So a weird thing happened on the way back from the movies last night. We went down to the Kabuki Theatre in Japan Town (five minutes from the apartment) to see Once, this cute little Irish film about a Dublin busker who falls for a girl from the Czech Republic who sells roses on the street. It was a lovely wee film; I recommend it.
But that is not the point of this story. The point is that on the way home we turned from Sutter Street into Presidio Street, just near the lot where Muni rests the city buses between shifts, and we passed this pale, long, rumpled lumpy thing lying in the road. It looked exactly like a body. It looked exactly like the body of a homeless person sleeping in a blanket in the middle lane.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I dunno. Whaddya think?" said Tim
"It doesn't look good," I said.
"No. Should we stop?"
"I think so."
"Yeah," said Tim, pulling over and parking.
A lady in a Beemer station wagon pulled up beside us. "Do you think that's, um, you know?" she asked, pointing back at the lump. "It's a bit short," she said, "for, uh, you know. But we should call someone." She pawed through her handbag and patted the passenger seat. "Do you have a phone?" she said. "I can't find mine."
"Have you got your phone on you?" Tim asked, turning towards me, possibly the least likely person in a three-block radius to have a cellphone, given my passionate loathing for them and the alacrity with which I lose mine and let the battery run down.
"Nup."
"I'll go have a look," said Tim, jumping out of the car. He walked back to the lump while the Beemer lady and I looked at each other and made worried faces.
"It looks a bit short for, uh, you know," she repeated.
"Yeah." I craned my neck to see Tim's reaction as he neared the lump. I thought I'd be able to sense if it was, uh, you know. But I couldn't. I twisted in my seat. I didn't think to remove my seat belt. It felt like 10 minutes, but it was probably two. Tim returned.
"Well?" I asked.
"I dunno. I called out, but nothing happened. There's a fire station up there." He pointed past the nose of our car, towards the corner. "I'm going to go tell them."
He took off in the dark; I watched until I couldn't see him any longer.
Two more cars passed the lump, slowed and stopped. Car doors opened. Three people gathered next to the lump. They yelled. They kicked the lump. It bounced into the air. They kicked as a group, three figures kicking in unison, and kicked it right to the curb.
Huh.
Meanwhile, Tim had returned from the fire station and jogged back to where the lump had been, to talk to the kickers. And then I heard a BLOOP emanating from the fire station. I turned and saw a red glow. BLOOP-BLOOP-GRURRRR. And then, like a bad joke, a fire engine eased out of the fire station, lights revolving, siren wailing, and drove a block towards us.
Beemer lady and I looked at each other. "I'm out of here," she said, accelerating towards the stoplight.
Tim and I watched the fire engine come to a stop near the kickers. BLOOP!
"It was a pillow," said Tim. "A big pillow."
"Nooo!" I said.
"Yeah."
And we laughed and laughed.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
June 17, 2002
Today is the fifth anniversary of my father's death here in California; in NZ it was yesterday. I ordered my usual bunch of flowers to send to the facility where he spent his last two-and-a-half years, and I had my usual mope. I am grateful, truly grateful, that I was there for his last day, but that was the hardest eight hours of my life.
I always feel like a peeled onion in the anniversary week. While it's true that time is a great healer, it's also true that you don't get over the loss of a parent. You just get used to it.
I always feel like a peeled onion in the anniversary week. While it's true that time is a great healer, it's also true that you don't get over the loss of a parent. You just get used to it.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
No rest for the wicked
I can't quite believe how sore my thighs and biceps are. I am literally having to haul myself up the stairs using the banister, and on the way down I step as gingerly as a granny with a new hip. I have been gymming, folks, and it has turned me into a laughing stock. Well, Tim laughs at me, and points, and occasionally slaps the sore bits and then snatches his hand back quick-as-a-flash when I glare at him. And last night we went out for Japanese (in Japan Town--dinky) with our friends Grover and Carolyn and they laughed at me, too. Hmmph.
I joined the fancy-pants gym down the road in February in an attempt to hang on to the residual muscle definition left from my days at the AUT gym in Northcote, working out with my trainer, Sophie. What with throwing in the job and travelling in Europe and then driving across the US eating cheeseburgers and twisty fries, there wasn't a heck of a lot of definition left, but I determined to keep it. And so began my relationship with the elliptical machine, on which I spin aimlessly for half an hour at a time, while catching up on the latest from Angelina and Brad. A couple of days ago I decided to get myself moving for real--in an exercise class. As a member of the fancy-pants gym, I get into group exercise classes for free (you know, except for the astronomical monthly fee I pay for the privilege of crossing the threshold of Gym Fancypants) and I love a deal, so that was another part of my motivation. The third key factor was realising I had not set foot in an exercise class since buggering my knee at an aerobics class nine years and four knee operations ago. It was time to kill that phobia.
I chose a class called Strength and Sculpt, billed as a non-threatening way to tone and build core stability through the use of bands and balls. I did 15 minutes on the elliptical to warm up and arrived in the studio 5 minutes before the start of class to find all floor space claimed by aggressively beautiful people, bar a sliver of space right near the front. Of course. I found myself a step, three sets of free weights, and a squishy ball thing with a flat plastic base. While I was doing this, I noticed the deathly still of the studio and the fixed way in which most classmates were checking themselves out in the mirrors. I also noted, not for the first time, how big were the rocks adorning most women's ring fingers, and how well groomed they were for people about to sweat to excess.
So, the instructor, a sinewy button of a girl, plugged in her microphone and that terrible be-boppy tinny aerobics music that must be created solely for use in gyms began to throb. I choked back the giggle that always erupts when I hear that music and started to move it, move it. Oh, and did I mention the heavily pregnant woman who glided into place just in front of me as the be-bopping reached its first crescendo? She was mammothly pregnant and pushing those weights around like they were matchboxes. I immediately loathed her.
Thus motivated, I started my first post-knee disaster exercise class with a hiss and a roar and much waving of arms. Bicep curls, tricep dips, side-stretchy moves meant to define the abs, all of that was fine. But when the squats began, with the attendant bum-clenching and knee-grating, I wanted to take a breather. I couldn't of course, because of the pregnant lady, bouncing away like a scolding, just in front of me. By this stage, I had that weird jelly feeling in my thighs, the wibble wobble named 'fatigue' in my calves, but still I moved it, slightly off time, lagging behind the beat. I stumbled a little as we lunge-marched our way up and down the room three times, and was smart enough to slow my pace a bit, but the other exercisers ignored the instructor's invitation to take a breather if needed, so I ignored it too. Above all, I didn't want the pregnant lady to win.
Happily, I can report that I made it to the end of the 50-minute class without incident--knee intact, dignity intact, amen. I took one last haughty glance at the pregnant lady--like the lunatic I apparently am becoming--and strode off home, thinking, ha showed her! Showoffy soon-to-be-mother with her huge diamonds and designer gym gear. Grumble, grumble.
Smug I was. And yet, I suspect she is able to climb and descend stairs without support today, belly and all.
I joined the fancy-pants gym down the road in February in an attempt to hang on to the residual muscle definition left from my days at the AUT gym in Northcote, working out with my trainer, Sophie. What with throwing in the job and travelling in Europe and then driving across the US eating cheeseburgers and twisty fries, there wasn't a heck of a lot of definition left, but I determined to keep it. And so began my relationship with the elliptical machine, on which I spin aimlessly for half an hour at a time, while catching up on the latest from Angelina and Brad. A couple of days ago I decided to get myself moving for real--in an exercise class. As a member of the fancy-pants gym, I get into group exercise classes for free (you know, except for the astronomical monthly fee I pay for the privilege of crossing the threshold of Gym Fancypants) and I love a deal, so that was another part of my motivation. The third key factor was realising I had not set foot in an exercise class since buggering my knee at an aerobics class nine years and four knee operations ago. It was time to kill that phobia.
I chose a class called Strength and Sculpt, billed as a non-threatening way to tone and build core stability through the use of bands and balls. I did 15 minutes on the elliptical to warm up and arrived in the studio 5 minutes before the start of class to find all floor space claimed by aggressively beautiful people, bar a sliver of space right near the front. Of course. I found myself a step, three sets of free weights, and a squishy ball thing with a flat plastic base. While I was doing this, I noticed the deathly still of the studio and the fixed way in which most classmates were checking themselves out in the mirrors. I also noted, not for the first time, how big were the rocks adorning most women's ring fingers, and how well groomed they were for people about to sweat to excess.
So, the instructor, a sinewy button of a girl, plugged in her microphone and that terrible be-boppy tinny aerobics music that must be created solely for use in gyms began to throb. I choked back the giggle that always erupts when I hear that music and started to move it, move it. Oh, and did I mention the heavily pregnant woman who glided into place just in front of me as the be-bopping reached its first crescendo? She was mammothly pregnant and pushing those weights around like they were matchboxes. I immediately loathed her.
Thus motivated, I started my first post-knee disaster exercise class with a hiss and a roar and much waving of arms. Bicep curls, tricep dips, side-stretchy moves meant to define the abs, all of that was fine. But when the squats began, with the attendant bum-clenching and knee-grating, I wanted to take a breather. I couldn't of course, because of the pregnant lady, bouncing away like a scolding, just in front of me. By this stage, I had that weird jelly feeling in my thighs, the wibble wobble named 'fatigue' in my calves, but still I moved it, slightly off time, lagging behind the beat. I stumbled a little as we lunge-marched our way up and down the room three times, and was smart enough to slow my pace a bit, but the other exercisers ignored the instructor's invitation to take a breather if needed, so I ignored it too. Above all, I didn't want the pregnant lady to win.
Happily, I can report that I made it to the end of the 50-minute class without incident--knee intact, dignity intact, amen. I took one last haughty glance at the pregnant lady--like the lunatic I apparently am becoming--and strode off home, thinking, ha showed her! Showoffy soon-to-be-mother with her huge diamonds and designer gym gear. Grumble, grumble.
Smug I was. And yet, I suspect she is able to climb and descend stairs without support today, belly and all.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Oh, dear, I feel faint
I’m back at work, slugging it out with the tissue box and my own squeaky sinuses. My mystery illness has been a real time-sucker, not to mention being generally uncomfortable and inconvenient. I just about fell asleep on the train to work this morning—and that’s after more than eight hours sleep last night, a nap yesterday afternoon, and two sick days last week. What more does my body want? Revenge for too many years eating crackers and cheese for dinner, methinks.
Anyway, it was a nice weekend, mostly, except for when I was in bed with a headache. We went to the SF Farmer’s Market on Saturday morning and rubbed shoulders with the organic, wealthy set and their color-coordinated adora-tots. The market is quite the trendy spot to grab a coffee and wander around getting a tan—yes, the sun was out and it was gooood.
The food is beautiful, eminently displayable, the sort of thing that you’d see in a still life by one of the Dutch masters, capturing every drop of dew on a pear leaf, the glassy texture of the fresh cheese. Most of it we couldn’t really afford. I mean, we could buy cheese for $27 a slab and cured salmon for $75 a shrink-wrapped packet, but then how would we pay the rent? (And wouldn’t you know it, in the middle of my mystery illness the rent check was due and I forgot all about it; the landlords’ suspicions about us have now been confirmed.) So we were a bit choosy, plumping for a sourdough loaf that cost just a bit more than it would at Trader Joe’s, our kinda pirate-themed supermarket, and cherries for a mere $5 a pound, and peaches for $3.75 a pound. And doughnut muffins, which were a deal, actually, at $1.15 a piece, and an innovation I can get behind. Basically, they are doughnut dough rolled in sugar and baked in a muffin pan to avoid the deep fry fat of a traditional doughnut. And yet, they still taste exactly as doughnut-y as you’d want. It’s a neat trick.
And with that, I’m all tired and schlumpy. Damn mystery illness.
Anyway, it was a nice weekend, mostly, except for when I was in bed with a headache. We went to the SF Farmer’s Market on Saturday morning and rubbed shoulders with the organic, wealthy set and their color-coordinated adora-tots. The market is quite the trendy spot to grab a coffee and wander around getting a tan—yes, the sun was out and it was gooood.
The food is beautiful, eminently displayable, the sort of thing that you’d see in a still life by one of the Dutch masters, capturing every drop of dew on a pear leaf, the glassy texture of the fresh cheese. Most of it we couldn’t really afford. I mean, we could buy cheese for $27 a slab and cured salmon for $75 a shrink-wrapped packet, but then how would we pay the rent? (And wouldn’t you know it, in the middle of my mystery illness the rent check was due and I forgot all about it; the landlords’ suspicions about us have now been confirmed.) So we were a bit choosy, plumping for a sourdough loaf that cost just a bit more than it would at Trader Joe’s, our kinda pirate-themed supermarket, and cherries for a mere $5 a pound, and peaches for $3.75 a pound. And doughnut muffins, which were a deal, actually, at $1.15 a piece, and an innovation I can get behind. Basically, they are doughnut dough rolled in sugar and baked in a muffin pan to avoid the deep fry fat of a traditional doughnut. And yet, they still taste exactly as doughnut-y as you’d want. It’s a neat trick.
And with that, I’m all tired and schlumpy. Damn mystery illness.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Dirty mouth
My mouth tastes like a bag of stale potato chips mixed with cigarette butts. I've been sick for the past two days--coughing and sleeping and coughing some more--and have that weird spacey feeling you get when you are sick and think hmm, perhaps I won't be going back to work tomorrow, or next week; perhaps this is just my life now. It wouldn't be so bad, sitting around on the sofa with a liter of ginger ale and the remote control. It's boring and makes you feel about as useful as a lump of cheese that's started to turn, but it's not demanding and there's no commute, so it's not all bad.
Today I read about Nicole Richie's shocking weight loss, and the blonde girl off Grey's Anatomy (which is not a programme I can be bothered with but her new film sounds fun), watched a really good Magnum PI episode in which he reunites a couple of Russian defectors, and compared presenters on two of the shopping channels. I really got into it, actually.
One woman, sadly crippled by her stumpy fingers (if you're going to spend your working life displaying jewellery and facial cleansers on TV, you gotta have long, impressive fingers, I feel), was all about the hard-sell: she waved a sterling and semi-precious gem pendant around for a bit and then slashed the price: "That's $39.99, ladies, no $35.99, that's $34.99...that's $30.00...$29.99...that's an unbelievable value that you just wouldn't find retail. These are going fast. That's $19.99! I don't believe it. That is the cost of the materials alone, that just does not take into consideration the craftsmanship you're looking at here."
The other woman, a groomed Southern lady, sat with her ankles crossed like Jackie O, and concentrated on the different ways you could wear the gold chains she was selling, and let me tell you, you just would not believe how creative you can get when you have to. She was shortening necklaces into chokers and looping them around her wrist multiple times as bracelets, she was working out how you might use this pair of earrings in the workplace or to add some kick to your outfit for a summer BBQ, how this piece might work with gemstones and how this stunner could become your new signature look. "Buy this today and you can enjoy it all summer," she said as she fondled a $440 chain made of large circular links, some highly polished and some textured, all Italian crafted.
I was entranced. It took my mind off the bad taste in my mouth (and the weird white spots). It's days like this that make me wonder if trying to have a career and give a poop about it is a waste of time, because I am just as happy watching people sell jewellery on television. And I don't even buy it.
Today I read about Nicole Richie's shocking weight loss, and the blonde girl off Grey's Anatomy (which is not a programme I can be bothered with but her new film sounds fun), watched a really good Magnum PI episode in which he reunites a couple of Russian defectors, and compared presenters on two of the shopping channels. I really got into it, actually.
One woman, sadly crippled by her stumpy fingers (if you're going to spend your working life displaying jewellery and facial cleansers on TV, you gotta have long, impressive fingers, I feel), was all about the hard-sell: she waved a sterling and semi-precious gem pendant around for a bit and then slashed the price: "That's $39.99, ladies, no $35.99, that's $34.99...that's $30.00...$29.99...that's an unbelievable value that you just wouldn't find retail. These are going fast. That's $19.99! I don't believe it. That is the cost of the materials alone, that just does not take into consideration the craftsmanship you're looking at here."
The other woman, a groomed Southern lady, sat with her ankles crossed like Jackie O, and concentrated on the different ways you could wear the gold chains she was selling, and let me tell you, you just would not believe how creative you can get when you have to. She was shortening necklaces into chokers and looping them around her wrist multiple times as bracelets, she was working out how you might use this pair of earrings in the workplace or to add some kick to your outfit for a summer BBQ, how this piece might work with gemstones and how this stunner could become your new signature look. "Buy this today and you can enjoy it all summer," she said as she fondled a $440 chain made of large circular links, some highly polished and some textured, all Italian crafted.
I was entranced. It took my mind off the bad taste in my mouth (and the weird white spots). It's days like this that make me wonder if trying to have a career and give a poop about it is a waste of time, because I am just as happy watching people sell jewellery on television. And I don't even buy it.
Monday, May 28, 2007
On the road, part two
Just woke up after a car nap. I love a good car nap and today is perfect—sunny and warm, a long drive home, and scenery that is lovely but repetitive, so I don’t feel I’m missing too much if I close my eyes. I have the laptop across my knees and one of Tim’s sweatshirts hanging in the window to reduce glare, so I am highway-blogging, which is not particularly glam, but better than sitting here eating jelly worms. There is a dwindling bag of jelly worms nesting between our seats.
After yesterday’s stroll round the picture-perfect Ferndale, we had lunch at Applebee’s, a rather good chain restaurant, not like anything in NZ, really. Tim, with his love of a bargain and a good honest feed, has developed a passion for Applebee’s and its celebrity chef, Tyler Somebody, who is often on the box talking up his latest flavor combos, such as chicken with salsa, which don’t sound particularly clever, and certainly not new, but taste fantastic all the same. There isn’t one in the city, so we keep an eye out as we drive new highways. Our first Applebee’s was in Kentucky. Yesterday, we hit the one in Eureka and it was just as good—and practically identical in appearance; the décor is Americana, with lots of road signs and pictures of Cadillacs and football helmets and such. Tim had a quesadilla burger with rosemary-parmesan fries; I had the Caesar salad topped with crispy garlic prawns. Could have fed a horse comfortably. And cheap as chips.
After that, we took a walk in the woods, getting up close and personal with more redwoods. I scared myself silly with thoughts of bears after a mysterious noise, a low, drawn-out keening, went unexplained. It was all very beautiful but I couldn’t wait to get back to the car. And then we drove to Fort Bragg, scene of one of my great childhood disappointments.
When I was about 11, one of my best friends from John Swett Elementary in Martinez, a girl I had managed to keep in touch with during a two-year stint in NZ, spent the weekend with my family. We drove up to Fort Bragg, a former military outpost, now white trash hangout (I’m horrid, I know), and caught the Skunk Train, an old steam engine that meanders through the redwoods to another nothing-much town, Willits. Dad was really excited about the train, and he had talked about it enough that I was too. Sadly, Alyson, a skinny blonde girl who often wore lavender jeans, which I thought were the coolest, was cold and miserable and unimpressed with all options laid before her. Basically, she was bored, which is about as bad as it got for middle class pre-teens in the 1980s. She didn’t like the train, she didn’t like the chile served in Styrofoam cups we ate at a pitstop along the way, she hated our charmless hotel, and she didn’t like my parents either. The years between 10 and 15 were particularly unattractive for me, so I suspect my clothes were pretty lame, and my hair dull, and my music taste dorky. Meanwhile, Alyson had the lavender jeans and a walkman. By the end of the weekend we were no longer friends. When we got home, I cried and cried.
Fort Bragg hasn’t improved much in 21 years. We ate pizza and went to bed.
After yesterday’s stroll round the picture-perfect Ferndale, we had lunch at Applebee’s, a rather good chain restaurant, not like anything in NZ, really. Tim, with his love of a bargain and a good honest feed, has developed a passion for Applebee’s and its celebrity chef, Tyler Somebody, who is often on the box talking up his latest flavor combos, such as chicken with salsa, which don’t sound particularly clever, and certainly not new, but taste fantastic all the same. There isn’t one in the city, so we keep an eye out as we drive new highways. Our first Applebee’s was in Kentucky. Yesterday, we hit the one in Eureka and it was just as good—and practically identical in appearance; the décor is Americana, with lots of road signs and pictures of Cadillacs and football helmets and such. Tim had a quesadilla burger with rosemary-parmesan fries; I had the Caesar salad topped with crispy garlic prawns. Could have fed a horse comfortably. And cheap as chips.
After that, we took a walk in the woods, getting up close and personal with more redwoods. I scared myself silly with thoughts of bears after a mysterious noise, a low, drawn-out keening, went unexplained. It was all very beautiful but I couldn’t wait to get back to the car. And then we drove to Fort Bragg, scene of one of my great childhood disappointments.
When I was about 11, one of my best friends from John Swett Elementary in Martinez, a girl I had managed to keep in touch with during a two-year stint in NZ, spent the weekend with my family. We drove up to Fort Bragg, a former military outpost, now white trash hangout (I’m horrid, I know), and caught the Skunk Train, an old steam engine that meanders through the redwoods to another nothing-much town, Willits. Dad was really excited about the train, and he had talked about it enough that I was too. Sadly, Alyson, a skinny blonde girl who often wore lavender jeans, which I thought were the coolest, was cold and miserable and unimpressed with all options laid before her. Basically, she was bored, which is about as bad as it got for middle class pre-teens in the 1980s. She didn’t like the train, she didn’t like the chile served in Styrofoam cups we ate at a pitstop along the way, she hated our charmless hotel, and she didn’t like my parents either. The years between 10 and 15 were particularly unattractive for me, so I suspect my clothes were pretty lame, and my hair dull, and my music taste dorky. Meanwhile, Alyson had the lavender jeans and a walkman. By the end of the weekend we were no longer friends. When we got home, I cried and cried.
Fort Bragg hasn’t improved much in 21 years. We ate pizza and went to bed.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
On the road
It’s Memorial Day weekend, I get Monday off, and it’s time we saw more of the state, so we packed up the car and hit Highway 101, headed north to redwood country. It’s incredibly beautiful up here, all misty and primeval, with these gigantic trees, older than Jesus, standing guard over the deer and black bears. (We’ve seen deer; no bears.) Some are 2400 years old, and even the “small” guys lining the highway are 400 to 600 years old.
Some snapshots of our weekend thus far:
* We paid $5 to drive through a giant redwood called the Chandelier, although actually it was more of a candelabra. I jumped out of the car and walked through the trunk, tapping the “ceiling” on my way, so I could photograph Tim driving through, with his head hanging out the window like a puppy.
* I was sitting on a smooth log, eating a Crunch ice cream bar when a little girl squeezed on beside me.
“Look at my ice cream,” she said, pushing her multi-colored, stripy lump of little-girl heaven under my nose.
“Wow, that looks great,” I replied.
“Look at my tongue.” She poked out her red and blue tongue.
“Cool.”
At this point her parents showed up, mom holding a very new baby wrapped in a yellow blanket, and my friend was led away. Clearly, the baby had messed up her sweet deal at home and she was looking for attention anywhere she could get it.
* Stopped the car to walk into the Chimney redwood, with a trunk hollowed by a long-ago fire. This tree has its own electrics and a guest book.
* Drove down the Avenue of Giants, 30-odd miles of, um, giant redwoods. Gorgeousness, but we had to stop before we got to the end because there had been a mudslide that the highway patrol had not bothered to signpost before we were practically upon it.
* Ferndale, USA. This is a teeny Victorian town which, rather than being a preserved under glass like a dead butterfly, is a living community that just happens to have great buildings. There is a diner with a long, wooden counter at which a local cop was drinking coffee when I peeked through the window; bank with box-office style booths for each teller; all kinds of candy shoppes, and antiques shops and a blacksmith's, all beautifully maintained and some decked out in red, white and blue bunting in honor of Memorial Day; and a miniature pink house built in 1995 as a fundraiser for maintaining some of the Victorian beauties in the main street, which was adorable except for the dog doodie on the tiny front porch. Oh, and there just happened to be a parade on as we drove into town, with a French horn and all the trimmings.
* Reading the local paper at our blandy-bland motel over muffins and crapola coffee, we learned that “Izzy” Osbourne and the AC/DC chicks’ tribute band, Thundherstruck, were on their way to Humboldt County. As were Joan Jett and the Black Hearts. Sadly, I think it was the real Joan Jett. Oh how the mighty have fallen, rather like ancient redwoods. . .
Some snapshots of our weekend thus far:
* We paid $5 to drive through a giant redwood called the Chandelier, although actually it was more of a candelabra. I jumped out of the car and walked through the trunk, tapping the “ceiling” on my way, so I could photograph Tim driving through, with his head hanging out the window like a puppy.
* I was sitting on a smooth log, eating a Crunch ice cream bar when a little girl squeezed on beside me.
“Look at my ice cream,” she said, pushing her multi-colored, stripy lump of little-girl heaven under my nose.
“Wow, that looks great,” I replied.
“Look at my tongue.” She poked out her red and blue tongue.
“Cool.”
At this point her parents showed up, mom holding a very new baby wrapped in a yellow blanket, and my friend was led away. Clearly, the baby had messed up her sweet deal at home and she was looking for attention anywhere she could get it.
* Stopped the car to walk into the Chimney redwood, with a trunk hollowed by a long-ago fire. This tree has its own electrics and a guest book.
* Drove down the Avenue of Giants, 30-odd miles of, um, giant redwoods. Gorgeousness, but we had to stop before we got to the end because there had been a mudslide that the highway patrol had not bothered to signpost before we were practically upon it.
* Ferndale, USA. This is a teeny Victorian town which, rather than being a preserved under glass like a dead butterfly, is a living community that just happens to have great buildings. There is a diner with a long, wooden counter at which a local cop was drinking coffee when I peeked through the window; bank with box-office style booths for each teller; all kinds of candy shoppes, and antiques shops and a blacksmith's, all beautifully maintained and some decked out in red, white and blue bunting in honor of Memorial Day; and a miniature pink house built in 1995 as a fundraiser for maintaining some of the Victorian beauties in the main street, which was adorable except for the dog doodie on the tiny front porch. Oh, and there just happened to be a parade on as we drove into town, with a French horn and all the trimmings.
* Reading the local paper at our blandy-bland motel over muffins and crapola coffee, we learned that “Izzy” Osbourne and the AC/DC chicks’ tribute band, Thundherstruck, were on their way to Humboldt County. As were Joan Jett and the Black Hearts. Sadly, I think it was the real Joan Jett. Oh how the mighty have fallen, rather like ancient redwoods. . .
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