Category: on the road

It was nice to be somewhere where I could understand the jokes. I really enjoyed all the small laughs. Calling a line of cute zipper purses “boygirlparty” –isn’t that a great name? and this:

Isn’t it funny enough that paid dog petters exist? Two of these businesses putting their cards right next to each other? How many “animal massage therapists” can Portland, Oregon need? I, for sure, would go with the one that thought up a great name and hired a designer.

Tanya’s fabulous idea for a business: Doggie convalescent hospital, for owners that don’t want to put their dog to sleep, but aren’t home enough to take care their aging pet. I’m sure it already exists. They should contract out with the pet massagers. If people can think of it, it will be done, said my grandfather.

Our friend Lee’s teenage daughter said to him, “Daddy, why don’t you have bumper stickers on your car?” With a sigh Lee said, “Because once I got started I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

I saw: “I’d tell you to go to hell, but I work there and I don’t want to see you everyday.” Which is funny for me because I work at home. Alone.

Spotted by my sister: “Horn broken. Watch for finger.”

And later I saw the companion: “Next time wave to me with all your fingers.”

A very Portland one: Education is National Security.

Recently seen by Luanne: “Of course I’m in a hurry. I have to poop.”

And from my home town: Honk if you’ve never seen a gun fired from a moving vehicle.

I visited my friend Elizabeth at her office at Hanna Andersson today and we were both wearing the same outfit, it was so funny. Jeans, blue and white striped shirts with ruffles, a black sweater tossed over. I saw Raemi, who I use to see everyday at work, it was so wonderful to see her face. “Have you been having fun at Anthropolgie?” she asked. “No! Goodwill!” I said. Oh, it’s so soothing to see our friends.

The Willamette Weekly has the funniest article kvetching about Portland. It’s really a love letter, everything he complains about I L-O-V-E: the tall bikes, the overly-polite drivers, the bumper stickers, all the pretty people at New Seasons, the edemame. The article is so funny, beware of reading it in a public place, like the most Portland thing I’ve ever heard of, the vegan bar at the Pirate Tavern.

Oh my god, five days without the interwebs. I was starting to feel like I was back in Africa.

Peter is on the road with kids to visit his dad in Mt Shasta. I am bien installée at the Tea Zone. We adore our condo on the Park blocks in downtown Portland–thank you Rajesh and Kshama! It’s lovely! Drizzle-y here this evening in the most atmospheric way, there is a candle burning on my table, and I’ve ordered a pot of Vanilla Bourbon Red African Roos tea, recommended by Peter’s nephew Peter. I’ll be living here at the Tea Zone with their free wee-fee, (as we say in Niger) for the next two weeks. I don’t have a phone, but now you know where to find me.

I’m off to answer my email!

Peter and the kids are camping in the Sierras. I hope they are enjoying the great outdoors. I am enjoying the great indoors: Mike and Tanya’s house, boutiques, movie theaters, the Chestnut cafe.

Remember that line from one of David Sardaris’ books: A woman says to David and his mother, “At my home, well, one of my homes,” and then he and his mother walk around repeating the line?

Walked down Filmore Street today, and oh god am I happy in San Francisco. If you’re happy and you know it, you’re in San Francisco. The light, the beautiful stores, the kids sitting on the street, the muni buses, the #1 California muni bus that I once backed into in front of Peets, Peets. Cable car tracks in the street. Chatty Americans. The same homeless guy in front of Calmart on California. The Chronicle. Having my brows shaped at the Benefit store. The fog horn is the call to prayer. It’s nice to be in my home town, well, in one of my hometowns.

Idenity crisis time! “Where are you from?” is a loaded question. I’m third generation Californian with a Sutter Street, San Francisco, address on my California driver’s license, a house in Oregon, a Niger national ID card, my mailing address is in Virginia, but I’ve never seen the place. But by far the worst of all: the car we’ve rented while we are here has Oklahoma plates.

Playing at the Clay on Filmore:

I loved this movie. “One day it will not be, ‘Speak to me in French, it will be: speak to me in the language of Moliere!’ ” Next I want to see La Vie en Rose. I sat down in the the Clay Theater and said to myself, “This is such nice, plush theater.” This is such a nice, plush city. (This is such a nice, plush life.)

I went INSANE at Margaret O’Leary. Exquisite clothes, all the super light summer pieces 75% off. I died and went to heaven, fabulously dressed.

Sirianna says it’s cleansing to live in Niger, where you can’t spend any money. It’s true. I feel a little bloated from shopping. One of the things that is really noticeable being home is how much there is to buy, contantly. Muffins. Magazines. Lipstick. CDs. Dresses. Mmmmm. Dresses. Yellow shoes. I shouldn’t have, but I did. Because I can’t wear my yellow Frye boots as much as I would like in Niger because guess what? It’s too hot. So voila, the new substitute:

Peter comes home from camping tomorrow. Good thing.

Aren’t I a saint to take my kids to Six Flags? And isn’t my sister even more of a saint to go on the Cobra with Stefan? Valerie said the scariest part was the snake head on the front. Stefan cried on log ride, then the boat ride through the rapids, then the roller coaster, but he really wanted to go on all of them, so I am not sure what says about his personality.

"Did your sister beat you up?" is the most popular question posed to him, with his forehead full of stiches. After learning that we live in Africa, one guy asked if he was scratched by tiger.

Forty eight hours into our R and R, visiting our friends Dave and Elisabeth and their two adorable daughters and equally lively and adorable Lesher parents outside Dijon, and we got an ambulance ride:

Stefan was outside, jumping over what kids say is a pet grave, he missed the landing and fell head-first onto the corner of the lovely Maison Brulée brick entryway.

He looked really impressive in the waiting room with his head wrapped in a bandage and his shirt covered in blood. Boy did that thing bleed. He has eleven stiches (that we can see, he has another layer under the skin) across his forehead and the perfect set up for a lifetime of Harry Potter disguises.

Well, tomorrow the kiddies and I take off for France. We can’t wait to spend a few days in Dijon with the Miles Family, our really good friends from Portland. I figure they will pick us up at the train station with a glass of wine in hand. And that’s just for the kids! A few days later we fly to Sacramento, a week in Lake Tahoe with my parents, a birthday party at Aunt Wowie’s cabin for Stefan–lucky Friday the 13th! A week at my parent’s in Paradise, California, 95969, a week in Davis and environs, San Rafael? Petaluma? Filmore Street in San Francisco? We’ll cross that toll plaza when we get to it. Mt Shasta to visit Peter’s dad and sister, quick stop in Ashland to visit the Fulbrights, then up to Portland until the end of August: Farmer’s Market, Powells, Powells, Powells, Hanna Anderson, Whole Foods, Uwagimaya, Yarn Garden, Hula Grill, New Seasons, Stumptown, Pizzacato, Sauvie Island blueberry picking, Finigan’s Toys, and the big public library. And best of all, all dear faces we love. Peter shows up about half way through this program. Makes you tired already, doesn’t it?

Stefan says it’s going to be like going to a whole new world.

Well, I had a little health scare and just got back from a whirlwind medivac to London. I had not one, but three lumps in my breast, and too bad it wasn’t four because then I could have named them Paul and Ringo, John and George, I loved my two-day glimpse of England that much.

I made up for what I didn’t buy in Rome by buying two of everything in London, my suitcase was so overstuffed coming home. Oh my god. Waitrose. Brora. Cath Kidston. Up close and personal. It poured rain and I fell in love with a radio station with dj’s so funny I didn’t want to leave my hotel room. Between my doctor’s appointment and the embassy the cab driver–those cabs! What could be cuter?–I got see the most important sight in London: Madonna’s house, or one of them anyway.

I was needle biopsied within an hour of hitting town–wait! wait! I’m not ready!–and put up in room overlooking Big Ben and Westminster Cathedral and the rooftops that Mary Poppins danced upon. Mammogram and ultrasound on day two of two. All clear that afternoon. Whew. So I dodged that bullet and two car bombs. Came home to read about the almost car bombing on the street I’d stayed on in my new favorite newspaper, the London Times. I can’t wait to go back, but under circumstances where my life isn’t flashing before me.