restless and wanted change. I felt like I had seen every house and inspected every detail of our neighborhood, and I wanted something new and different to contemplate. It bored me to see the same signs leading up to our subdivision, I grew tired of knowing exactly where the bumps were in the road.

But then, there were the times - usually after a long vacation - when we would head home on one of our usual routes and I would feel a strange sort of love for it. Always after a long absence, I would fill up with a quiet happiness once I began recognizing street names and stores. Once we would get to the point where I could have dictated the rest of the way to the house, I would know our home and all the things I knew were just around the corner.

It was a physical feeling, somewhere in the pit of my stomach. Recognizing something as "home" becomes something beyond cerebral at a certain point. It's not exactly explainable, but I'm sure everybody has felt this so I'm not going to bother trying.

Knowing how to point the garage door opener just right, stealing the key from the special rock, or pulling the mail out of the cranky old mailbox. These are daily things we learn to associate with a feeling of homeness. Added to these are the streets and people who make up our neighborhood, and the feeling of "home" extends outward from there.

It was strange coming home - back to Paris - today. I had the same feeling as when I was little. It was also the same feeling I used to have when going back to visit my parents - while they were still living in the house I spent my adolescence in. I still get this feeling when driving along the usual streets heading towards my grandparents' house. It is the recognition and comfort of a place I know as home.

I was not even gone 48 hours, but it has been a whirlwind. I went all over London, navigating much of the city with pounds and pounds of books and catalogues and information on my back. More importantly, my mind has been spinning with hundreds of questions, and even the occasional answer.

Where yesterday I was numb and strangely exhausted, today I woke up alive and incredibly happy. I feel as if a coin has been flipped, and after months of landing on heads, I am finally seeing tails. Or tales, of course. I suppose we'll have to wait and see.

I was ready to come home. I bumped up my train by a few hours, and spent the remainder of the day walking throughout London, from store to store with my backpack on. By 13.00, my back was breaking and I opted to stop the madness and sit in a Starbucks watching London walk by.

On the train I slept and read and ignored the nasty looks from the French woman across the aisle. I don't think she approved of my having taken off my shoes and putting my feet up on the seat next to me, but damnit I was comfortable.

And then we got in at the Gare du Nord and I felt warm - happy as I would while drinking hot cocoa in front of a fireplace: the recognition was settling in. Walking off the platform, I remembered the first time I came to pick up The Boy from Belgium, waiting to meet him at the same spot. How I waited nervously on the bench, how I saw him and his red scarf coming from far away, how happy he was to see me, how crazy we were about one another. We still are, but five months into a relationship has a different tone than five years in, and I smiled at how far we've come together.

I had thought meditatively thoroughout the trainride. I considered how long I have been in Paris, how strange that it is my home, how funny it is that my on-my-way home feeling is the same no matter where I am, but that it is undeniable when I feel it. I felt happy, content, quiet.

Taking the metro back from the train station, I let myself get absorbed in my book. After a few rides in London, checking the stops and making sure my route was correct, it felt nice to ride the metro knowing exactly where to get off. I could ride the line 4 blindfolded, if forced.

I was excited to be home. I'll admit to having sent a sort of cheesy love letter to The Boy while I was in London. I missed him. I like to go on adventures by myself, and I know it's good for me to remain independent and carefree. However, I like to go on adventures with him too. He is my partner in crime, and my best friend. I couldn't wait to climb up to the six flights of stairs up to our apartment to give him a big hug and kiss after a few days' seperation.

Coming into my building, I discovered police officers throughout the the inside hallway. Concerned, I asked what had happened and I learned of the death of a neighbor, the only neighbor whose name I know and with whom I had had any contact.

I had envisioned a happy and cheesy homecoming, but it was somber and unexpectedly sad. I came up and told The Boy about what had happened, and we were both quiet for awhile.

While I don't want to make too much of my neighbor's passing here on this site (it's amazing how upsetting it's been to me, really), I do feel that it falls into things somehow. I have been euphoric, almost heavenly in my thinking recently. Death has a way of making things more corporal, bringing them back to earth. I think only by balancing the two of these will I find any sort of even footing. While it's dreamy and wonderful to think of Paris as home, things still go wrong. Life still slaps you in the face sometimes. While expecting a flowery, beautiful homecoming, it was a strangely familiar feeling to have that calmly pulled out from under me. In a strange way, I appreciate it. I feel it makes me less naive.

The last two days have been full of thinking and contemplation. I feel as if I am healing in some way, without exactly knowing why or what from. It feels a little like candlelight: it can be happy and warm or sad and sort of lonely, but it is there. It is comforting, and it is my home, both good and bad.

It's generally a good idea to get a good night's sleep before travel. If you can't manage to do that, try not to walk for (literally - aside from sitting down on the Tube a few times) for seven straight hours.

If you can't seem to do even that simple act, then try NOT to get a bed in a hostel that plays techno at all hours. Just try that. For additional happiness, you can nix the singing Italian girls, too.

Or, you can travel my way, eat puffed rice for dinner, and wait with every breath of your body for it to be past 9.00 so that you can drag your tired, aching body to bed.

I'm not blaming London, or even the hostel. My fault entirely (but the Italians don't help)

It looks like this year is going to be our second REALLY white Christmas. There is already a fair amount of snow, and we're supposed to have somewhere near eleven inches by tomorrow. Because most of the snow fell overnight, and because mom and I spent all day yesterday doing last-minute shopping, our game plan for today is to:

- sit inside
- knit
- bake cookies

What a perfect way to warm up for Christmas. The siblings show up this evening, we hope, provided the weather permits their planes to land. The house should smell like cooking calories by then.

I ran into Beccarah on my plane here from Paris. That was awesome. We took the whole flight together, and when we had to hand back the headphones before the movie we were both watching together was finished, I pulled out my own headphones and gave Beccarah one side and myself the other. That's what friends are for. Then we played interactive trivia with the rest of the plane for an hour.

The Boy called me yesterday morning at 7.30. He was so cute. For an otherwise usually unexpressive man (aren't they all, though?), he said, "I really hoped you were up already because I've been wanting to call for hours. I miss you! Lots!" It was such a nice way to start the day.

After eating breakfast and taking a shower, I turned on the TV and "Bend it Like Beckham" was on. I thought it strange to sit down and watch an entire film at 8.30 am, but damnit if that movie wasn't just the cutest thing I've seen this year. I started watching by saying to myself, "Oh, I'll just keep it on in the background while I get ready..." and twenty minutes later I was under my covers, curled up with the dog, watching it on the teeny television in the guest room. Heaven.

Lastly, I love America. I love that people know how to stand in coherent and ordered lines here. I love that customs took four minutes to get through. I love that the DMV renewed my licence in less than five minutes. I love that people make conversation with anyone and everyone. I love that some weirdo called me a "lucky sod' when I told him I didn't have a connecting flight to run to. I love that when I went to go buy a Christmas present at Border's, the guy there went way, way out of his way to help me. And I also love cable television.

Obviously, it's nice to be home. Mom and I are giggling a lot, the dog has taken to sleeping with me at night (with his cute little head on my feet), and I met up with some friends last night. Thus far, this has definetely been the break I needed.

On my way to the Mitten for vacation. It's cold in Paris but I debated not bringing my mittens with me when we went out to dinner last night. Something tells me that there's no hesitation of that sort in Michigan.

New York is a place like no other. I love it here and always have. This time around I feel I got a different glimpse of the city, but it's still a pleasant one. I'm also embarrasingly proud that I managed to navigate my way through town on foot and by subway without having to refer to maps or ask directions.

Today was spent in Brooklyn, and it looks like this trip I'm not even going to venture to Manhattan. Time constraints. But I was perfectly happy just staying around here, visiting with people and enjoying the beautiful weather.

I'm glad I freaked out a few days ago. I feel it's helping me see clearly and is now allowing me to fully enjoy myself. Portland was great, New York is great, I feel great.

I have mixed feelings about returning to France. I want to see The Boy... we have hardly spoken since I left and I'm anxious to get home to him. I can't wait to sleep in my own bed again and to know where all the dishes go in the kitchen. But I've gotten used to bumming around, just visiting people and sipping coffee. The idea of returning to a thesis paper looming somewhere in the distance is pretty unappealing, as is the thought of having to make some money somehow and figure out my plan of action concerning some major life-altering decisions.

But I feel I've got my head on straight again, so I can at least return home in good spirits. Thanks to Iramay and Brooklyn Babe for spending the day with me, and thanks to the Gringa for going the extra mile to head out to Brooklyn to come see me. And, of course, thanks to my brother and sister-in-law for shacking me up. I'd love to come back to New York to see you all soon.

The cruise ended and the family drove down to Portland. My brother, sister-in-law and I stopped off in Seattle for a nice visit with a friend of my brother's. I had never been to Seattle before, and I liked it. I was surprised by how sprawled out and un-city-like it was; it's the type of place where someone could own a house and have a yard while still having the luxuries of a reasonably large city.

Portland is also a fabulous place. I like it here a lot. The people are overwhelmingly nice (or maybe I've just been in Paris for too long) and there seems to be a nice bridge between city and small town that makes this place have the best of both worlds. The laid-back atmosphere is nice, and I've been enjoying time spent with my sister just chilling out and giggling.

It's always nice to see people in their real element. I can't believe she's lived here two years and I haven't managed to get out here. Next, I'm on to New York to hang with my brother and some friends for a bit before taking the plane back to France.

I've enjoyed my trip back to the US more than any other trip back. Sure, there was the mild breakdown on the cruise, but I think it was a good thing in the end. I realized some stuff about what I want to do, where I want to be, and how I want to get there. It might not be the easiest road, but I can't not take it just because I'm afraid.

Today I talked to a good friend from high school on the phone for a bit. I feel so lucky to still be in touch with my dawgs from Ace Deuce. I really feel that they're somehow integrated into my backbone. Most of the strength I have now has come from knowing them. I think I'll miss everyone more than usual when I head back to Europe in a few days. That can't be a bad thing, though, really.

We're gliding past glaciers as I type from my dad's laptop in the boat's web lounge. Yesterday we went canoeing and horseback riding, and coupled with the day before's aerobic workout and such, today my body hurts. But, on the positive side, I'm still having a good enough time with the family, despite our random bits of family spats. I'm starting to find them more and more amusing by the day.

There's too much readily available food on this boat, but Mom and I have decided to counteract the madness with some yoga and such. I like it, and I'm enjoying getting back into the swing of physical activity. It's prepping me for the intensive yoga I'm hoping to do back in Paris. I'm getting more and more excited about it by the day.

Well, I started typing this entry alone in a big, cold room and magically all eight members of my travelling crew have shown up. Concentration is impossible, so I'll try to find time to do this again later. Rargh. Never a minute alone. I'm not used to this and am beginning to feel a little overwhelmed.

I am off this morning to go to the most luxurious form of hell possible: my family - all of it - is taking a cruise to Alaska. It was Dad's idea, and it seems like a nice one. But then I realize that this means a week with four married couples. Me and four married couples. It's not the married part that bothers me, it's the couples part. It really sucks being the odd one out. I have a hard time stomaching it for two or three days at Christmas, and at least then I can rent a movie or close the door to my room. I'm not sure how this will work on a cruise boat. No TV. No door to my room (I'm sharing with my parents). No escqpe.

I'm sure I'll have a good time. I am just a spoiled brat who can't recognize a good cruise when she sees one. I just don't want to get all moody like I usually do when surrounded by happily married couples who don't have to deal with seperating from one's love on a regular basis. It's tough shit, people! Have a little sympathy and quit calling one another poopie-cutie names and snuggling so much! And it's not even their fault; it's my own uncontrollable anger-slash-annoyance that is the worst part of it. I'm really going to try to stay zen.

I also hear that the median age of these cruise thingies is pretty high. So I'm going to be doing some water aerobics and the like as well, I think. Looking forward to it.

I also think I'm going to try to go horseback riding. It's an optional excursion, and I haven't done any horseback riding since I was a teenager. I think I'd like it. Unfortunately, my entire wardrobe is made up of tank tops, and I saw the horseback riding pictures and I definetly saw snow on the ground, wherever it is they go. So I might freeze my little boo tay off.

Other than that, I'm not so sure what I'll do. I was planning on evening out my tan, as superficial as it is, for a solid week. But then I learned that it's just around 70 in Alaska. So that's shot. Luckily, I have many books. I will read them poolside. At the indoor pool. It's almost the same thing as tanning.

Totally unrelated: I watched Ellen Degeneres' show yesterday. That is some funny shit right there. And I don't even like daytime tv.

Dad just called me with news that the whole family is going on a cruise to Alaska this August. Where this sudden burst of generosity is coming from, I am still not sure, but it's amazing.

My only reservation about this trip was that I'm getting very, very tired of being the seventh wheel. This Christmas was particularly hard on me, but every holiday in the past few years has been tinged with a bit of sadness in that regard. I just hate that The Boy has never been able to do anything with me or my family. I miss him that much more when I am with them because his absence is so pronounced when everyone else is holding hands with their lovey and I am just chilling by myself with my book.

So yeah. Dad suggested a room breakdown for the cruise ship that would go as follows: sister and brother-in-law in one room, brother and sister-in-law in another, and me and my parents sharing a suite. I don't want to sound like a stuck-up little whiner because, hell, a cruise boat is a cruise boat. But it always makes me a little sad to do these kinds of "family" vacation things/events without my honey. And, being the kid who sleeps in the parents' room always makes me feel like I'm back to being six years old. It really does get me down - I hate to sound dramatic but I've fought back tears about it on several occasions. It's not that I mind sleeping in the same room with my parents. It's that I mind that I'm alone. The obviously wiser and cheaper decision is for me to sleep on the sofa bed.

So anyway, Dad and I agreed on dates and a reasonable itinerary. Now that The Boy has his passport, I asked Dad how possible it would be for him to join us. Dad said we should give it a whirl, and I said, "But I think he's afraid of boats."

Still, I hung up the phone and asked The Boy if he would be want to come. I had asked him this a few months ago, when Dad first brought up the idea of a possible cruise with me, and The Boy had answered, "I hate flying. Go by yourself." I was a little hurt, but I also figured that he was only saying that because he wasn't sure if he would have his passport by then. Self-preservation, wha.

So, today when I asked him for the second time, I didn't really know what his answer would be. But, he got really excited and said he would love to go. He even clapped his hands and did a little drumbeat on the table. So we're going to try and see if we can get the papers in order for him to go with us. I would be so, so happy if he could! I don't know what I would be happier about: The Boy getting to see where I'm from and spend some time in the States with me, or him joining us on the cruise. Please keep your fingers crossed that the American government doesn't deny him a visa. Unfortunately, it's highly possible. But maybe we'll get lucky.

Photos.

Be sure to shut each picture before looking at the next one, because I've cut some down in order to conserve photo space, which means that the sizes are all different. That could make certain photos get cut off or just look bad in general.

Also, if your name is Stacey or Laura or David and you're looking at this page, know that you'll be getting the full versions soon. I don't understand Laura's camera and why every picture comes out a different size, but that's what happened. They're all really, reeeelly long and in awkard formats. So I cut 'em down in all kindsa eff'd up ways.

Anyway, to those curious, have a look-see.

Unfortunately, we didn't take any photos while staying with friends in Dakar the first time around. I suppose the camera wasn't on hand, or the madness of seeing one another after so long apart - and in Africa of all places - was too much for either Laura or I to get our act together and think of taking pictures. To be honest, I didn't take a single one of these pics - I'm horribly lazy when it comes to taking pictures while travelling. I always appreciate having the memories later, though, so all thanks goes to Laura in that regard.

So, that said, although we spent three days in Dakar staying with the lovely and hospitable Mireille, our photographic journey must begin elsewhere:

M'bour, Senegal. Diou Diou's relative owns some sort of resort home that they rent out to people, so we shacked up in what were some pretty cush lodgings for free as they happened to have an open night without customers. It pays to know people who know people, people. Stacey and Diou Diou did some dancing for us, while Laura realized how white trash it truly is to drink wine out of a carton. While there, I was hit with a wave of lovesickness for The Boy, and I called him. We both gushed at one another for awhile and I felt better about the fact that I was the seventh person on a three couples + 1 excursion. I didn't have too much time to feel sorry for myself, however, because we ate some food, took showers, and I passed out cold some time around midnight.

The next day we headed out to David's family's house, where we took most of these photos. We regularly headed out to the boutique to buy crap food, because Americans love cookies and pop no matter what part of the world they're in. On one such trip, on the way, we ran into Martin, who is rather dashing (you'll see what I mean in a minute - this picture doesn't do him justice). Look in the upper-left-hand corner: there's the guy we called I'mATeacher. For the life of me, I can't remember his real name. Anyway, I'mATeacher really wanted to get his own picture taken, so we couldn't help but oblige. At the time, I didn't realize that I'mATeacher was a regular at the family's house, I just thought he was some guy in the street who wanted his picture taken. Turns out Laura actually knew him, which made the whole situation less funny than I had thought it was. Still, he was very motivated for the photo. I actually just think that both of these photos are interesting because they show what the neighborhood we stayed in was like, the same neighborhood Laura currently lives in, although she is now a few blocks down.

Now, a few pictures of my favorite place to sit and drink tea, aka the family's terrace: Here is Daniel and I'mATeacher on the terrace, sitting in front of the laundry hanging to dry. These are two of the most endearing children I have seen in a long time, Christen (sp? - Laura just began referring to him as Our Cherub and I stuck to it) and Delphine, on their favorite toy. They were both incredible sweethearts. Oh, and remember Martin from the street? Am I right about the dashing-ness? And finally, this is the woman who runs this entire empire. Does she not just exude greatness?

I spent a lot of time in M'bour just sitting around, talking with friends and neighbors. Sometimes I did the sitting around on the patio, other times I did it on the street. Here's Blaze in the street, wisely sitting in the shade of the tree just outside the villa's gate. And here's another picture of The Cherub, with darling David. Natalie is in the background, working hard as ever. The girl never seemed to stop.

I was horribly sad to leave the little porch-land. This picture was taken on my last day, when I had to say good-bye to David. Of all the people in Senegal, David showed the most kindness and warmth of anybody, and that's really saying a lot. I will forever be in debt to him. My hope is that one day he can come to Paris (or wherever I'll be) and I can at least begin to tip the scales back towards something semi-balanced. I owe him, big time. He is truly an amazing soul - patient and caring and giving. I am so happy to see Laura has snagged herself a winner. He seemed sad to see me go, too, as you can tell in this picture of the two of us. He's almost always smiling, so I was surprised by the sullen look he has.

Instead, I prefer to remember him by this photo, when both of us are a bit more of our usual (in my case, freakish) selves.

And lastly, here is the divine place where we got to spend our final days, thanks in great part to Max, a friend of Stacey's. As you may or may not be able to see, by this point we had truly mastered the art of relaxation. Imagine some reggae music in your head as you feel the sun on your face, drinking La Gazelle in a mural-painted courtyard filled with flowery plants and sand. There was even a hammock. One couldn't ask for a better way to spend the last moments of an already perfect vacation.

Let me just take a moment to reiterate that these pictures were pretty much all taken in the same two days at M'bour. They only provide a miniscule little snapshot of the amazing things I saw and did while on my trip. They also, unfortunately, don't show how important Laura and Stacey were to me and my time out there, as they were the ones who taught to walk the walk and talk the talk. I love and thank you both, a million times over! (PS: I've managed to hold off on that final package of Biskrems. I want to see if they'll be doubly delicious with a little anticipation thrown into the mix.)

But also, thanks to all my new Senegalese friends: Hilaire, Mireille, Diou Diou, Tahir (aka The Intriguing Guy), Mama, Natalie, Daniel, Martin, Olivier, Blaze, I'mATeacher, the Pig Owner Dude, Max, Malick, and, most of all, David. You will all be hearing from me soon, but until then I send you my love! Thank you thank you thank you!

There was a time in my life when I thought one of the greatest and most enjoyable challenges was putting experience into words. Finding the perfect turn of phrase, recreating atmosphere, perhaps even making literary situations better than their corresponding reality. But now, back from Senegal, I know that such an exercise would be both exhausting and pointless. Words - in whatever order I may put them - will never, ever do my experience justice.

In Africa, when the moon is just a sliver, it smiles. Instead of being sliced vertically as it is in the north, the division is made through the width of the moon, with sections leaving the quarter-moon looking as if it has been rotated 90°. While I was there, the moon was hardly present at all, an upturned slit of light, smiling down at the Senegalese landscape.

This moon is a metaphor to me, as trying to reduce this past week into concrete words would most certainly deflate its beauty. The moon, for all its exoticism and mystery, is friendly and comforting in Senegal. It occurred to me, maybe 48 hours after landing, that somewhere deep down, I had been afraid to go to Africa. Subconciously, I had thought it was dangerous, frightening, the unknown. But it didn't even take the full two days for me to realize that everything anyone had ever told me - television and movies included - had been marvelously off-base. Senegal is perhaps the most wonderful place I have ever been, and what makes it so is the people who live there.

I have never encountered a more friendly and giving people. We had the good fortune of really living with Senegalese families, eating meals and sharing responsibilities, but mainly sharing laughter and smiles. I have walked away from this week with addresses and gifts and memories to last a lifetime. The kindness and generosity of the people I encountered was humbling: many of the people we met had next to nothing, but insisted on sharing it with us.

Children learn about sharing at an early age, and many of them - hardly able to walk or talk - already showed signs of their parents' generosity. Delphine, a two-year-old, would eat half her cracker and offer the other half to someone. Every single time. Generosity is ingrained in Senegalese culture like competition plays its part in everything American.

We met Mireille, a young woman whose husband is in the army in Gabon. She lives alone in a small room, equipped with just a bed. She does the cooking out on the balcony, most likely because the hallway is filled with neighboring families doing theirs. Water for bathing comes from a communal spout, put into a bucket that is then brought into a maketshift shower stall. Her life was stripped down to the bare essentials, and I realized while staying with her that, really, that is all one needs. Mireille insisted we sleep on her bed, while she took the floor. There was no arguing with her, we were her guests and she would not have it any other way. After spending a few days at her house, where every morning I woke up to the sounds of goats walking by and children playing, we headed to Mbour, a smaller town north of Dakar.

There we stayed with the family of Laura's (my American friend currently living in Senegal) boyfriend. We sat out on the terrace, telling jokes, drinking tea. On more than one occasion, the men from the family would accompany us out on excursions to be sure we were safe and taken care of. The warmth of this family was overwhelming and humbling.

It was in Mbour that I learned about true relaxation, about the ability to just sit back and enjoy the sun, the conversation, the smell in the air. We would wake up, greet everyone in the morning (in Senegal, greetings and handshakes are the backbone of social manners), sit around for awhile, eat some breakfast, sit around some more, eat lunch, and then eventually motivate to whatever small task we had planned for the day. Even when we did try to move quickly, people in the family always insisted we just sit back and relax a little more, stay home and enjoy some more conversation. It was never hard to convince us to do so.

I could go into the individual stories: the time we ran into Martin on the way to the market, the tailor who called me to wish me "bon voyage" after only having met me the day before, the day I spent two hours outside the house, just watching the goats and children walk by while the rest of the house was taking their afternoon nap. But I know, unfortunately, that telling these stories would never make it clear just how much this trip has changed me. I feel I've seen human kindness on a scale that simply doesn't exist in Europe or the United States. I also know that somewhere we all have the possibility to find this kindness within ourselves, no matter what culture we come from. I just hope I don't forget that, and I don't let the rather unfriendly Parisian attitude keep me from at least incorporating such kindness on a smaller scale in my daily life.

Pictures to come. For right now, despite all the wonders I discovered in Senegal, I am going through a bit of a post-trip depression, complete with a rather nasty reaction to some bacteria I managed to pick up while over there. They warn you about vegetables and water and peeled fruit and everything else under the sun, and rightly so. Something I ate got to me, and I've spent the last 48 hours going from the bed to the toilet and back again. But I feel it's a small price to pay. I'm scared to go back into Paris, where the people are cold and uncaring by comparison. For now, I am happy to remain in bed, remembering the kindness of strangers and smiling back at the memories.

So apparently I fucked things up tonight. I'm leaving for Senegal tomorrow, and that means a week away from The Boy.

Every time I have ever left on a trip before, I've asked if we could just spend "a nice night at home together." Inevitably this has always, in effect, meant doing our respective things (usually in front of respective computers) before maybe going out to dinner around 23.00. And although this is the way things have been for the last...oh... four years or so, apparently tonight was very different.

Tonight, it seems, we were supossed to spend a "nice night at home together," but it had to absolutely be before 23.00. Because I had friends over (Pennsylvania Boy came to pick up his pupster... sniff, sniff <-- tears of sadness, not the dog sniffing) and they stayed until, oh... 23.05. The Boy, for all the times he has said, "God, why are you making such a big deal about your leaving? We'll see each other in a few weeks..." and variations on that theme, was actually mad at me for not starting our "nice night at home together" earlier.

I didn't know these things had time limits. I was sorta going on history - nothing with The Boy involved has ever started before 23.00, unless it involves dinner with a visiting American. They always seem to think that 23.00 is too late to eat. But really, he's always busy until midnight or so. Then we gab. And usually eat. Then we sleep. This is the way it works. But I guess he wanted something different or more special or something this time around. Maybe he's just more nervous about my leaving this time, I dunno.

So anyway, I feel bad because I did sort of coming out like the ass. Even though, in my defense, he never told ME that we were going to have a nice evening together, and he never gave me a time frame to work with. But still, I could see how, in his perspective, I would hope that sort of thing would just be understood, and would want to spend precious hours with my beloved.

My bad.

Anyway, boy story aside, I'm off in fifteen hours. I'm actually going to my morning lecture and then continuing on to the airport from there. I figure, I'll be a semi-good student that way, even though I'll have to skip two lectures later in the afternoon in order to catch my flight. Hey, the earlier flight was cheaper. Back off.

I'm not sure if I'll be able to update from the road, but I'll try to give it a whirl if I get around to it. If not, I hope everybody has a good week, and I'll be posting when I get back.

Pennsylvania Boy just called and told me some great news: he's booked himself a ticket to head over to Ethiopia and Rwanda come March. We've both always had some sort of fascination with Rwanda, and although I'm painfully jealous, I'm also super-excited for him and his trip.

Talking to him also got me re-excited about all of my upcoming treks to new lands. My trip to Senegal is coming up in just a few weeks. The break will be at a good time - shortly after exams and two weeks into the new semester. I recently got an email from L-Boogie, my best friend from high school who has been living in Mali for the past few months and is on her way to Senegal as we speak. She sounds happier than ever, and I'm so excited that we're going to be meeting up in Dakar, of all places, after all this time.

Meanwhile, I just checked out ticket prices for my trip to southeast Asia this summer: tickets are down to as low as 670 euros! I'm freaking out, as this is almost half of what I had been mentally preparing myself to pay. I can't believe these prices, and I can't wait until my travel buddy (Kdogg) finally calls me back so that we can finalize dates. Everything will seem so much more real once I have dates/times down in my planner and can start the mental countdown.

Oh, and just another little thing to make me happy: I asked Pennsylvania Boy if he needs someone to take care of his pup, and he said he's all mine if I want him. Of course I do! Who can resist this face?

I've been feeling a bit low for the last 48 hours: not enough sleep, poor diet, and a few stress-related issues have sort of thrown me off-balance. It's nice to have some things to look forward to while I work my way outta this funk.

I have trouble writing on American keyboards now, so this is going to be short. I managed to finally talk to The Boy, he came around in the end. It's a good thing, too, because I hate leaving on a bad note. Luckily, we didn't.

I did, however, arrive on a bad note. My dad was waiting for me at the airport, and after I had given him a hug, he said, 'We're going to the emergency room.' My mom had gotten into a car accident earlier that afternoon, and had broken her arm. We're just thankful it wasn't any more serious than that. Still, not a good way to touch ground.

Since then, I've been running around visiting doctors (I have gotten five shots in the last 24 hours), getting new contacts (I can see at night now!), getting my haircut (for the first time since May), going to the grocery (Mom cqn't push the cart so well), rescuing things out of the car at the wrecking place, and visiting with good friends. Today, on the burner, is a trip to my mom's doctor's (she can't drive), a trip to the pharmacy, a trip to the dentist, a trip to the vet's, and somewhere in there I still have three Xmas presents left to buy.

This is a strange and unusual Christmas, for sure. We don't have a tree, and in the chaos, we're not planning on getting one. I may just have to make some Christmas cookies this evening to bring things back to feeling semi-holiday-like.

In Dublin, people say the "th" sound as more of a light "t." They end up saying things like, "I tink tat's te ticket." When the cab driver kept saying "tirteen," it came out more of a strange way of saying "dirty." He was describing the train tracks the city of Dublin is laying down to put their new tram system in place. Why the city would be so interested in putting in so many dirty tracks was a little baffling, but you never know with the Irish now, do ya?

Ay, but they're a nice lot. The 'rents and I visited the city and saw the sights this weekend, and although Dublin is a nice enough place, most of our energy was spent just enjoying one another's company and making fun of each other. That's true family fun. Mom's on crutches, which made movement a bit more difficult, but I don't think anybody seemed to mind: we were all on the same wavelength as to how much of an effort we really wanted to put into sightseeing. I was grateful for that, because, really, I didn't feel like hanging out in museums or the Guiness brewery, although both were options. Instead, we got coffee, wandered (hobbled, in Mom's case) around for a bit, bought some Irish goods, ate a lovely dinner, and called it a day. I guess I'm getting old, but I consider that to be a fabulous way to spend a Saturday in a new city. Sunday was equally as pleasant, although cut short because we had early evening flights to make.

I had just started getting into the relaxed pace of vacationing with my parents when I had to return to Paris. Upon arrival, I learned that:

1. I have to be at my first day of work tomorrow at 9.30. I haven't prepared a lesson yet, and I think I'll pretty much be winging it come tomorrow morning.

2. Someone killed himself today along the train tracks that would have taken me into the city from the airport. So instead I had to wait around for a whole lot longer in order to catch the overcrowded Air France shuttle bus. It's four euros more and takes twice as long, but ach... had to be done.

3. I have so much Arabic to prepare for Friday I think I'm flipping out! And I'm not really the type to flip out about homework! Our teacher sends us homework via email. Whoa nelly. I missed class on Friday (to take an afternoon flight to Dublin) and man, now I'm waaayyy behind.

So, for all the relaxation and good a nice weekend with my parents did me, it's back to the grind tomorrow morning.

The good thing is that I can now tell my English students that they shouldn't worry so much about pronouncing their "th"s anymore. They can just pretend they're Irish and say them as "t." No questions asked. That takes some of the pressure off me now, doesn't it?

Because I promised I would do this and it's only been, oh, I dunno, two months or so...here are a few of the pics of The Boy and me in Spain. The pics are all different sizes, so be sure to close them and re-click if you feel like you're only getting the upper corner of a picture. You probably are.

This is the two of us on the train. We had had two bottles of wine, and that combined with the motion of the train and the thrill of a new adventure made a perfect recipe for laughter. Here we're cracking up because I tried to tell him that I had a dangerous chin (do you see how pointy that thing is?) and I accidently said a semi-close word in French, which instead came out as, "Look out for my dangerous sheep!"

This is just one of the seven or fifteen gorgeous views we had from one of our hotel rooms. This particular view is in the mountaineous town of Jaen, where people have very-hard-to-understand accents and apparently no qualms about driving along curvy mountain roads at night. They go fast, man. And you can't see jack. Very frightening. Here is another amazing hotel view. Do you see how small the streets are in one of Spain's most charming cities, Arcos de la Frontera?

Here is the boy in the bathtub. If he ever checked my site, he would probably kill me for putting it up here, but lucky for me, that's not a problem. I just think this is the cutest picture ever.

This is probably one of four pictures ever taken of me that I actually like. Besides the fact that I'm very blue, and that my hair is doing that groovy styling thing hair does when you've been swimming in the ocean, I can see how happy I was sitting there, playing cards in that restaurant in Alicante, and that makes me like the pic.

Ronda was one of our favorite cities on the trip. This is a huge gorge, taken from the bridge going across it. Our hotel was just overlooking the gorge, which was pretty awesome. The Boy and I are standing on the other side of the gorge in this picture. We had some really funny German guy take it for us, because my family members keep saying they need a picture of the two of us. I wish this one wasn't so dark, because I otherwise really like it.

Maybe I should just give them this picture instead?

Honestly, though. Of all the pics, that last one's my fave.

We made it. We're safe. But we both have upset stomachs. We think the woman at the hotel tried to poison us because we have both had our share of stomach pains in the last 24 hours.

Still, the return was uneventful. I'll be posting pictures soon. I just can't decide which I want to do first: redesign Odessa Street or set up the pics. I think I might just redo Odessa Street. I'm very finicky about the looks of things around here. People seem to like it but I really feel the pages take for freakin ever to load.

I can't believe I got back only a few hours ago and I am already in front of the computer. And don't think I haven't been sitting here most of the morning.

The Boy and I stopped by Portugal and I got rather sick. My glands were so swollen that they could be seen with the naked eye, and I required my favorite Parisian remedy to feel better: lots of rum, lots of lemon, and some honey all heated up in a cup. Despite the miracle cure that my drink of choice is, nothing can beat the traditional medicine of sleep and rest. After two nights of consistently waking up hacking, we decided to lay low for another day in a small Portugese town called Aveiro, before taking of for Spain, in order to allow my body some time to recover.

Aveiro only has something like 17,000 people. It was small and dinky and not all that thrilling, but we stumbled upon an excellent restaurant nonetheless. In fact, the restaurant owner was so warm and inviting that we named the restaurant our favorite food joint yet (later to be beaten the next day in Salamanca, Spain).

The smiling, laid-back server/owner stopped by our table and said, "Spanish? English? German?" After establishing the relief of functional communication, he asked where we were from and the rest.

"France? Wow, you speak excellent English."
"So do you," I answered, "Although I´m American, so it´s really not that exciting that I do."

And so the night progressed. The restaurant allowed you to choose several tapas-like dishes as entrees and then a main course. The convivial and small-towny atmosphere was wonderful, and the owner kept smiling and telling us jokes. We chose our entrees and marvelled at their scrumptiousness. Then the waiter/owner came around and asked what we would like as our main course.

"Your choices are steak, mutton, or octopus."

Huh, I thought, and shook it off. See, I don´t eat read meat. And although I´ll snag a forkful of ham from time to time, there is no way I am ordering any mutton as a main course. However, enchanted by the situation and the kindness of the restaurant owner, I decided to take a leap.

"Octopus," I said, with more conviction than I really felt.

Fifteen minutes later I was staring at a healthy plate of octopus, something I have only eaten in small doses in salads. But, embracing the spirit of adventure and remaining open-minded, I spooned a forkful into my mouth.

Good God, it was absolutely disgusting.

"Do you like it?" asked The Boy.

I considered lying for a moment. But