If that ain't love then tell me what is
Uh huh
--Loretta Lynn, "Portland, Oregon," Van Lear Rose
Happy, happy birthday to me
Happy birthday to me
And to you
--Cracker, "Happy Birthday to Me," Cracker
My birthday was yesterday, actually.
The last three days have been a whirlwind. Flew out of Memphis Tuesday but not the way I expected. Ended up on another airline going through another city and getting to my destination earlier than expected--which was nice. I flew over a lot of mountains. I sat next to a very polite, very petite Italian man who said "exuse" (in that way Italians say "exuse") every time I bumped into him. Because see, I was in the very front row which means I was in one of those really narrow seats with the solid sides. The only person able to be comfortable in a seat that narrow would be a ten-year old boy. Or a petite Italian man.
And by the time I made it to my final destination I was exhausted. I mean completely exhausted. But I did have enough energy to make my way to a Lebanese restaurant where I was reminded that I do in fact like baba ganoush. It was silky, smooth, flavorful, and lovely. Take that Volta Taverna. Baba ganoush is not supposed to be slimy and gross. As I made my way back to my hotel on the streetcar, I stood next to a man that smelled like urine. But after wandering a few blocks of what is becoming one of my favorite cities, seeing nifty, healthy, normal-looking people (not dangerously skinny look-a-likes wearing party dresses and heels--or pink sweats and flipflops), standing next to a man that smelled like urine and next to another man who was giving me unsolicited advice on where to get good pizza, while two little punk 20-somethings with lip rings talked to some other dude, I was reminded why Portland is becoming one of my favorite cities.
Crazy trip, I tell ya. Lots going on. Rain, hail, thunder (hail and thunder are unusual in Portland, or so I was told). I have a big, gross blister on my toe. It's so gross I won't even begin to explain just how gross it is.
Made my way back via Chicago (I could quote Wilco right now, but I won't). It was a long, boring flight. I sat in the exit row. Those rows are so deep I could put the bottom of my foot on the back of the seat in front of me. Two and a half long hours in O'Hare. I had flashbacks to when I was interviewing while I was in library school. I turned the corner to terminal G, and I was hit with this overwhelming feeling of deja vu. All of a sudden it was four years ago, and I was just beginning my job search. When I flew through Chicago, that is the terminal I went through. Actually, the last time I went through that terminal was when I returned from the interview for my current job.
Memphis was nasty and rainy and crappy. The woman at the hotel where I had left my car hung up on me. I told her I was in terminal C. "Which airline," she asked. "American," I said, "In terminal C." "We have to pick you up by airline," *click* So much for the so-called southern hospitality. So, I went outside, saw that American was listed as being in terminal C and waited. And the driver stopped at terminal B--just like last time. I guess the signage saying "Terminal C" with "American" right below it doesn't matter.
The drive home was nastier and rainier and crappier. Plus lightning. I got out of my car and was hit with that southern humidity you feel before a storm and mumbled, "ah, fuck..."
And you know what? I get to do this all over again next week. But this time it's on the other side of the country.
On another note, I don't think I am getting all of my mail. Actually, know I am not getting all of my mail. There have been a few things that were sent to me that I should've received by now and haven't. *sigh* Sometimes I come back here, even after a quick trip where I barely had time to breath, and I think, "Why do I live here?"
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