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.

Steadily going insane...or not.

How can a house be so quiet? It’s not just that there is no one else here to make noise, it’s like the house absorbs any sound I make. Days here alone and I wonder if I’ve lost my hearing entirely, but for the relentless ticking of the clock. A countdown to madness.

I search for reasons to get out, places to go. Yesterday I decided to take my crappy little netbook to a coffeeshop to work there. The sounds of coffee being prepared, conversations held by others, anything to avoid the ticking silence.

The air was misting, heavy enough that most people would have called it rain. And suddenly I didn’t want to be in the coffeeshop, I needed to be outside. I wanted to walk by the sea, see her rolling ocean breakers smashing into the helplessly stubborn shore.

So I turned back to home, switched the computer for the camera and the mp3 player, and started walking.

The air was like that moment you turn off the shower, water coating you but no tangible falling. It felt good, but the mood, the music, the prospects for everything were not. Grey steps on grey pavement under a grey sky beside grey waves, the future…grey.

I’d tried to work on my writing project that morning, and after an hour it hit me: it sucks. The first few pages…if I picked up a book like that, I would put it back down unread. Why would anyone read my scribbling when there are so many better books out there? The competition unnerved me. No point in trying.

I kept walking, sweatshirt slowly soaking through. Passersby passing by, apparently not seeing me. Did I even exist anymore? Shoes squelching, eyelids dripping, vision clenched in wet eyelashes.

Steamer's Lane, Santa Cruz, CA (on another day)

I got to the end of the road, where it turns to lose its memory of oceanic greatness in the mundane ambling of city streets. That’s the famous Steamer’s Lane in Santa Cruz, California, where the surfers do their thing.

And there was a competition going.

The waves were speckled with a surfer horde doing their best to distinguish themselves for the judges, but indistinguishable in their uniform black wetsuits, the judges hidden in a black tarp booth so no one knew if they were paying attention anyway.

And there in front of me, just off the edge, a sea otter floated on its back, eating a sea urchin, totally uncaring of the surfing competition going on around him.

I laughed out loud.

Dedication on one of the benches along the way

And I realized that I can be that otter. I can lie back in the sea’s embrace and enjoy my fucking sea urchin thank you very much, without a care in the world for the competition around me. It’s not my competition, my life is other than that.

I laughed again. The damp clothing was the only weight on my shoulders.

Not waiting for shuffle to lend a hand I chose some upbeat music, potent rhythm, and returned home, steps coming quick and powerful. So maybe someday I’ll tell this blog that I finished my book. Maybe not. Sea otter don’t give a shit, the world is good.

Culinarily Challenged

Step 1: Dice most of an apple.

2. Shmumf in a big scoop of mayonnaise and stir it up.

3. Add a can of tuna, stir some more, then put half the mix on a piece of toasted bread, preferably with lots of seeds and stuff. Cut the other piece of bread in half before putting it on, then you can cut the whole sandwich without pushing all the filling out as you go through the top layer. You're welcome.

4. Garnish with unsalted potato chips and a kombucha.

That reminds me, how long after the expiration date
does egg nog stay good?

That’s about the extent of my culinary knowledge. When it comes to cooking, I am apparently 32, going on 18-year-old-college-freshman. I am not proud of this.

Nor am I entirely sure how I managed to get this far and only accumulate a half dozen recipes in my head. I suspect it’s a combination of lots of time on the road (which entails a pretty limited larder to work with), a viewpoint that says “if it’s just me, why bother, let’s have cereal” and the biggest factor: incredible luck in the girlfriend department.

That’s not to say I never cook for her/others, it’s just that I kinda only cook the same few things. We ate lots of stir-fries in Belgium on my nights. Beyond that, I’m good for chili, lasagna, enchiladas, and generic spaghetti. That’s about it.

--Just for the record, there is a fringe benefit to culinary incompetence. Unable to make delicious food myself, I am amazed and overwhelmed when other people do it, so eating at others’ houses or restaurants is often a sublime experience for my poor palette, which has been 18 for 14 years now.--

But this incompetence, not previously of particular concern, is suddenly more problematic. My inspiration and food supervisor, K, is back in Belgium, and I will be required to feed myself for three months without the excuse of “oh, I’m traveling and buying small amounts of food to cook in this shitty hostel kitchen isn’t as good an option as the $1.50 lunch special across the street.”

Plus, I’m going to try and limit myself to only one burrito every three days. Think I can do it?

Learning to cook for myself is only one of the challenges, both personal and professional, that I find myself faced with, but at the moment it seems the most significant, maybe because I had a burrito the night before last and I have no firm idea what to cook tonight…

Do you like how I artistically arrayed the cheese for you?

But I am mighty hungry, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go sauté some garlic, add broccoli and zucchini, dump a jar of tomato sauce on it, and serve over bulk pasta with a few slices of jack cheese for counterpoint. It ain’t on the menu at your fine neighborhood restaurant, but it’ll do for me. And I cooked it.

Enchiladas tomorrow.

She leaves tomorrow.

It’s a common story in the blogosphere, especially here in the land of the travel blogger. Change of circumstances and the blogs dry up. Ecuador was just about done, but there were a couple things left to mention.

But a month ago today we came back to the U.S., and have spent the weeks eating, visiting friends and family, and seeing all the stuff that I should have shown her the first time. Or the second, or third. There are blogs in there, but for now I can’t see outside the moment.

I won’t see outside the moment.

Because today is waking up slow, sunshine on the sheets and a ridiculously loveable cat within reach.  It’s biking a couple blocks to the store for fresh fruit, yogurt and granola for breakfast, and eating it in the sun, together, plus the cat.

It’s tending the koi pond a bit, and sitting to pristine conversation, again the sun, again the cat. It’s celebration, unity, and love.

Tonight it will be dinner for two in a good restaurant provided for by dear friends. It will probably be a tasty dessert, and maybe some Arrested Development before bed? A walk along the beachfront path, waves, stars, and moonlight?

But then there’s tomorrow. Tomorrow is a single one-way ticket to another continent and dropping her off at the airport to use it. It’s another plane, working perfectly but doing the wrong thing, increasing distance instead of traversing it.

It’s coming home, alone, to a house whose definition of quiet is abruptly changed. It’s dinner for one, where there used to be two, and leftover space in the bed. It’s starting up skype, and trying to appreciate it instead of hating it.

I love today.

But tomorrow…

it will pass.