A Wonderful Sunday...

Who is that saucy girl leaning on the motorcycle? Why none other than our little Gnomey on a Sunday adventure out of town. In a much better mood, rested, regrouped, and ready to take on life with renewed vigor. (And perhaps a new job? Hee hee!) Having been out of Phoenix, and the country, for such a great deal of time this Spring, we wanted to snag a weekend ride before the last of the livable, beautiful and non-sweltering days are snatched away from us by summer. That summer girl snatches so quickly and ferociously 'round here,like a catty woman at a Midnight Madness sale fighting for the last close-out special towels.


Even so, we got a bit sweaty heading out of the city for higher elevations, passing the Four Peaks mountain range. We then twisted through some beautiful country up to Roosevelt Lake. (See Pic #3 below) We've taken the ride before, yes, but today was quite radiant. The fishermen out in the reeded fringes. The wakeboarders waking their way through deeper waters. The sunlight sparkled on the surface with the playful joy of a sun not yet at high noon or high summer. Though we had to travel through the dying, desolate (oh, other than the oh so pretty mining industry) towns of Globe/Miami, the journey is an excellent one all the way to Apache Junction. All twisty, two-lane roads with not yet purely yellow desert vistas stretching away into the rock-capped mountains. Amazing how the eye adjusts to different color palates. I was thinking to myself today that the landscape is still so green, before remembering that an Arizona green is still a dusty version of the verdant New England or Pacific Northwest varieties.


At Apache Junction, however, the city really begins again. Yup. Twenty miles of pseudo-city, a.k.a. suburbs before actually reaching Phoenix, by which time our faces bead with sweat and our lungs rebel against the highway's exhaust. No way round it, so bear it we must. The Boyfriend then tempted me away from my healthy eating habits and into Joe's Real BBQ in the old, downtown section of Gilbert, a southern suburb. I'm not a huge carnivore, but I can appreciate a good rib when it melts in my mouth. Afterwards, back at home, I finished my book reclining on a pillow in a cool room, the afternoon sun slanting bright through the window.


I think somedays are just meant to be a little bit sweeter than others. Granted, Mondays are usually the red-headed step children of the weekly family. Sundays, well, Sundays just get lucky, often being the special day picked to be such a sweet, desert dessert. And I get to share this sweet treat with The Boyfriend, which doubles the pleasure. Thanks for yet another (though short) adventure, babe!

(Stay tuned for Flash Fiction #34, which hopefully shall be finished and posted by the deadline tomorrow!)

Potent Capote and Other Ramblings...

So I came up with some interesting questions the other night after watching the movie Capote. That Semour Hoffman did an excellent job? Well, he gave an amazing performance but no. And no, not the tragedy of a life being taken, or that "violent underbelly" that Capote wants to expose to conservative, archeotype Americans, or even the betrayal one human being can bestow, can stab into, can poison another with. No. No. Me? It got me thinking about writers and writing in general. The climate of writing, the process, the cultural significance, the movements. Or lack thereof.

Capote, I believe, still lived at the waning edge of the golden age of the writer. Yes, the cinema was dawning, that new story-telling form that dwarfs the original in scale, but television had not yet hypnotised us with it's commercial-ed brilliance. Writers were still celebrities of sorts. Take Capote's life cavorting at parties, spewing opinions that everyone cares about, telling stories about Humphrey Bogart and George Peppard as they filmed Breakfast at Tiffany's. Capote is even granted a public reading before his new book is published--a public, press-covered reading. This made news. I don't think I've ever been to a reading outside a smoky coffee shop or a college campus. Plus, Capote seemed to be part of a writer's mileau. Geez, wouldn't it be cool to be part of a "mileau?" Not just a classroom, not a casual group, not a chat room. But a real mileau. A community. Capote seemed to be surrounded by other writers, talented writers, writers who made full-time and notable careers out of their talent.

I suppose I am trying to say that the business and practice of writing had changed significantly over the last decade. A writer can no longer be a famous personality as easily as it once was. Even gigantic writers that any member of the general populace would know--let's say Stephen King--can get away with walking in the street without the paparatzi. And I bet you anything that Toni Morrison could never go to some small rural town and get her way, work her way into things, just be dropping her name. Our society now idolizes different people/occupations. Also, writing is less often a "profession" and more often a "hobby." Writing is now directed at a smaller market. Have you ever had someone comment, or comment yourself, about being a "big reader?" Some people read books only with Oprah's express written consent. Some people don't read books. Some only read magazines. Some only read online. Nothing wrong with that. It is just yet another symbol of the decline of written culture. No, not the decline. Let us say, the waning. To everything, turn, turn, turn. There is a season...

It doesn't change what I want to do with my life--you guessed it! Write books! But what was brought up in conversation with The Boyfriend after the movie was this... Okay, we just watched a movie about a guy writing a book. What is the difference between the medium of the book and the medium of the movie? Why could one be considered more appealling than the other? What are each one's strengths and weaknesses? This, then, is what I have been pondering and I have come up with the following:

1. The process of reading is a personal and solitary experience. Even if two people read the same book, they gain different things, visualize the story differently. They take away a unique and personal experience, even after discussion with other readers.
2. The process of watching a movie is a communal one. Yes, you can watch a movie alone but one rarely does and, even then, you can easily find others with whom to recap and share the experience. Usually, a crowd shares the viewing of it and what is the first thing you do when you leave a dark theater or eject that DVD? Talk about it. And, personally, I believe that as a movie is more present (more in your face, interactive, using more of your senses), people often share a similar experience.
3. The process of creating both mediums mimicks this personal/communal quality. An author, while utilizing research materials and editors and publishers, is basically giving birth to a story in private. One person, one story, in the privacy of one head. A movie, however, involves a huge group of specialized individuals, each leaving their small stamp upon the finished product. A director, who could be considered the head of the snake, delgates creative control in certain areas, technical control in others, is subject to the winds of financiers and such. The writer, come on, had little influence on the final product. He provides the skeleton upon which is smeared layers of Oscar-nominated talent and silicone, special effects latex, camera angle and air-brush post editing.
   
4. Where then, in this fictional philosophic model, does television fall? Hmm.

To all you readers out there, don't get me wrong. I am not lamenting the waning of print media, of the good old-fashioned break-its-spine-and-smell-the-page-musk-odor brick and mortar book industry. Okay, not much. I know it will always be there. The experience is too powerful for it ever to fade out of existence like a sun setting behind the digital hills. And the surfeit of authors in today's world only proves that. There are so many of us that are inspired by words, by holding a book in our loving hands in an over-stuffed chair or a bath tub on a rainy day or on a beach. It will never disappear. Never.

What I am interested in is this. Once upon a time, there was a group of humans in a cave and they told stories. They painted on the walls. They made music. Each of these activities provided a different, important inspiration, a different entertainment, a different part of the human experience. At certain times in our social evolution, there are fertile climates for certain sections of this artistic population. Certain golden eras. Now I'm not saying that I wish I had interviewed two murder suspects in rural Kansas, befriended them, betrayed them, and made millions by selling their story. But parts of that writer's existence... flying off to Spain to focus, the whirl of an active and talented intellectual community... part of it makes me jealous. Yes, jealous. After all, we currently live in a world where Toni Morrison, winner of the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes, can go unrecognized. Where when I speak her name to a layman (a non-reader), they often say, "Who?"

You are getting very sleepy...

I am being sooo slow at posting and reading blogs this week. Can't seem to motivate to do much. Having a decent amount of success getting out of bed at 5:45 a.m. and working for my peasley, underpaid 6 hours. Have gotten to the gym three times. Have only smoked cigarettes twice. I even sent out a few (ok, one) article query (rejected, we are backlogged at this time) and have a job interview set up for tomorrow afternoon (ghost-writing assignments, can I wear a sheet and make stutter-y, moaning noises?). But I can't seem to be myself or have much to write about. I am asleep.

Got the news that I'm not on Oregon's waiting list anymore for their MFA program. Well, they could keep me on the list until September but unless lightning strikes someone dead or they get brain-washed by Hari Krishnas... So I'm left with the waiting list at Johns Hopkins, which was a long shot to get on in the first place, let alone to move up and off of. So I have decided, no that's wrong. I have accepted going mentally to sleep for sometime to regain the strength to deal with the situation. Like a coma, see? If this was a soap opera, I'd have a white bandage sliding over my eyes and a blank memory.

Flash Fiction Friday #33

So I'm late. So what. So I was wallowing this weekend. I'm allow a good wallow now and then as long as I still appear on the other side with enough left to write, right? Anyway, thought I would go back to one of my previous expeditions and continue with those characters. Turned out quite brooding and melancholy, just like my previous expedition but I like it. I call it Ex-Hag Part II. To learn more about this crazy Flash Fiction game, visit my old friend JJ.

“Before you assume that I’m hitting on you,” he said while swirling his skewered olive, “I should just let you know that I’m gay.”

“Ah yes,” I said. “And I am so very happy too.” My drink clinked with ice cubes and a translucent brown that glowed as warm in the light as in my stomach. I later wondered how he justified the $8 martini I saw him drinking that night, what, with his salary, his part-time free-lance lifestyle. Later still, I wondered how, over the course of time, so much of it came, willingly, smoothly, like love, from my pocket.

“Witty, darling and wonderful.” He held the drink to his lips with both hands, wrists tilted in and eyes rimming the glass. He thought the look was very Scarlet, but every Scarlet only saw the Rhett underneath. A Rhett in a tight black t-shirt with flair about handling an olive. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when it turned out that he didn’t give a damn. Sorry, probably pulling the metaphor too far.

He smelled of Aqua Velva when he didn’t have the bitter, smoky aroma of coffee grounds and, well, barista bitterness. And he reached over and held my hand. A light touch with as light an intention, I suppose, but I wasn’t the first girl to fall in love with him. He took me out for eggs and hash browns. The kind that crusted on the top, leaving a grainy, white bird’s nest of pseudo-potatoes under the covers. With cheese. And a side of ranch.

“You do not need to worry about your hips. You’re a Rita Hayworth, curvy girlie,” he said. I flicked my hair like a feather boa.

In a yellow-lit diner off of Colfax with vinyl seats that I stuck to. Orange seats kissing white thighs with the late night shush of traffic slinking its way off down a one way street. It was always the late nights, always the hip weekly local paper’s events, listed in the back columns by day of the week. Open mic nights. Art shows with free box wine. Movie festivals. Mother and daughter Girl Scout fashion shows. And raves.

Yes, I miss the raves. The psychedelic orgy of midriffs and Vic’s vap-o-rub and talk that touched each other’s artificially-heightened skins, raising each individual hair, feeling those goose bumps cut through the solid air with every move.

I don’t know. I think maybe I am boring now. Always was. I got a glance at the back room, in-crowd, that knew all the right unknown things and could tell you what 70’s and 80’s TV shows were campy/good or campy/bad. But like the X, I guess, some things only go skin deep. The words I could remember speaking at those parties, I could never remember the words themselves. But their evaporation felt nice at the time.

But the childish pleasure of that love, which could be considered selfless of him, really, of that coolness. I don’t know if it is still there. Like him grabbing my hand, having known me three minutes. I don’t think I can still feel those slim fingers between my own. But I often compare other hands in mine with that warmth. Frankly, I try not to give a damn anymore.

My 100th Post

My first post back in October (Jeez, 100 posts in 6 months) was the first draft of my application essay for graduate school. Trying for the third year to be accepted to earn my MFA in Creative Writing, Fiction. How ironic, then, that this centaurian posting is the relinquishing of all hope of that dream coming true for at least another year. Happy Birthday to me!

So I suppose that I can now take this down from my refrigerator:
To me this little yellow list was a hopeful thing, a set of possibilities, a way of keeping my eye on the prize so to speak. Even the making of the little exes: the routine of using the same marker, the organized formality of it all. Made it seem less like a disaster or a failure. That final, neat ex meant that I had a handle on all of it, I suppose. A square little metaphor for the future, a roadmap that I could reference from time to time when I looked up, lost and curious about the meaning of it all, of the waiting. Well that and, more concretely, it served as an indicator for The Boyfriend--he could check the list if he found me wide-eyed and babbling under the bed.

The dots in my tidy, tenuous boxes mean that I am on the waiting list. That is some progress, I know. Especially the waiting list at Johns Hopkins, which means I am (approximately) in the top ten of hundreds who applied for the full-ride teaching fellowship position. I know that should make me feel better by providing some much-needed validation. I know that it will. Currently, however, all that does is drive home the blatant subjectivity of the whole process. Isn't "unfair" a synonym for subjective? How can one school find me so valuable and the others so worthless? How can one very credible, accomplished group of professionals see my talent, label it, appreciate it yet I must apply 3 years, spend 100's of dollars (actually, about $1000 at this point) only to not have that talent take me where I want to go. I think the vehicle of my talent may just be a lemon, here. Broke down on the side of the road, rust spots, flat tires, out of gas and the hamsters that run the rubber band engine have unionized and gone on strike. Yet on the lot, this talent seemed promising. It could make it over the mountains! With a little work, it could be quite cherry, quite brilliant!

When I received my last news from Alabama and told The Boyfriend, he responded by saying, "Do they say why?" No, sorry, the don't have to explain why. You don't know if you were the first or the last cut. And they give everyone the encouragement that they "wish you success in your career and educational endeavors" so that's really no encouragement at all. I know I am on two waiting lists but I just can't wait any longer. I can't sit around all summer and plan nothing for my life like I have been all spring. But planning anything, be it where we want to move to get the hell out of Phoenix, what job I should take/hate next, or whether to do the laundry, seems like a declaration of giving up. Throwing in the towel. Losing. Losing hope.

Don't give me any of that shit about things happening for a reason. For each action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I will not be assured about life with abstract, objective scientific principles. Or if that statement's "for a reason" has to do with "God's plan," well then that is a trifle too abstract in the other direction, hmm? Maybe the "for a reason" is because I should just give up already. Just live the rest of my life being a part-time writer, a dream part-dreamt and shoved into the corners, where ever it will fit, where the sunlight is not enough to make it grow.

But I should just get over it already, right?

Office Space...

So back to work I go. Working 9 to 5, or rather 7-3, but still what a way to make a livin'. I suppose you can't see my shame from there but I wound up working for my father again, doing the behind-the-desk, thank-you-for-calling, paper cuts and panty hose work that drives me a bit batty. And I just don't like working for family because it makes me feel spoiled--like nepotism is the only thing that got me hired or that I am a spy for the big guy. Or that I am in his pocket, being fed out of it. My independence blushes and tries to defend itself.

Well, that independence has a very good excuse, I think. I am helping out there as a purely temporary measure until another woman recovers from surgery. (Let us all send Get Well wishes to Lucille. You sure did pick a fine time to leave us, Lucille.) She will be out recovering for about six weeks and, as chance would have it, that is also when we will be taking off on our next vacation--a nine day jaunt to The Boyfriend's home state of Montana. We will be riding the motorcycle up and down then rafting and fly fishing while we are there. I swear, it is as if that boy just doesn't want me to be employed, isn't it? So my independence is being served through this backward step in the long run. However, I am still stumped as to what to do for June, July and August. After August, after all, after our current lease terminates, who knows where we will be off to, but we will be off.

Did I mention that the job drives me batty? There they are in the belfry, rattling around and strewing their guano about. Perhaps the claustrophobic little file room is the modern day equivalent of a belfry, hm? I seem to spend at least two hours in there each day. First, to catch the office up and, second, to get away from the other girl who is working at the front desk. Before I begin my bitching, I will forgive her the fact that she is only 21. Actually, she "like" turns 21 in "like" 10 days now, "ya?" She's a talker, that's for sure. Not about the weather or polite, superficial subjects either. How about the fight she got into at a party, or the bar that doesn't ID her, or the guys that, well, may have been the progenitors of an absence she was worried about earlier this month. It was definitely one of two, she thinks. Her phone beeps with text messages all the time. Needless to say, not really my crowd. In fact, here's a few little exchange I had the privilege to listen this morning:

• "Gee, Saturday is Earth Day. Hey I have a nail appointment that day."
• "You know, here is one of the only places I've worked where I didn't, like, have a major problem with someone that I worked with. I just don't get along well with some people."
• "I could always make this Friday and call in tomorrow. But then Karma would really make me sick. That's how it works for me when I call in here."
  

She honestly reminds me of JJ's Housekeeper/Massage Therapist.

Did find out a bit more about grad school. Oh such a little tiny bit. I called Alaska to simply ask when notification letters were going out and the woman on the other end of the line said currently. The check is in the mail, so to speak. But, then she went on to say she could just tell me the "bad news" over the phone. Wait, I thought. I didn't even tell you my name. How do you know it is necessarily "bad news?" However, she proceeded to tell me that, sorry, the Creative Writing school is not admitting any first year MFA students. In an effort to raise the rating and quality of their program, they are taking a planning year to change curriculum and staff. They will be refunding the $35 application fee, though. (But what about the $10 to send transcripts and the $15 for GRE scores and the $5 for postage, hmmmm?) A big oh well to them, then. It did seem like a truly excellent adventure but bogus in it's isolation and the long, expensive plane ride to get anywhere at all.

I Smell Bacon...

That is that. He has been upgraded from a TV series to a full-blown movie, even if it is a Steve Guttenberg flick. My Brother-in-Law-and-Order is now set to begin Police Academy. Let the hijinks commence! There is sure to be a bumbling commanding officer, a girl with big breasts on her chest and a gun on her hip, all those light-hearted yet crudely embarassing practical jokes, and, please please, we must have the sound effects dude. We simply must.

Little James in his khaki pants and powder blue collared shirts. Always powder blue. Loafers. I am so accustomed to think of him as a banker. Now who would have thought that my mild-mannered Clark Kent of a brother-in-law has such a Superman inside, desperate to run free. Through an obstacle course and across shooting ranges. In a blue T-shirt with his name across his shoulders, a name that will be shouted with commands to drop and give me twenty/thirty/fifty-three or perhaps that excellent Lewis Gosset Jr. quote from An Officer and A Gentleman:

Only two things come out of ________, boy. Steers and queers, now which one are you?
Don't think I can fill in that blank with "England," however. Not many steers with that mad cow thingy, hm?

Good Luck, honey. Just be sure to keep the ammo away from my darling sister. She's not only eating but also being emotional for two, don't you know. And her safety comes before the general public's. That's part of marrying into this family, buster.

The Royale With Cheese...

(Because of the metric system, right?)

It's the little differences:
My list of observations about European Travel

• Bathrooms/Toilets
• Have more privacy, with stall doors that reach or almost reach the floor.
• Are flushed with a button on the wall, which avoids that stressful bending over business.
• Are shaped differently. The bowls that is. Sometimes I wonder if the Germans like having a viewing shelf where they can appraise before flushing anything down.
• In Hungary, the water pressure is strong after flushing, causing some splashing. So those little spots of wetness on the seat are (probably) not what you think they are.
• Are not expected to be there in public places. At least, not free of charge that is. Check out the "Opera Toilet" in Vienna. Expensive at 80 Euro cents but posh and accompanied by music.
• Food/Drink
• Tea is as well-done as coffee, with as much of a to-do, which pleases this tea drinker. Usually served with an individual tea pot, an aromatic and fresh loose tea, rock sugar, lemon, and even a little cookie.
• You will never be asked to pay or made to feel bad about the length of time you linger at a table. You are expected to take your time and not expected to pay for more items as the price.
• However, when you do ask to pay, the server will hover and wait for the money immediately. Awkward when divying up the check.
• With gas or without is the question if you want water. And, while free in America, paying for it is never a question--you will.
• Not as much emphasis is placed on serving everyone's meals at the same time. It is not, therefore, too rude to eat before or after everyone else.
• If you like pate, or liver in general, Hungary is the place to be. You can get more of it, and cheaper, in any restaurant (or even fast food stand) than anyplace I have ever seen.
• Wienerschnitzel is best in Wien.
• Rieslings are usually drier in Europe.
• Getting Around:
  
• Museums are closed on Mondays.
• Shops close at 8 o'clock in most places, with a few exceptions.
• You are expected to give up your seat for the elderly. Some older ladies can be very pushy about this.
• Germans will always wait for the walk signal. Even in the dead of night, with no cars visible for two miles each direction, in the rain and with a dying friend on the other side of the street.
• Hungarian cars are not guaranteed to stop for crosswalks.
• Public transportation is better anywhere, everywhere, than in America.
  
• You will always have culture shock upon returning to the United States, even though your have been gone for only weeks from the land you have lived in for years.
  
• No, you don't have to say say "Danke" to the customs man. He speaks English.
• As do all the people around you so no more whispered comments that you are certain no one else will understand.
  
• No recycling bins in public places. All trash is still thrown away in the same place--the landfill.
• People smile in the service industry. Genuinely. Wow.
• Sorry, beer is not as cheap as soda. And you are not on vacation anymore so not before noon either.

Welcome Back to America!

Ich bin zuruck...

In other words, I am back. From the blogging dead, from Europe, from a two and a half week vacation and, frankly, there is no possible way of cataloging in my normal detail the events and pictures of those weeks. It would take me at least a week to catch up on that which means I would be a week behind on my normal-life blogging. And the amount that I am behind would only slightly diminish each day until I threw up my hands, washed them of the project, and devoted their typing fingers to others tasks. So, I shall go ahead and throw and wash and summarize the best I can.

After all, one can view and download gigabytes of beautiful pictures of all the places I went. One can read the books, the history, the captions without help from me. It's my personal spin that I would like to share. Therefore, I shall whip out a selection of my personal souvenirs--my new postcards to add to my collection!

We begin our journey in Budapest, Hungary. Pronouced BOO-da-pesht by those in the know or by those who speak Hungarian, who number only 14 million worldwide making the language rank #52 most common. A very difficult tongue that takes years to master and months to even be able to correctly pronounce most of the street names, so I'm told. Phrases I learned (spelled phonetically, of course):

• KUR-sur-nurm = thank you
• KAY-rehm = please
• EDGE = one
• KA-tur = two
• SI-ya = hi/bye
• FEE-zo-tek = the check

A beautiful city that ranks among any of Europe's capitols--an echoing parliament, gilded and balconied opera house, bustling pedestrian malls, palaces, funiculars, and bath houses with dedicated old men who play chess on water-proof boards. We caught the tail end of the Spring Music Festival, saw Puccini's La Boheme. Only got caught cheating the transit system once. And the good value of the dollar to the Forint is a bonus as well. In fact, in the outskirting city of Eger, we sampled local wine for less than $.50 a glass. And stumbled, merry and loud, to the train back to town. I believe that Budapest is a must-see European city. For us, however, it was made even more enjoyable by the company of so many resident friends--Balag, Anna, Brandon, Sonja. Thank you so much for taking us to all the good restaurants and being our kindly compass to the city.

From there, it was off by train to German-speaking lands where I am a little more confident with the language. I kick myself over and over for allowing myself to forget so much over time! This card, though, reads:

Good girls go to heaven,
Bad girls go everywhere.

We went off to Vienna but, sadly yet more cheaply, were only able to spend one day. Hotels of any decent price filled up fast for Easter. (My fault, I suppose, as I was the one who wanted to "wing it.") So we arrived at 9 in the morning. We emerged from the subway into the shadow of the soaring cathedral, brilliantly lit with cold, crisp sunlight. The Boyfriend loves Gothic architecture. Rode the tram along the old city wall, stopping to take pictures and read our history. We then decided to devote most of our time to the Hapsburg's Schonbrunn palace. This so-called "hunting lodge" (a.k.a. sprawling villa dripping with luxury where the servants ran around, out of sight, in hidden hallways) peaked our interest the most with it's garden. We dined on Wienerschnitzel in style with a local white wine, visited a cellar bar for strudel and slept out on the midnight train to...

Munich, Germany. We arrived rumpled and cramped at 6:30 a.m. to a thin blanket of slushy snow on the ground. We toured the city center before the vendors emerged, the stores opened, or the Tourist Office set up shop. I love the open air markets! I drank hot meade, ate a Bavarian pretzel, and, strangely, saw what looked like the contestants of the Asian Amazing Race reality show stream by. Very frenetic group. Lost almost two hours getting lost on our way to the art museum thanks to closures and an out-dated guidebook. But the Pinokothek Moderne was definitely worth it. We both love modern art and this museum ran the gamut from early stages to current, wild and whacked out experiments. We both agreed that the above picture, Volumi Orizzonali by Boccioni, was among our favorite. A classic beer hall Am Dom for dinner and, I tell you, a hotel bed and shower never looked so good.

The BMW Museum is also in Munich, near the tragic site of the 1972 Olympic Games Pavillion. A small museum that The Boyfriend was disappointed in. He idolizes his BMW motorcycle and wished there was a larger collection. But interesting history of BMW and WWII--building the engines of the Luftwaffe, being disarmed and forced to produce pots/pans/hand carts, having to pay about 30% of Bavaria's war reparations and almost selling out to Daimler Benz. That afternoon we spent a gloomy but educationally and emotionally necessary afternoon touring Dachau, Germany's first and longest-running Concentration Camp. What amazed me was the cute and bustling city of Dachau, with houses backing right up to the monument's grounds. I remember feeling odd about a local dealership who license-plated all their cars with "Renault of Dachau." To me, that word can only mean one thing.

We then traversed Germany to Stuttgart to visit other resident friends. It's so lovely to have people in town that know where to go, speak the language so well, and keep you up until 4 a.m. at local clubs. The first weekend was spent in the baths and the bars (Hi Fares, Ruba!). We spent our only day of rain (I know! Amazing for Europe, especially this time of year) in Ludwigsburg, home of the Wurtenburg Schloss. Everyone kept translating Schloss as "castle" yet the yellow, molding enriched facade blatantly said "palace." A great English tour and a fashion museum that even the Boyfriend found interesting. How much fashion, and therefore social interaction and everyday life, changed just as a result of the French Revoltion! Too little time with Angela--and we forgot to get your picture, darling! And our last real day of vacation was in Tubingham, an adorable but touristy hamlet where we saw a real castle and got sick on Marzipan and Maultauschen.

Now, three days later--Munich flight back to Budapest, overnight, flight to London, flight to Chicago, schedule changed, free hotel room overnight, flight to Phoenix, whew--we are finally back home. Home always smells so nice. You never smell it when you are emersed in it everyday but it envelopes you like a soft powder after a long trip. I'm still waiting for my darn grad schools--except Johns Hopkins, who put me on their waiting list, an excellent thing considering they only accept 6 fiction writers a year. What validation! But for now, a nap and back to normal tomorrow with Flash Fiction Friday. Normal, except for the massive amount of laundry.