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The Moscow Times reports that carbon monoxide levels are 30% above normal, hydrocarbons 5.4 times above the maximum permissible levels, nuclear sites completely surrounded by fires, but the nuclear materials have been removed.

You think that's bad? I have paperwork to do now! I have no idea where to begin to 1. Change our status after R&R to evacuated 2. Arrange air shipment of items sent back to Moscow. I need to schedule it now or it won't happen–they usually need a four week lead time. 3. Reschedule our Friday plane ticket for when? 

This refugee business would be a lot more enjoyable if I'd been assigned a personal admin assistant.  

Peter is boarding a plane for Moscow right now. Enjoy that clean, fresh economy cabin air, babe!

Should be interesting to hear what he says when his Clarks hit the ground. "Fire in the hole!" maybe? Ugh, I really can't stand it that he has to go back there. He assures me that if it gets bad, everyone from the Ambassador on down, including my darling, will be sent home. "Remember Chad?" says Peter, reminding me of when the country to the east of Niger was on authorized departure. The FSHP (Peter's position) and the Ambassador worked out of the airport the last day, using cardboard boxes as desks, but even they were finally evacuated.

I can't believe my favorite band from Niger, or the only band I know from Niger, but they are really, really good, so good I used their music for an official video I made about Niger, are playing in Santa Cruz in a few days. Crazy.

About a year ago I was riding around with my 20-something year-old niece and liked a song she had playing in her car. It was by Huckleberry Flint, a band from Humboldt County–squee! I immediately downloaded their CD based on the terrific song Wagon Wheel, which ended up being the best song on the CD, but I don't care, because I like supporting a band from Humboldt Country. Yesterday Camille and I were in Urban Outfitters and they had Wagon Wheel on their playlist. So if you don't believe me, believe Urban Outfitters, you need to download that song now.

I'm still waiting for United to repay my mistakingly upgraded airfare–we are on Day 16 now United! Where is my refund? But we are home, well, at the latest in a series of homes. We are housesitting for my wow-has-she-never-looked-better friend Gina who is gallivanting around the south of France with her new boyfriend. I am enjoying her sunlit house set amid strawberry fields and we ourselves are gallivanting around Santa Cruz county, the beach is one freeway exit away.

My parents are with us, playing cards, up early waiting for pancakes made with blueberries we got at Trader Joe's. My eighty-seven year old mom is on her cell phone all the time. Yesterday we showed her how to text, so I expect this morning I'll have to tell her, "Mom, not at the breakfast table." 

My slightly confused dad pushes his walker around, I think a circularly-laid out house is not a good idea for our advancing years. In spite of how long it takes him to put on his shoes, we pushed him around in his wheel chair at the farmer's market where we loaded his lap with baby lettuces and nectarines then parked him in front of the band, we took him along to see a Toy Story 3 on Stefan's birthday, and to the beach in a balloon-wheeled sand chair, provided free by Parks and Rec. Thank you California!

Camille has rainbow cotton lanyard bracelets going up both arms and tie-dyed a t-shirt at her horse camp. When's yoga?

I jog around the track here and it's filled with these dandelions right now. It's made me realize how much I love them.

Stefan's first words this morning: Is the bakery open yet?

 
The bread in France, right? Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Peter's sister Ludmilla was just here visiting Nina in Angers. What you need to know is that Ludmilla is a super taster. As a kid all she ate was noodles with ketchup because most everything else offended her, and she still doen't like the taste of wine. "Too sour," she says. But she can taste a soup or a sauce and tell you the ingredients. She has taken apart and put back together some of our favorite foods–from a mango challah we use to get in San Francisco to a better-recipe-than-the-original blueberry-cardamom bread from Elephant Bakery in Portland to a coconut-almond scone she just made up for no good reason. 

She says the bread from La Cocagne, the bakery right across the street from Nina's apartment in Angers, is better than any she's ever had, including the days they were stuck in Paris, forced to do emergency bread research.

From the chocolate vienoise to the sugar-encrusted cream puffs without the cream (I don't know what they are really called) to the croissants to the best sour dough baguette ever, I am pretty sure that La Cocange means 'cheap legal drugs'' in French.

Speaking of which, the wine in France, right?

 
Last night Stefan's piano teacher Karill performed at the Tchaikovsky Conservatory. We went with our friend Aleen, who is the worst back seat driver ever, and makes everything more fun. Karill and a violinist played Beethoven's Sonata #7. The conservatory has two halls, a malinki (small) and a bolshoi (large), and has performances nearly every evening. 

A Tuesday evening and our performance was packed. The regulars know the strengths of each performer, have their favorites, and are familiar with the pieces they will play–sort of the way we are with American Idol. Karill played beautifully and afterwords Stefan and Peter took flowers to him during his bow. Hopefully that wasn't a huge faux pas because no one else gave any of the men flowers. Or hopefully Karill can explain that we are stupid foreigners. Or maybe now the three of them are engaged, who knows? There were two more performers after the intermission, but we had to leave right after Karill played because Stefan was overcome by a severe case of full-body fidgets. On the way out the sound of many people playing different piano pieces drifted out of the open practice-room windows.

Peter's co-worker is on vacation in Denmark. After a couple extra days of paying $300 a night for a hotel room he and his family–they are referring to themselves as "volcano refugees"– are taking the train to Stockholm, then the ferry to Helsinki, where he can work and be back on Uncle Sam's dime. They are the only people I've ever heard of who are going to Helsinki to save money. 

Peter's sister Nina was suppose to come visit us this week, but has now canceled, since her trip would only be a couple of days by the time she got here, if she could get here.

Peter's two other sisters, visiting France for the first time, are still "stuck" in Paris. I wonder what they are doing that they didn't think they had time to do? I'm sure they'll enjoy living in France.

Peter's flight to Berlin tomorrow has been canceled. A doc here from Kazakhstan en route to the conference is taking the train to Berlin–a thirty-hour ride. We were suppose to meet Peter in France next week-end. 

People think the airports will open on Sunday afternoon. Like a volcano going off is on people time. This thing thinks in earth years. In 1851 it erupted off and on for two years. I'm not sure if we'll make it to France next week-end, or if we'll be taking a ship home this summer.

Every time I see the easter-cake kulich I buy one, yesterday we bought this medium size from the bakers at the church…but the real problem has been the cheesecake-like paska, because to me, how to you serve kulich without paska?  I talked to two people in two different grocery stores who had no idea what I was talking about. "Are you sure you're Russian?" I asked them. The one bakery that I knew was going to carry paska had run out by yesterday afternoon. Then today, there it was at the grocery store! Now we are set. Happy Easter!