Peanut butter and jelly before dawn, with many miles still to go.

I was shaking my head as I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at 4:30 in the morning yesterday.

A pbj sounded absolutely disgusting at the moment, and the bread felt cold and dry in my hands. The peanut butter was stiff and stubborn, and as usual the jelly worked its way up the knife and onto my fingers.

I explained to a sleepy Scoobie: "I'm flying to Washington DC in a couple hours, and they don't give you any food on planes anymore. They might have pbj's for sale, but they'd probably be, like, $8."

Scoobie didn't buy my exaggeration, and went back to bed. I looked at my sandwich, grimaced, and slid a slice of pizza into a second bag, then stuffed them both in my bag.

A few hours with later I pulled the menu up on the plane and saw that yes indeed they sold pbj's, and they were $4...for a half. So no Scoobie, I was not exaggerating. They do indeed want $8 for an undoubtedly small sandwich which would probably be dryer than an Algerian lint trap.

The wealthy blond lady next to me glanced at my homemade food as she ordered another "snack pack" of crap for $12.

They charge you for the TV or movies on the plane too, but they had some free shorts from YouTube, so I put on "Written by a Kid." I don't want to give you high expectations, but you should go watch it. Watch several of them.

My neighbor glanced at me again as I shook uncontrollably, and a tear came out of my left eye to slide down my cheek.

As we touched down on the runway in Washington I leaned over to her and asked, in a Scottish accent "Excuse me miss, but can ye see the Statue of Liberty from here?"

I gave her a couple moments to stammer before admitting that I was kidding. She looked relieved.

That evening I met up with my parents, and some friends took us on a quick driving tour of a couple monuments. The Airforce Monument stretches three spikes high into the sky while suitably solemn bronze statues look on in front of a wall engraved with "Integrity, Service, and Excellence."

The new fella in my life.

You can tell me the truth. That blog I wrote about the veggie pasta I cooked? It sucked, I know. I wasn’t sure what to say during this stationary interlude, and tried to talk about the adjustment of it…

But now I definitely have something to say. Because there is someone new in my life. Someone…wonderful. I am learning so much!

This individual is affectionate and loving, but without being clingy.  The one in question…he…is independent and self reliant without being aloof.  And so considerate! For example, he hardly makes any mess when he goes to the bathroom.

In fact, he usually just goes in the neighbor’s yard.

I am occasionally prone to platonic man-crushes, but this one is different in one rather significant way.

His name is Scoobie. Now hold out your hand for a moment and let him sniff you.

Good, he likes you. We can still be friends.

I am now going to try and avoid ranting about a cat for far longer than necessary. I will fail at this task. I will not regret that failure.

This is Scoobie after reading my book.

 When he has decided that I have slept enough, he walks across my chest and onto the end table. Once there he will go through my stuff, perhaps push the book around or nibble on the prayer beads I brought back from Nepal.

This is an effective method of getting me out of bed. I am glad my college roommate never tried it.

This is Scoobie interrupted during intimate grooming time.
You will now look away. You will apologize.

 This website does not do well with text, photos, and captions. If Scoobie felt like it he could design a blogging site that worked far better, but he has better things to do. (See: picture below.)

This is Scoobie stoned on catnip. You will rub his luxurious stomach. You will feel privileged to do so.

This is Scoobie laughing. It's okay to be a little afraid.

Scoobie says you may go now.

Say thank you, and do not turn your back as you leave.

A lesson learned in the worst supermarket on Earth.

Some friends did me a favor the other day. They asked my opinion.

Everyone loves to feel like an expert, and travelers may be the worst of all. But I am leery of trying it, because I am vaguely aware of how much I don’t know, and because most people sound like pretentious jackasses while they expound on their expertise. (“I had a two hour layover in Dubai three years ago…let me tell you what the Middle East is like…they’re so organized! They like everything to be nice and orderly, A1, A2, A3, that sort of thing…”)

But I was surrounded by friends, and tales were flowing like the hard alcohol none of us drink anymore, so I indulged.

They were asking about Europe, 27 of whose countries I’ve visited (29 if you count Vatican City and Monaco) and I found myself recommending, as my secret #1 pick: Slovenia.

The capital, Ljubljana, is a friendly place of details, history, and local character which I would describe as “quaint” if I didn’t hate that word so much. Plus have you ever seen a word more fun to say? I’ll wait while you practice a few more times. Make sure to really get that “lyuh” sound. Lyooblyana.

Coastal Slovenian city of Piran, after a truly epic storm

It’s not as expensive as its western and northern neighbors, but is more developed and luxurious than much of Eastern Europe. There are trees, caves, and the coast is absolutely gorgeous.

At the time I thought nothing of it, but just now I was putting away laundry and I noticed the little glass tea-light candle holder I bought in Ljubljana and never gave away. And suddenly I remembered…

I was miserable in Ljubljana.

My time in Ljooobljaaana (calm down) stands out as one of the two lowest points of that first long trip, which are probably my worst moments on the road to date. (Knock on wood.)

It was cold, I didn’t have the proper gear, and I’d spent two days trying to win over a Czech cutie who turned out to be hung up on some dude in Prague whom she admitted was a total jerk. Those three things were actually fairly par for the course, but what really made me miserable was the timing.

I was standing in the deli section of a basement supermarket, deciding whether to have spaghetti again or splurge on some runny goulash, when it hit me.

It was Thanksgiving.

Somehow the fact of being there, surrounded by people who had no idea it was my favorite holiday of the year, so far from my family, and deciding what to eat on another lonely night in a grungy hostel…

 

Have you ever cried in the supermarket? In a foreign country? I hid in the pasta section while I tried to stop. It took awhile.

But there I was last weekend, recommending Slovenia and its capital as among my very favorite places, not even remembering that damn supermarket. Because sadness passes. Because we remember both happy and sad things, but can choose to spend more energy on the former.

And because I just spent Christmas with my family.

K was not there, and nor was her family, who I feel are part of my own, but I can see the sadness of that, accept it, feel it, and focus on the happiness of seeing all my siblings gathered in one place for the first time in 4 years. Watching my parents hand out presents, and all of us immediately knowing they’re socks.

So yes, Ljubljana is one of my favorite places. So is Monterey, California. So is Antwerp Province, Belgium. There’s happiness in all of them. I can focus on that.