You keep waving at the taxis they keep turning their lights off

I wanted to get through all our trips before heading to spain. And I'm almost sure that I've written them all down, even if they aren't in any descernable pattern. I missed talking about the Loretta Lynn gift shop with it's samuri swords and incredibly racist Aunt Jemima figurines right next to the racoons. The library is so hot right now, and not in a Paris Hilton way, I mean the temperature is uncomfortably warm. Every time I'm in here I see kids working on science and math (this is the science library by the by) and I get a quiet satisfaction in knowing that I don't have to even think about phonological science and it's distinctive features. But when I sneeze they say "God Bless you" and that's cordial enough for me.
I'll see BJ tomorrow night if he gets off of work early (hint hint). I really hope he does (hint hint).

Light strikes a deal with each coming night

I wonder what 50 degrees farenheit feels like in Spain. Should I bring my coat? Will it be sweater weather? How does it feel when it gets cold. Does the wind cut through you like you were never even there or does the sun make the top of your head hot? I'll know soon enough.
Spring is in Tallahassee today and it's a little bit early. Boston is knee deep in snow and New York is battling freezing rain and sleet, and here girls on the green are stretched out on pool towels and lathering themselves up with oil. It doesn't seem fair. How is it that we get the reward of an early spring complete with bathingsuits and dreams of the springs and the rest of the country struggles with the still frozen cold of winter. I think central park deserves the bathing beauties, not us. We've done nothing to deserve it. I haven't shoveled snow or been iced in or had to dress in nine layers of clothing just to get the newspaper. And yet I plan on scheduling some time tonight for a run after dark, when it cools down. And maybe tomorrow going for a swim. I'll walk home and sweat in the heat wishing all the while those beads sweat would turn to ice and I could have the winter just one more day.

One time, you bought me winter remember? It was the first day I had the occasion to wear a sweater. We bought purple tights from the american apparel store in down town and walked hand in hand the rest of the afternoon past old houses that looked like they belonged in the royal tennenbaums. You bought me a freezing wind and cold fingers and toes. I think you just did it for a chance to be so close and I won't be upset if that was your reasoning. And now that it's over, and summer is waiting to cast us into the fires of mid-day, we should go one more time to find the cold. I hear it'll be 50 degrees farenheit in London. I think that should do splendidly.

May 1, 2005: A time capsule.

Well, I'm sitting here on a back porch in Florida, watching a carefully crafted fire and listening to Nancy practice her violin. Pretty soon we'll turn on the old crow medicine show and talk about something profound, like the vastness of the universe or the possiblity of time travel. There's nothing like hearing a fourteen year old's take on determinism. I'd sit here for hours if it meant I never had to step foot into an introduction to philosophy class. I swear they talk just to hear their own voices.

I haven't been able to break the smile that's been plastered across my face since sometime yesterday afternoon. Yes, the show was awesome. I am not sure what else can be said. I want to write some brilliant discourse on the words that filled the room, but I suppose all I can say is that when I hear it I feel comfortable. Like a blanket that keeps your whole body warm in the winter or a pair of mittens that you find when you're fingers are about to freeze.

Instead of studying the other night Tom and I watched The Thin Red Line. And I believe that the closing paragraph of my cultural anthropology final echoes the tone of the monologues that dot that movie. Mr. J. Hellweg, thank you for this year. Thank you for speaking julu. Thank you for bringing a gun to class. Thank you for making the Another Brick in the Wall joke. Thank you for looking like a slightly paler, sweaty, conan o'brien with john lennon glasses. You have seduced us all.

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What is this great evil? How did it steal into the world? From what seed, what root did it spring? Who's doing this? Who's killing us? Robbing us of light and life. Mocking us with the sight of what we might have known.

take take take

Old men comfortably wearing tweed jackets
and round midsections hung lights on the iron fire escapes and trusses
that bridged the pre-wars together across Mulberry Street. Alice stepped
onto the sidewalk and buttoned her pea coat to the top. The sun sank
below the skyline, casting cold shadows on the street. She'd walk uptown
to union to catch a cab. She wanted to feel the seasons morph from the
Autumn hues to the rapidly approaching Winter freeze. The money she kept
in the jar on her counter was full. It was the cash she would have spent
on cigarettes, but now was going to a new coat and scarf from Bloomingdales.

Quality and Class- the Anthony Bourdain Affair

I raced home today from school with the specific intention of watching as much of the No Reservations marathon as I possibly could. In two weeks I'll be in Europe for the first time, we'll go to sleep on Friday in Detroit and wake up on Saturday morning in London. Our caravan met for spaghetti and pre-destination planning this weekend. Micah broke out the map and Abby tried her hardest to convert currency from dollars to Euros. For all our planning and all our fretting about the details, I am not worried about missing out on anything due to poor groundwork. I know what I want to experience and I doubt it will cost a dime.

The travel guide Kansas gave us for Christmas says to stay away from whiskey at bars in spain. BJ- How are we ever going to make it a week???



Dear Mr. Bourdain,

Thank you for airing that special marathon this President's day. Watching you get tattooed by Malasian headhunters or resting in an Icelandic mudbath was a real treat for a monday morning. I went ahead a made rice and black beans for dinner tonight if you're in town, but I must say that with these months apart things have changed. It's not that I no longer have feelings for you, it's just that those feelings have changed. Over the years we've grown apart. You seem to be on the road constantly and when I need your arms wrapped around me in a cigarette and liqour induced fog, you're never there. I missed the days when we would get drunk after work with the boys in the kitchen and then ride our bikes through down town tallahassee. Oh, that wasn't you. Anyways, it's over. I'm sorry but there's someone else. Don't bother asking who it is, just know that I love him. I hope we'll see eachother soon. I'll buy the drinks and you pay for the cab, just this time it's going to make two stops instead of one.

Love always,

Katie

I've never been to Spain, but I kinda like the music.

My favorite people in the world are the ones who are up for it, no matter what IT is. Basketball games on Sundays, running during the week, washing cars at 7 in the morning on weekends. Do you remember the time that we dranks bud lites at the cheesecake factory when I was 19? Or the time that we took the skateboards down to the tallahassee skate park? I hung my legs over the side and watched you weave in and out of kids- it was so hot that summer. Was it just us left in town? That's how I remember it. Or the first time we met, that party in melbourn. Or the second time we met, in times square. Or the third?
Savannah, New York, Tennessee, down the street, across the atlantic. I'll see you in March and we'll be speaking a different languages but we'll both understand. It's the future, and it's nothing to be afraid of. The past was just so much fun.

Chehalem Shalom

It must have been the most perfect dinner I'd ever seen. Finger foods on tiny plates, nuts in tiny bowls, and wine in very large glasses. We sat around getting over the initial shock of meeting for the first time, snacking through the meal and talking about ourselves. I liked Sue and Charlie right away. BJ held my hand and I did my best to sound like I was the right person for the job of "your son's girl friend". Eventually it became a family affair with Uncle Biff and Aunt Liz, Grandma and Grandpa all coming over to behold this novelty. And although I knew that everything I did was being studied, I felt comfortable and funny. Charlie took our picture from every angle like a photojournalist in the field. I wish I could remember more from what was said that night. I should have written it down. Just one sticks out, BJ's grandma with her fabulous hats and wine cork sniffing, "Katya, what is this kinky sex?"

You pick a place and that's where I'll be

He must have worked on that fire for hours. I could hear him swearing at the dying flame or gathering more straw to start all over again. I made a joke about asking a boyscout for help. They had a tent villiage by the water with portable gas stoves and plastic cylinders up in the trees to measure rain water. Fathers and sons sat around the campfire no doubt telling ghost stories and planning upcomming hikes. It must have been thirty five degrees and I was wearing my red hat for the second day. BJ's mom had stuffed a copy of Bon Apetit into my stocking and I took the chance to read the article about braised short ribs while my mountain man of a boyfriend worked at his fire. When I wasn't in the tent, I helped with stokeing the flames and making turkey sandwiches. We drank the Jack Daniels we picked up in Lynchburg out of red plastic cups and talked about vacation. I walked over several times and kissed his forehead in an attempt to soften the blow of his slow yet undeniable failure. I missed the fire that night. It started sometime after I had gone to sleep but it served as warmth on the coldest of nights. When I woke up there was only one log left and a half of a bottle of whiskey. We made it through the night on account of the flame I never saw.

This place with it's old plantations

Micah had his hands full with a baby, explaining to it the finer points of art and what it means to the collective consciousness of middle america. He looked comfortable with that little thing bouncing on his knee or being held face forward in awe of the giant orange box. The light seemed to reflect off the painting and onto his face turning it a sickly pumkin color despite the ever present look of wonder. We all drank red wine out of plastic cups and ate our lasagna with the fine silver from the top drawer. We talked about beards, motorcycles, chicago, jobs, cooking, the future, italian food, life. BJ put his hand on my leg and I felt warm all over again. Apparently, in the last three houses Micah has lived in there has been an unused fireplace and twenty degree nights. Abby made jokes that had me in stitches. She has a dry delivery which is unexpected and delightful. At some point the baby accidentily slammed his head violently agianst the surface of the table. We all stopped, not wanting to encourage a scene. Perhaps we had absolutly no idea what to do in the presence of a crying child. It was awkward but the baby recovered nicely and all went back to talk of renting choppers for the weekend and making it to Savannah and back. After dinner the gentlemen retired to the living room as the ladies sat across from eachother talking shop and drinking the end of the chianti. We couldn't stay long, BJ and I were dog sitting and it was getting late. As the guests began to bid good night, I squeezed his hand and kissed his shoulder. It was time to go.