Call it impulsive, call it compulsive

Or call it insane.

I've got a job to do, a house to clean, projects to complete and a relationship to tend to, and all I want to do it drive around with the top down and the heater on high and the soundtrack of my life blaring from the radio.

Eating in LA

We like food, my husband and I. I suppose you could classify us as "foodies" but the label doesn't really seem right. American Heritage dictionary says a foodie is "a person who has an ardent or refined interest in food; a gourmet" Weeeelllll. Yes, there are times when our interest is refined. My list of $100+ restaurants that I want to try is as long as my arm. I cook a mean foie gras, and my fancy dessert repertoire is pretty good. But ardent might be closer to the truth. We're avid readers of a website named Chowhound - people talking about food, lots of food, good food - and that label seems closer. As long as the food is good, authentic and satisfying, we're there. The AHD says a chowhound is "A person who enjoys eating." Sounds about right. The Chowhound site takes it further, saying that "chowhounds hate to ingest anything undelicious, and they won't hesitate to go far out of their way for Slightly Better." True, true.

We've been living in LA for two years now, and I think that our city of angels gets a bad rap for food. We've got a bevy of expensive places that cater to "those who are in the industry," and those places range from truly great to truly overhyped and overpriced. More interestingly, we have all sorts of "ethnic" spots and a good number of "whitey" joints. LA is the end of the line melting pot - we've got it all. The odd thing is that we don't seem to be known for any of it, and we don't have an iconic food. When we travel, we look for that *one thing* not to be missed. We've done cheesesteak in Philly and dogs, italian beefs and pizza in Chicago. Puffy Tacos in San Antonio, BBQ in Memphis, po'boys in the little bayou towns in Louisiana. But LA? What do people eat when they come here?

Last fall we decided to explore our own city - try the out of the way little places that look terrible but word of mouth says are good. We didn't get too far, though our meal at Tacos Baja Ensenada in East LA is fondly remembered every week. This Saturday we decided eating was on the agenda... there were places to try... I was voting for Middle Eastern, but the man won out with a plea for burgers.

We started at Jay's Jayburger, a stone's throw from LA City College. Just a shack, really, and reminiscent of the original Tommy's, a counter to lean against and a grotty parking lot. I had the basic single Jay burger - the man ate the super duper one with added bacon and egg for breakfast pleasure. The burger was good - the chili added to the overall taste and didn't overpower it. The bun was the best kind of nasty sponge cheapness - anything else would have been wrong.

Our afternoon meal came from the Apple Pan on Pico. Different kind of burger - belonging to the old school home-style variety rather than the nasty grease bin idea that Jay's clearly subscribes to. That isn't to say that the Apple Pan burger didn't contain the correct amount of grease (maybe here it is called juice?) that makes a burger good. The meat had flavor here, kind of crumbly around the edges and a little taste of grill. The hickory sauce on the man's burger had the distinct taste of liquid smoke - my regular burger had a glob of sweet relish and a nice hunk of tasty Tillamook cheddar. I liked it - it felt like a real old America burger. But the fries - oh, the fries. The husband saw them go into the fryer and swears that the bag indicated that they were plain old generic commercial fries. I'm here to report, then, that what makes the fry is the fry - literally. The oil and the frying time must have been perfect, because these fries. Were. So. Good. Crispy flavor along the edges but still soft inside, not at all mealy. Perfect for dipping in mayo, and of so good with a dusting of salt. The burger was good, but what will have me driving back to the Westside, people, is the fries.

Then we made a bad choice - we had gelato. From a place called Al Gelato, which is *supposed* to have really good gelato. I think our recent memory of real gelato has ruined us, though, because we thought the flavors weren't clear enough, the fruits were too icy and the texture was all wrong. Too dense, not silky enough. And the small? Was the size of a large in Italy, cost more and only allowed one flavor. We should have gone to Mashti Malone's for rose petal ... next time.

867-5309

I got your number on the wall

Someone in my office is calling Jenny. Not five minutes ago, I heard the woman down the hall from me telling someone that, no, they had the wrong number. They needed to dial 867-5309 instead.

No chuckles followed, so either she doesn't know the song, or she's better at keeping it together than I am. I immediately choked on my water and started humming to myself.

you don't know me but you make me so happy

Back away from Michaels. Away.

Due to the glory that is my jet lag, I've been getting into work earlier than usual, meaning that due to the glory that is being a contractor, I get to leave earlier than usual too. Silver lining, silver lining.

The man was going to be home late yesterday, and I needed one eensy-weensy-woo-woo of a thing from Michaels. And it was only 4:30. This was a bad, bad, bad idea. The holiday decorations are in. Mostly fall themed, which I love. But also the red berry/sparkly garland I've been drooling over for the past two years and have heroically resisted - until yesterday, when it was conveniently marked 40% off. Oh, 40% discount, how you lead me down the garden path! How you force me to buy things I don't really need, like the faux fruit centerpiece and the pretty green glass berries on a string! How you make me think long and hard about the rooster with real feathers and a big swoopy tail! Also found in my cart (yes, a cart): fancy floofy yarn for use on Christmas cards, coordinating scrapping paper cut into convenient sizes, ribbon.

I explained to the man (over sushi) that going forward, he simply couldn't leave me without supervision in the early evenings. I proudly told him that at least I resisted the rooster with real feathers and the swoopy tail. I gleefully explained that everything I bought was 40% off. But I kept a dirty secret; I couldn't bring myself to admit the terrible moment of weakness I had while waiting in line, looking at Thanksgiving things with little bits of fiber optic glittering lights. I saw the glitter and some sick related-to-a-crow part of my mind experienced an electric charge. A message of "Oh!" excitement flashed on my inner billboard. I had to fight it, resist - convince myself that I was indeed right in thinking, no believing, that fiber optics are wrong, tacky, bad. Luckily the line moved forward (a minor miracle, because we're talking about checkout lines at Michaels here) and it was out of sight. Out of crow sight, out of crow mind. I was safe.

But I walked to the car with the shaky legs of a woman who has just dodged a train wreck. I cannot go to Michaels alone. Bad things happen to my reason.

Home again, Home again, Jiggity Jig

I'm convinced that hurtling through the air at 600 mph and 39,000 feet in a metal tube will one day be proven to have very odd effects on the body. I'll be a case study.

We had an earthquake today, because that's what happens in California. Other people get tornados or hurricanes or lightning storms. Our ground moves. The epicenter was a good 200 miles away, sure, but my office tower moved. The whole "odd effects of the plane" thing comes to mind because while the building was moving, I wasn't sure if it was the building or my own equilibrium. Jet lag sucks, people. It sucks.

I'm fine going east. Put me on an eastbound plane and I get off all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Turn me around, make me fly west - and I'll be off balance out of whack and distinctly stupid for days after landing. It doesn't have anything to do with destination, either, because I've vacationed west - Tahiti, Fiji. Stupid as can be for the first few days. Flew home - perfectly peachy.

The trip was great. Superlative. Better than I expected. Traveling with my parents reminded me that I had a fun childhood. Also reminded me that as much as I love my husband, I haven't known him as long as I feel I have. That was odd. I don't want to go home and be a child, but there were times when it was my mom or dad that I turned to... because I knew that I wouldn't have to offer any background to what I was saying.

I was ready to not share my days with four other people. Some more than others. I wasn't ready to leave Italy. I wanted to watch the grape harvest and see how the weather changed and eat more gelato. On our last night in Chianti, the bugs ate me. Seriously. I have more red welts on my arms and legs than I can count. So maybe it was time to come home. I might have lost too much blood to the six legged ones if I had stayed.

Remember that road sign we tried to steal?

One of the dangers of being a history major is a strong tendency to look backward instead of forward. I've long been guilty of reliving past pleasures instead of finding ways to create new ones. I’m trying to train myself to look where I’m headed, and I spent more than a few minutes last week worried about how I would handle the temptation of wallowing in the past at the wedding I was attending Saturday. Certainly, a weekend with college friends has the potential to be an orgy of past glories and excesses.

We met our first year, living one two three in a dorm that was really too quiet for any of us. Despite (or perhaps because of) different interests and backgrounds, we melded into a cohesive whole, a triad of witches. When we were together, things happened. College happened. Then Life happened. Then long times between speaking for no real reason happened. We all missed each other, but we drifted. First I was married, then Chaos. Only the Tramp was left. Early this summer, she called. I'm getting married! In Tahoe! You have to come. Chaos called. We giggled, plotted, schemed and planned. Friday, we arrived. Four years since her wedding, four years since we had seen each other, and it seemed as if no time had passed. We were finishing each other’s sentences within minutes. Teasing each other's husbands as if they were our own. Harassing the bride about her uncharacteristic pink shoes.

We drank and laughed and talked and drank and took to many photos. We drank some more. We talked more. We reconnected and renewed our faith in why we were friends. Sure, we talked about the past. We reminisced about our college stupidity, about blowing up condoms like balloons in the science lab, about stealing road signs in Colorado, about the Supreme Transcendent Being, about our witchy behavior. We smiled a lot and sighed a little and agreed that yes, we were something else. But we also talked about the future. About families and kids and things we wanted, for ourselves and for each other. We talked about how where we were going was, in its own way, just as fun as where we had been. We joked about "being grownups" because we knew that we were just fine with that.

And somehow, I drove away from my bestest college girlfriends feeling like they were always going to be in my life. Feeling that we've managed to get past college and past those first years where really nothing is what you thought it would be, past the drifting apart and the floating around and back to what was there in the first place: friendship. When we talk about the future, about trips to take and things to do, I believe that we'll do it. That we'll be there for each other, regardless of miles. Will we get lazy and not talk for months? Probably. Will it change things? I don't think so.

This weekend I managed to stop looking backward and start looking forward. The things ahead of me are just as good - maybe better - than the things behind me. I'm still a history major; time travel still looks good to me. But I've had a unique glimpse of the future, full of the friends I shared my past with. And it looks good.

A limp adds character

I once worked for a man who refused to have surgery to fix his leg related ailment because he felt that the limp gave him character.

It occurred to me yesterday as I hurried to my car to make the most of my lunch hour that I have acquired a little character of my own.

My left ankle has led a star crossed life. Disadvantaged from the start, it has long been shackled with my large and unwieldy left foot. At a full size and a half larger than my right foot, the left has a tendency to stumble over itself, kick curbs and scuff shoes. My poor left ankle has oft been a victim of this Quasimodo foot... but the foot can't be blamed for the ankle's first true disaster. While running hill repeats the first week of my senior year of high school, I felt a pop in my ankle. And then my whole leg went out from under me. The pain came later, along with the news that my Achilles tendon was mostly gone, torn apart and frayed *boing* like breaking guitar strings in a cartoon. *boing* That was the end of my Cross Country career.

I hobbled for a long while - and, I'm sure, did more on the ankle than I should have. And even when it was healed at the walk, it still had echoes of pain at the trot, and definitely at the gallop. I didn't gallop for a long time, and I favored it - just a little - at the walk. Just to be safe.

Slowly I worked my way back up to running. It would twinge, and I was always careful to stretch it. When I moved to my current neighborhood, all steep hills and nothing flat to be found, I took it slowly. Nothing like a steep hill to bring back memories of the *bboingg.* But I was ok. I was running. And then I went to Germany. Last April. Little did I know that my ankle was again on a collision course with itself.

It was a beautiful day at the Chiemsee, south of Munich. We were on our way to see Mad King Ludwig's "baby Versailles." Our timing was a bit off, though, and the last English tour of the day was leaving in 10 minutes - from the palace a mile away. Hmph! Thought I. I can run there, hold the tour and make everyone happy. What I didn't think was that my shoes were not exactly my Air Pegasus, and that my camera was heavy and awkward. Off I went. About half way there *crack*. I was on the ground. This time where was no delay in pain. I stood up, tried to put weight on my foot - and was on the ground again. By the time I got to a bench, my ankle was thirty shades of purple and puffed up like a sausage. The fourth day of a ten day trip and I couldn't walk. Couldn't even hop, really. I gained a new appreciation for the kind people who push wheelchairs through airports - I wouldn't have made it home without them.

This wasn't "officially" an Achilles tendon injury, but it felt like it. It wasn't a break, either, but all the supporting, connecting, upright tissues and tendons around my ankle had been ripped and torn. *boing* *boing* *boing* - just like those cartoon guitar strings.

That was 15 months ago. And it was just this month that I could wear high heels again. Run without pain again. Get out of bed and stand without wincing. But back to this character...

I walk quickly. And because I lean towards higher heeled shoes, I make noise. Yesterday, when I listened to that noise, I heard that the right foot really strikes the ground. heel toe, heel toe. My left foot? It is shy, afraid to make any noise. Whispering in class. heeltoe, heeltoe. I forced myself to balance my walking. It didn't hurt. But I had to *think* about it. Within five steps, my left foot was whispering again.

I limp. I have character. And I always knew I was just like my father.

Photographs and still frames in my mind

With two weeks and two days to go until we leave, I'm feeling alternately ready to go now, full of disbelief that we are actually going and totally not ready. For the past 3 weeks I've been assembling books and information, booking hotels and buying travel socks. I'm sure I've got a list a mile long of things to do before we can leave, but I haven't even made the list yet. I feel woefully unprepared and at the same time over prepared.

This trip is an odd itinerary for me. With the exception of Venice, I've been to all these places before. And with the exception of Salzburg, most of them were on my "I'm a big girl and can travel alone" trip after Oxford. I still wish I could have taken more time. I wish I had thought to figure out how to have more money. And I'm still mad at the French transportation workers for striking and thus making it impossible for me to get to France OR Spain. I've still not been to either country. (Well, Strasbourg, but I don't think that counts, esp. since I spell it in German) It will be novel to be in these cities with a little more money to spend - hell, who am I kidding - a lot more money.

I'm of two minds about this trip. These were all cities I liked. I'm excited to share them with my family. I'm excited to go back and see them well rested and not half terrified. I'm looking forward to having a nice hotel room and money to buy dinner and the ability to shop. And I'm looking forward to the company. On the other hand, I'm afraid that I'll compare this to that and this will lose. Comfort, money, company and security ... and I'm still afraid it will lose.

That trip was mine. After living in England for three months, I had finally shaken off a past relationship. I had proven to myself that I could go somewhere and be who I wanted to be - that I could choose to have friends or not, that I could fit in by choice. I was on my own, probably in all fairness for the first time in my life.

Yes, I was scared to travel alone. There were moments where I thought it was the stupidest thing I had ever done, and I really didn't even like it. There were times where I had to convince myself that I was having a good time. I wasn't prepared to travel the way I was traveling - and yet, I made it. I saw Prague before it was a true tourist destination. I saw the older women in their communist era clothing still walking head down. I saw the Cologne cathedral covered in snow and bathed in moonlight from the window of a train compartment I shared with a woman I could barely communicate with. I stood in line in the snow for hours to see the horses of the Spanish Riding School train, and my breath might have been frozen, but I wouldn't have known it, because watching the riders stole it away. I woke up on a train that had left Vienna in the dark to see central Italy spread out before me like a mural from a text book, and I cried. So did most of the other travelers seeing it for the first time. I saw Rome. I saw Rome. I saw Rome. I stood in the Coliseum and for the first time truly understood that our era is still copying the achievements of the past. I saw the renaissance in Florence, beautiful ideas springing from a fortress of medieval buildings. I shared wine and bread with two other wandering women in on an overnight train back to the channel. I accepted the kindness of a stranger who made sure I got to the airport when I truly hadn't a cent to my name. I promised to do it for someone else some day. I haven’t had the opportunity yet, but I will.

All the nice hotels and good food and fun shopping can't approach the newness of that trip - the rawness, even. That trip hurt. It was like jumping into an icy pool, feeling my heart stop and then beat again so quickly it might burst - and then realizing that I liked that cold water. And how will I share that? I don't know that I can. Yes, I can take my family to the place in the square in Prague where I felt not only my roots, but a real sense for the motivation behind immigration. I can take them to the Soviet art that gave me a feeling, not an idea, about communism. I can take them for gelato along the Arno and talk about what I saw, but I can't communicate the real journey I was on, and the real things I saw, that I still know, burned into my mind, my self. I don’t even know if *I* can see those things again, with that newness. And I suppose that I’m a little afraid that I can’t, that I won’t be taking new photographs to add to those vivid ones. I want to – I hope I haven’t forgotten how.