08/31/04’s illustrious band:

Advice Column

Brought to you by the smart people who tell me what to do. Sometimes I even listen.

Here are a few of the best pieces of advice I ever got. Maybe they’ll be helpful to you, too.

1. “Stillness is the master of unrest.” So says the Tao Te Ching, the ages-old book of Chinese philosophy that informs T’ai Chi and, hence, me. Modern translation: Chill out, dude. It ain’t a problem unless you decide it’s a problem. By the time you taken a few deep breaths, quite a lot of things will sort themselves out.

   
   

2. “Don’t write anything you’re not willing to sign your name to.” My parents told me this when I was ready to spout off with a venomous but anonymous letter to the editor of my hometown newspaper a couple dozen years ago. It brought me up short, but they’re right. If you’re not willing to admit in public that you said it, it doesn’t need saying.

   
   

3. “Chin down. Hands up.” Them’s fightin’ words from my Eclectsis/boxing instructor, and what works in the ring works in the world. Keep your chin down so you don’t topple over if you take a hit. Keep your hands up so that doesn’t happen too often.

   
   

4. “If you have TP in the bathroom and ice cream in the freezer, you’re OK.” Dad’s motto. If you have your necessities provided for and a small luxury or two, what else do you really need? Besides a good trout stream, I mean.

   
   

5. “See Dodgeball.” The Chicken Step Lady -- hereafter known by her intimidating warrior name, the Kerner -- told me my life would not be complete until I saw the latest Ben Stiller comedy on the big screen. Truer words were never spoken. You all owe it to yourselves to see this movie. Don’t have time? Think it’s too silly? See #1. And then rent Starsky & Hutch, too.

   
   

Car door lock update: I never did remember to ask any of the nice Subaru service guys whether that second lock switch could unlock the car door in the absence of battery power. However, I did test the theory in the parking lot at Media Headquarters by getting in, locking the doors electronically, and flipping the switch. Worked like a charm. So I wouldn’t have had to crawl out through my trunk yesterday morning after all. But doing it the easy wouldn’t have made nearly as good a story.

Today around the world: August 30 is National Language Day in Moldova. The Republic of Moldova nestles between Romania and Ukraine and was the first former Soviet state to elect a Communist president in 2001. It enjoys a favorable climate and good farmland but has no major mineral deposits. As a result, the economy depends heavily on agriculture, featuring fruits, vegetables, wine, and tobacco. Moldova must import almost all of its energy supplies from Russia. Energy shortages contributed to sharp production declines after the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1991. I guess when you’re the poorest nation in Europe, you celebrate whatever you’ve got.

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08/30/04’s illustrious band:

Assault Battery

Brought to you by a slip of the hip. Here’s how I spent my day:

7:35 Load car to head for work.

7:35:15 Slip into driver’s seat. Lock doors. Turn key.

7:35:18 Turn key a couple more times. Note that nothing is happening. Nothing.

7:36 Pause for a few moments, then try key again. Achieve same non-results. Notice time on dashboard clock: 1:00. Suspect death of car battery. Decide to head back inside and call for help.

7:36:20 Recall part about locking doors before draining last dregs of life from battery. Realize that locks are electronic and don’t work without battery power. Think, “Well, foo. I’m trapped in my car inside my garage, and the horn doesn’t even work.”

7:37 Bypass feeling of panic in favor of freshly charged cell phone in purse. Make mental note to thank mother for insisting I carry phone. Call 411 for number of nearest Subaru dealership. Get no response. Try car key again. Get no response.

7:38 Call office, leave message for colleague explaining reason for tardiness.

7:40 Consider options. Calling 911: too embarrassing. Breaking window: too difficult, expensive, messy. Escaping through sunroof: impossible because sunroof is battery-powered, too. Remember, however, that trunk latch is not.

7:41 Open trap door between back seats, allowing access to trunk. Compare size of opening to size of shoulders and butt. Feel optimistic. Pop trunk latch with manual lever. See light at end of tunnel. Use convenient quarterstaff (left over from martial arts retreat a few weeks ago) to push trunk lid wide open.

7:42 Wriggle into back seat. Remove jacket. Take deep breath and hold it. Slither through trap door into trunk. Emerge, reborn, into garage. Look around to see if any neighbors are watching.

7:43 Close trunk. Use key to manually open car door from outside. Annoy car security system so that it starts beeping feebly.

7:44 Leave another message for colleague explaining miraculous escape. Expect some ribbing upon arrival at office.

7:45 Call Subaru. Get no response. Decide they’re not open yet.

7:46 Head for home office. Check work phone messages, e-mail messages. Respond and delete as necessary.

8:15 Call Subaru. Get no response. Call different Subaru dealer. Get correct phone number for nearest dealership. Call. Arrange for guys with jumper cables to come revive car and drive it to dealership for service. Also arrange for ride to work from courtesy van. Attempt to disarm car security system following their directions. Fail. Close garage door to muffle continual beeping.

8:37 Realize probable cause of battery death: failure to fully close passenger door while unloading groceries yesterday. Thought I got it with a hip-bump. Guess I didn’t.

9:35 Greet Subaru guys. Watch them, too, fail to disarm car alarm without electronics. Feel a little smug.

9:37 Experience temporary deafness when battery booster succeeds in pumping new life into battery -- and alarm/horn.

9:38 Get ride to work from teenage guy, Brian, trying to remain macho while driving minivan. Strategy: drive fast and listen to rap music. Results: not so good.

10:03 Arrive at work. Explain incident to coworkers. Enjoy a hearty chuckle until someone comments, “Good thing nothing was on fire, or you weren’t under water.” Realize morning could have been much, much worse.

12:17 Discuss lock failure with friends over lunch. Realize that there’s more than one lock switch on armrest of car. One is electronic, but other might be manual. If so, Houdini maneuver through trunk was unnecessary. (Good to know it can be done, though.) Make mental note to check with dealership about second lock switch.

2:21 Confer with Subaru by phone. Agree to replacement of stone-dead battery. Make plans to leave car overnight to have all tires replaced, since it needs doing before winter anyway. Cringe at tire prices. Consider driving in MN during bad weather with bad tires. Accept tire prices with a whimper. Forget to ask about locks.

2:26 Leave message for sparring partner canceling ritual Monday thrashing. Plan to jog instead.

5:15 Get ride home in courtesy shuttle driven by teenage guy, Derek, trying to remain earnest and friendly while apologizing for traffic delay (he was due at 5:00). Strategy: 20 minutes of earnestly friendly small talk and copious turn signal usage. Results: excellent.

5:38 Forget again to ask about locks. Make mental note to ask tomorrow when retrieving car.

6:00 Jog, blog, and grog.

Yep, that’s my Monday for you. How was yours?

Today around the world: August 30 is the Festival of the Tooth for Buddhists. According to Buddhanet, “Kandy is a beautiful city in Sri Lanka. On a small hill is a great temple which was especially built to house a relic of the Buddha -- his tooth. The tooth can never be seen, as it is kept deep inside many caskets. But once a year in August, on the night of the full moon, there is a special procession for it.”

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08/26/04’s illustrious band:

River Shoes

Brought to you by the Belle Fourche River.

When I was in grade school and junior high, my best friend was a girl named Ann who lived on the block between my house and the park. Ann’s family owned a ranch in eastern Wyoming, where they spent a lot of time in the summer. Once I got over my distress at sleeping away from home, I was often invited to spend a few days out there with them.

Eastern Wyoming is prairie country. Cattle country. A place where buffalo once roamed and where deer and antelope still play. It’s brown, but a tough kind of beautiful once you get used to it. Ann’s family’s ranch spread over more than a thousand acres of windswept plain and hollow. Through the middle of it ran the Belle Fourche River.

The river was a playground for us in a way I think must be gone forever. The crossing nearest the house was less than a quarter-mile away, so we could walk right down the road and into the murky water with hardly a break in stride -- except for at the cattleguard, a section of road about six feet across that was replaced by a grate of metal tubing. Cattle were unlikely to brave the treacherous footing of the cattleguard, so a gap in the fence could be left open for easier access by one of the many beat-up pickup trucks Ann’s dad kept on hand for touring the property.

Anyway, we walked down to the river almost every summer day we were at the ranch. Since we lived just a block from the swimming pool in town, Ann and I had both had lessons since we could walk and were considered good enough swimmers to handle the mild current and relatively shallow water. But we were strongly advised not to go barefoot in the river for a variety of reasons: sharp rocks, slippery rocks, cow patties, snapping turtles, fishhooks, bits of metal liberated from the pickups by the rough terrain, and general muck, to name just a few.

Therefore, we needed river shoes. River shoes were any pair of retired tennis shoes that weren’t fit for much more than wading in the mud. Any tennis shoes we wore out during the school year were set aside to serve as river shoes and hauled from the back of the closet for trips to the ranch. Ann’s mom also kept a closet full of river shoes and cowboy boots for city-slicker guests who didn’t know enough to bring their own. We sometimes spent as much time sorting the shoes into pairs, trying them on and doling them out according to attractiveness as we did on our excursions to the river. Preteen friendships were broken and mended over the meting out of shoes; the ugly, holey, floppy pair meant you weren’t my friend today, but the not-so-old pair meant you were. If I offered to trade you a pair that fit for a pair that didn’t, we might be Best Friends for the whole day.

So we put on our river shoes and waded and swam and floated on inner tubes, seldom wearing sunscreen, almost never supervised unless Ann’s older sister and her friends were around to keep an eye out for us. Except for the snapping turtles and the fire ants that built their homes along the riverbank, we feared nothing. We probably should have, but we didn’t.

I no longer wade in rivers very often, but I still have river shoes. The ratty cross-trainers I save for mowing the lawn are still, in my mind, river shoes: battered, but still good for something.

The ancient Birkenstocks under my bed are also river shoes. Mother Media, deploring their brokendown condition, has made me promise to throw them away numerous times, and has even bought me new sandals to replace them. But I can’t give them up; I just hide them when she comes over.

I wore those sandals the last time I waded in a river. I had recently split from my husband, was having a rough summer, and had gone home to the consoling arms of my parents for a few days. Dad took me to therapy with him, which meant he took me fishing. We talked about things while he cast his line for trout and I splashed around in icy Spearfish Creek, and I came home feeling cleansed and a little stronger for having bucked the current. Dad is gone now, but I still have the river shoes that helped me keep my footing that day and through the rocky year that followed. They’ll always smell of green grass, blue sky, and the endless afternoon of my father’s care.

Today around the world: August 26 is Women’s Equality Day here in the U.S. But I prefer to celebrate it every day.

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08/24/04’s illustrious band:

Wonder Buns

Brought to you by a super summery weekend.

Intrepid fellow Soup Groupers Senor Editor, Chicken Step Lady and I, along with CSL’s sister Vox Angelus, kicked off the weekend with a round of screaming and arm waving. Every August, Media HQ has an employee appreciation day whereupon the company pays for tickets for employees (and a guest, if you like) at the local amusement park, Valleyfair. The four of us met at the entrance last Friday and made a beeline for the roller coasters. I’ve managed to overcome my genetic aversion to roller coasters (ask Mother Media for details) and now enjoy them, for the most part.

Our first conquest was the distressingly rattly wooden coaster called the High Roller, where I screamed my hat off on the very first hill. Only a doofus would wear a baseball cap on a roller coaster . . . guilty. Anyway, we followed that one with the Corkscrew, the Mad Mouse, and Excalibur in quick succession (with a short break for bumper cars). The Mad Mouse was especially interesting, since it features a series of harmless-looking hairpin turns instead of hills and loops. Well, those hairpins seem mighty sharp when the G-forces are whipping you waaaaay out over the edge of the track! We were all giddy with shocked laughter by the end of that one.

Then it was time for the park’s showpiece coaster, the Wild Thing, which is known for having the longest low-gravity section of any coaster in the world. Hoo-yeah! Our anticipation had plenty of time to build during that 200-foot climb to the top -- and also during the extra-long wait in line, the result of a cleanup crew being dispatched after someone got sick on the ride. Once I learned the reason, I didn’t mind the delay.

The climb is always the scariest part of a roller coaster for me. You have plenty of time to look down, down, down and reflect upon what little you know of structural engineering and ask your seatmate to remind you why, again, you paid someone money to strap you into a train and send it over a cliff. Senor Editor and I expressed our terror by singing several choruses of that “M’na m’na (doot doo di doodoo)” song from the Muppet Show, with the final one sounding something like “m’na m’naaAAAAAAAAAH!” Good times, good times. I want everyone to know that except for that initial 200-foot drop, I had my hands in the air the whole way.

And then we went home to change our drawers.

Anyway. Nothing says “summer” like a charred Oscar Mayer wiener on a white Wonder bread hot dog bun, accented with Kraft American Cheese Singles and Heinz ketchup. That’s what I had for supper at a friend’s house later in the weekend, grilled out on the deck with bees buzzing above and the dog gnawing a buffalo knuckle bone below. Don’t cry for my arteries, though; free-range steak, tofu-tomato salad, and organic corn chips with homemade bean dip and homemade guacamole were also on the menu, with fresh organic strawberries for dessert. It pays to have a friend who’s a professional chef, yes it does.

With autumn weather already stopping by for a visit, I can’t think of a better way to start winding down a busy, buttery summer. It’s been grand, but it ain’t over yet.

Today around the world: August 24 is National Flag Day in Kazakhstan and Liberia.

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08/18/04’s illustrious band:

Geek Moment

Brought to you by Senor Editor and your own Media Sensation, proving once again that the sci-fi/English major geek mind is a terrible thing . . . to waste.

Senor Editor: So, I was watching Star VI: The Undiscovered Country on TV last night. VI is my second favorite because it was directed by Nicholas Meyer --

Media Sensation: Oh, yeah, the same guy who directed Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.

SE: Yeah, that one’s my favorite. Anyway, I noticed a grammatical error in the subtitles for some of the Klingon speech. The subtitles said that one of the Klingons, a guy who favored a preemptive military strike, said, “It’s better to die in battle then to live on our knees.”

MS: No way! A Klingon would never suggest living on one’s knees. Klingon warriors kneel to no one! It should be “THAN to live on our knees.”

SE: Right on both counts.

Now that’s geekdom! First of all, you have to be a devoted fan to sit through any feature film on broadcast television. Second, you have to be a serious Trekkie to know who directed which installments in the saga. Third, Senor Editor not only reads subtitles, he PROOFreads subtitles. Fourth, I both recognized the error and understood its irony in connection with Klingon culture (which, despite what some people would have you believe, is almost entirely fictional). Fifth, and perhaps geekiest of all, I blogged it.

But you read it!

Tubbado update: El Queso suggests that the tubs of cookie dough I mentioned in yesterday’s blog as possible bake sale items would probably be fine if you froze them so they didn’t spoil. So whoever it was with whom I discussed the idea can rest easy. Thanks, Chief!

Today around the world: August 18 marks the Xuedun (Shoton) Festivals in Tibet.

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08/17/04’s illustrious band:

Tubbado

Brought to you by my vacation-addled brain.

Sometime in the last week, I either dreamed or really had a discussion of what to make for a bake sale, and how I thought small margarine tubs filled with cookie dough would sell wonderfully. If I dreamed it, there's no problem. But if I actually discussed this with someone, I need to take back the suggestion; the raw eggs in the dough would be a huge salmonella risk, which is not what you want at a bake sale. So if I urged you to do this, please just ignore me. Thank you.

So here I am, back from the annual T'ai Chi retreat. It was great -- one of the most relaxed and relaxing ever, at least for me. (Yeah, things got very relaxed around the campfire Saturday night. Or so I'm told.) I got in a lot of good practice and good visiting with good friends; a perfect way to spend a beautiful weekend. Now let's see if I can carry this sense of calm through the final month of Sister-san's pregnancy. I wanna meet my niece or nephew already!

The T'ai Chi studio is closed this week so the instructors can get some well deserved R&R, so I find myself in the unfamiliar position of having some weekday evenings free. I've been bonding with my computer way, way too much. What do normal people do in situations like this?

Today around the world: August 17 is when Argentina notes the Death of General Jose de San Martin.

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08/11/04’s illustrious band:

Dry Heat

Brought to you by sunny Phoenix, Arizona.

I’m back at last from my visit to Sister-san in Phoenix. Yes, it was hot, if you consider 115 degrees F to be hot. I do. But since it’s a dry heat, it only felt like 99 or so. It was quite a climate shock for me to return to the Twin Cities yesterday to temps just over half what I’d left that morning; our area seems to be experiencing an unseasonable chilly spell.

Sister-san and I kept excitement to a minimum in deference to her delicate condition, but we did manage to accomplish a few things. Item #1: eating real Mexican food. When you walk into a place whose menu warns “We don’t do ‘mild’,” hold onto your hair. Even the beans and rice at Las Dos Molinas packs a punch, never mind the salsa. Everything was fresh and fantastic, though. I’ll go back.

Also, we ran some errands, collected materials for building a window valance in the nursery, put together some bookcases, attended a lactation class (let me know if you need any advice about breast pumps), and made strawberry ice cream. We also watched a few movies and a few hours’ worth of the Game Show Network, which is now known simply as GSN, no doubt in the grand tradition of KFC. My favorite shows were a couple of forehead-slapping episodes of The Weakest Link featuring fourth-tier former stars like Erik Estrada, Mackenzie Phillips, Cindy Williams, and Fred “Rerun” Berry. Don’t remember them all? You are the weakest link! Good-bye!

It was a nice, mellow visit, and the last time I’ll get to hang out with my sister before I become her baby’s auntie. So I was kind of sad when we parted at the airport early Monday afternoon.

Fortunately, the airline had a remedy in mind: keeping me in Phoenix an extra day. My flight was first delayed and eventually canceled due to a faulty computer chip somewhere on the plane. The gate agents busted their butts to get everyone reallocated to different flights or hotels, and they got me to the top of the standby list for a later flight home. However, that flight was already overbooked, so I was relegated to a plane leaving the next day. I called Sister-san at work and asked if I could come back to her house for one last ice cream-loaded evening. She said I could. She loaned me a toothbrush and some clean undies and a T-shirt, too, since my suitcase had made it onto the overbooked aircraft without me and was in Minneapolis by suppertime.

The next day I caught an early departure and experienced flying first class for the first time. I was seated in row 1, where I could smell both the gourmet coffee and the first-class lavatory. The legroom more than made up for the atmosphere, though, and I was kept amused for quite some time figuring out how to liberate the switchblade tray table from its folded/stowed position inside my mile-wide armrest. My errant duffel bag was waiting for me in the appointed holding pen when I arrived, so I actually got away from the airport more quickly than if I’d had to wait for it on the baggage carousel.

Mother Media, Official House-sitter of the 2004 Media Sensation Vacation Jubilee, greeted me at the door of Sensational Acres. She updated me on the latest round of home repairs -- I had managed to break the dryer on my way out the door the previous week -- and I described feeling my future niece/nephew move in my sister’s tummy. Super cool. After souvenir show and tell, we both checked our e-mail, bundled up against the cold, and headed out for a movie. And had ice cream when we got home, of course. It’s a family tradition.

Today around the world: August 11 is Independence Day in Chad, a central African country where the occasional plague of locusts is not unheard of.

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08/03/04’s illustrious band:

Steepness in Seattle

Northwest Notes, Chapter 11

Brought to you by the unbelievably hilly city of Seattle and Amy 2.0.

Monday, July 12, was another day that made me glad I had on a good pair of walking shoes. We headed first for Seattle's most famous landmark, the Space Needle. After looking it up and down (mostly up), we opted to skip the trip to the top in favor of ducking underground. Why? Well, for one thing, you can get the view by clicking on the link above and checking out "click to see Seattle live from the top of the Space Needle" from the comfort of your own home or office. And for another, at the base of the Space Needle rests the Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame! After nearly a week of plants, plants, plants, my companions figured they owed me a nonbotanical stop. I couldn't argue.

So down we went into sci-fi heaven. There was a whole room devoted to the early days of science fiction -- novels, pulp magazines, lurid cover art, ground-breaking TV shows, author-annotated scripts -- accompanied by video interviews with some of the genre's most famous writers. There was also a spaceship room, a costume/prop room, and an alien/monster room. Beautiful, glowing, wall-to-wall geekery, my friends. I wandered around this, my natural environment, in a happy, timeless fog. But after being politely asked whether I was going to compulsively read every word on every placard in every display, I stepped up the pace a little. Once I had helped the gift shop to live long and prosper, we headed back outside.

We then embarked on a driving tour of Seattle. We may not have covered a lot of ground moving east to west or north to south, but if you measure by up and down, I think we made it to the moon and back. Seattle is HILLY!! And I'm not talking about the gentle, rolling hills we Midwesterners are so fond of, no sir. These are the spiky bits left over from the day Mother Nature woke up and said, "Excuse me while I grunt out a jagged mountain range. Well, make that two."

Sitting in the back seat of the BeLuvMobile was kind of like riding in the tail car of a roller coaster -- I could see the hood of the vehicle either point up into the air or disappear down out of sight a second before hitting the hill myself. G-Doc assured me that riding in the front seat was even more coasterlike, and not always the fun part where you fling your hands in the air and yell "Whee!" and find an embarrassing digital picture of yourself on display at the end of the ride. But he coped well, and did a fine job of map reading besides.

Part of the driving excursion included -- are you ready for this? -- a lush park with a fine conservatory. Yes, more plants! They were very nice. It was also very nice to get back to Amy's pad to munch goodies on the balcony and watch Finding Nemo before bed. Sometimes unscheduled tours are the best.

The next morning was Tuesday, July l3, the last day of our trip. We needed to get to the airport by 2:00, but that still left time for a stop at a local nursery. Here, at long last, G-Doc was finally able to purchase some plants to send home as souvenirs. Some people collect postcards or salt and pepper shakers or T-shirts; G-Doc collects plants. Amy found a few for her place, too. I managed to enjoy the scenery without hindering the shopping. My gardener buddies complimented me on being such a good sport about all the plant stops, but I wasn't just playing along. What better way to spend a vacation than looking at beautiful things in beautiful weather with great friends?

Then it was lunchtime (viva la teriyaki!) and then, sadly, it was time to go. Out to the airport, onto the plane, and back to the Midwest came G-Doc and I, having left Amy with a new passionflower to remember us by. G-Doc and I parted at the Twin Cities airport, and I was home by 9:30. Mother Media, who had been house-sitting at Sensational Acres, greeted me warmly, and we had show-n-tell until past my bedtime.

Best vacation ever!

Thanks, G-Doc! Thanks, Amy 2.0! Thanks, Tourism Victoria and Vancouver Island!

Tomorrow: I take off at an ungodly early hour of the morning to spend a few days visiting Sister-san. Going to Phoenix in August may ruin my reputation as a smart Media Sensation, but it'll be worth it to see my sister and the future niece/nephew she's cooking up. Don't worry, we plan to spend most of our time in the soothing embrace of air conditioning.

Today around the world: August 3 is Martyrs' Day in Guinea.

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08/02/04’s illustrious band:

Clipper Trip

Northwest Notes, Chapter 10

Brought to you by the Victoria Clipper and Amy 2.0.
On Sunday, July 11, G-Doc and I bid a fond farewell to Victoria, Vancouver Island, and Canada in general. At 10:30, we checked in to board the Victoria Clipper, the ferry that would take us by water to Seattle to visit Amy 2.0. Since it was an international crossing, we passed through immigration and customs before boarding. G-Doc got quizzed about the reason for his visit to British Columbia, the length of his stay, and what he was bringing back with him. All very routine stuff.

My experience was more surreal than routine. My customs agent asked me if I was from "Wintersota" BEFORE I crossed to his desk and handed him my ID. How did he know where I lived? I think a Canadian Big Brother was watching me. Either the agent made a dang good guess, or some sort of high-tech gadget scanned my facial features, my passport, or my driver's license -- or all three -- as I stood in the waiting area, then popped my info up on his screen as I approached. We chatted for a few moments about the climate in Wintersota, the movie Fargo and how it was actually filmed more in Minnesota than in North Dakota, and about the general flatness of North Dakota. And then he waved me onto the Clipper without a single mention of my sojourn in Canada. Hmm.

The crossing was uneventful. I spent a few wind-whipped minutes on deck looking for whales but spotted only a surfacing submarine before ducking back inside. G-Doc actually had more fun than I did, despite not being a big fan of water travel. As seemed inevitable, he found that he was seated across from a charming Canadian lady with a strong interest in gardening and landscaping, and they talked plants and compared accents (I say "howse," you say "hoose") for much of the journey. I got some reading done. And then we were there.

Amy 2.0 was one of the first people we saw upon disembarking in Seattle. We managed to finger-hug through the fence separating arrivals from greeters, and we had plenty of time to make plans for the afternoon before the line began moving us toward baggage claim. Amy was as excited to see us as we were to see her, which we were doing for the first time since last fall. Our Canadian hosts and guides had been terrific, but there's nothing like reuniting with an old friend.

And if I can just interject some personal baggage here for a moment, I'll tell you about the worst thing that happened to me the entire trip. My travel-weary suitcase had lost a handle somewhere between Minneapolis and Vancouver Island. When we got to Seattle, I found that the zipper attaching the auxiliary pouch to the main bag had given way as well, though both pieces arrived safely. Oh, the tragedy! Yeah, that really was the worst thing that happened. Well, that and the raw oyster.

Anyway. We filled out the day easily with a stroll through the famous Pike Place Market, where I ate a divine pierogi and washed it down with sweet, plump cherries that had been picked just that morning. The PPM is the granddaddy of all farmers' markets and street fairs, covering several city blocks overlooking the harbor. The happy chaos of the PPM arcade was a bit of a culture shock after the less crowded, more orderly streets of Victoria, but it sure was cool.

A nice leg-stretching walk took us into one of Seattle's older shopping districts, where we found many shops in which to browse, including an independent bookstore in a wood-and-stone building that could have captivated me all day. But we needed food and drink -- especially drink. We asked around for places to get a good dinner and a great martini and were referred to, among other places, a martini bar up the street and Bimbo's Bitchin' Burrito Kitchen. Despite the enticing name, we opted for Thai food at Typhoon instead, where Amy and I each enjoyed a chocolate martini while G-Doc puckered up for a lemon one. My dinner consisted of Drunken Noodles, a name that I swear refers to the method of preparation, not to my state during consumption.

After dinner, winding down, we stopped at Trader Joe's for modestly priced, high-fun munchies. The chocolate-covered raspberry sticks, the wasabi peas, and the lemon ginger cookies emerged as particular favorites. Then we piled back into the BeLuvMobile for a long, steep climb (the first of many!) to the top of Queen Anne Hill for a breathtaking view of Seattle. Then, finally, it was down and up and over and up and down to Amy's apartment, also on a hillside, with spectacular views of mountains, bays, and city. We were tired enough to fall asleep without even dishing up the ice cream. Now that's tired!

Tomorrow: Ditching a landmark in favor of a geekfest.

Today around the world: August 2 is Kadooment in Bahamas and Barbados. Kadooment is a carnival/festival that sounds like loads of fun. Since today also marks a number of August holidays and Picnic days, let Kadooment stand for them all.

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