This shift is interesting, and for lack of a better analogy, I feel like an onion that's being peeled, more and more old dry layers falling away, revealing the vital spicysweet stuff underneath. Living in Boston changed me, and I won't sit here and say whether it was for better or for worse, because I don't think those delineations exist; nor do I think one city is better or worse than another -- I am just in different realities where there are different ways of viewing the world.

I knew when I was in Boston that I was quickly losing touch with nature. Me -- who had grown up in the woods, who had been up to my knees in water every day of my life since birth (if not fully submerged), covered head to toe in mud and scratches and loving it, camping, the sky, the stars, summer -- and even sledding, skiing and ice skating, igloo building, wandering in the rain and the gray and white -- it was my world. Rather quickly I was ushered into the urban landscape when I moved to Boston. I was aware of it -- and I didn't fight it. The overwhelming pulse of the city -- suddenly surrounded by lights and noise, music, people, traffic -- I was hungry for all of it, and never satiated. I am, after all, a volume freak. Overstimulation hound. Never enough.

I love the overwhelming city. Part of me always will. But I remember the absolute silence that enveloped me when I got out of the car at the Badlands National Park last month. Not just auditory silence, but the kind of soul silence that would be nearly impossible for me to achieve in my Broadway apartment. There was nothing. And yet, everything I could ever need. Air, wind, water, dirt. Not even another person present, aside from Mon Frere. I realized I probably hadn't been alone like that in a year or more -- since I went to Maine to see my Nathan Bright Autumn Sky and I napped in his hammock on the edge of the blueberry fields and watched the sun go down through one open eye, hoodie pulled over my head, rocking. Listening to the loons giggling over the lake. It made me still. It made me young.

Last year I hated summer. The year before that I hated it even more -- some reasons health related; even now, post-Lasik, my eyes are excruciatingly sensitive to light but I've invested in a deep dark pair of sunglasses that have made the sunshine less painful. And once I got through my initial Irishgirl sunburn of the season, my skin has been cooperating nicely. I don't miss my air conditioner. I'm discovering that I don't actually dislike the long sunny days. I do still love the cool nights. But I'm not hiding around inside waiting for them this year.

It's green here. Trees explode, limbs heavy with growth hanging their arms down to the grass, creating a verdant tunnel to walk through down the street. Flowers push up through the pavement, roses and daisies tumble down the steep yards wildly. Fruit grows everywhere -- apples and blackberries lining the sidewalks. Fields of lavender along the walkways, dill and anise and bamboo slicing up between houses. At work people bring in bushels of vegetables grown in their back yards. I'm smothered in the freshness.

The downtown Seattle area is so small, and I have no reason to ever go there. This city feels more like a small funky town -- spread out over miles. Capitol Hill is pleasantly populated but gently so (aside from Pride and the Capitol Hill Block Party on Saturday, which I will recount). It's not exactly urban here. I mean, it is. Technically. But it's no Manhattan.

Yesterday I went to a barbecue, and there was so much fruit growing in the yard that batting practice began, slaughtering bushels of apples with a Louisville Slugger. There's something gratifying about smashing an apple with a wooden baseball bat. I highly recommend it.

Toward the tail end of the barbecue, I had the impulse to go to the beach, and so minutes later we were on the sand, surrounded by bonfires, watching the sun implode in a sorbet parade behind the Olympic Mountains. Sailboats and kayaks and the half-full moon sparkling up the waves of Puget Sound. The sand was still warm from the day of hot sun. I was sprawled on a blanket eating tree-ripened cherries with a red grin and staring at the tangerine sky, saying, 'I could die right now and be so happy.'

The Amtrak train screeched by behind us and the crazy masses of people dancing on the beach reminded us that we were still in the city. But geez louise -- curled up there under the stars, knee-deep in sand and surf, I couldn't see a single skyscraper. And for a few blissful hours I forgot the stink of hot asphalt and the white hiss of Interstate 5.

Last time I was in Viva Seattle, I spent hours hanging over the waterfront railings watching the ferries. Listening to those bellowing throaty groans from the neat white boats, trimmed in green, flocks of fat seagulls tumbling in its wake. I didn't know where they went, but I wanted to take them.

I'm discovering there's a whole lotta stuff here. Like, Canada. And San Juan Islands. And Orcas. You can jump in a boat to Alaska in no time provided you've got enough sunblock. Among the clippers that head to British Columbia and the Royal Carribbean ships that pick up here en route to Juneau, there are ferries departing hourly from various islands of the Pacific Northwest. Bainbridge is supposedly one of the more popular destinations, but for sake of both adventure and view, we jumped on the ferry to Bremerton in the beginning of a gorgeous Saturday. The mountains -- Olympics, Cascades, Rainier, the whole nine -- were out loud and clear. The stunning landscape is simply not getting old for me. I've been informed that the state of Washington allows a six-month grace period during which grossly-extended jaws and pop-eyes are permissable during city travel. After that, heavy fines are enforced for gawking at the skyline. I've got five more months to be a tourist.

My tour guide is actually privately-hired; he is The Boy from UW I've scooped up. We've been lighting campfires in his back yard, having cherry-pit-spitting contests, comparing park sunsets, and listening to too much Johnny Cash. So I said 'ferry' and he said 'Bremerton' and there we were Saturday morning hanging over the rails and staring at the churning Puget Sound bound for this Naval base neither of us had ever lain eyes on.

Silver ghost town. Slate and garish noon and out-of-business, closed, boarded up, steel gratey and construction sand. We wandered in the blaring sun in search of the main street and realized we'd already reached the end of it. Seeking sustenance, we returned to the sketchy strip of waterfront venues, toward the Drift Inn; surveying our options we entered the most boisterous of the three, hoping for safety in numbers.

We thought we entered a pub. What we entered, actually, was the Twighlight Zone.

The dead silent streets, roamed only by those who departed the ferry with us and the occasional tumbleweed, were apparently empty because everyone was at the Drift Inn. Early afternoon drunken activities ensued, pool playing, cackling, ass-grabbing, sports on TV, a demographic I couldn't quite put my finger on -- but we were the youngest pair by at least two generations. We sat cautiously at a high wood table scattered with confetti shaped like pineapples and flamingos. To my left, a bubblegum diner waittress was making transactions of a decidedly un-restaurant-related nature. I glanced wide-eyed at my cohort who suggested an alternate site for afternoon refreshment.

Heads lowered and tails between our legs, we shuffled quickly past the toothless, pool cue-weilding locals who had been licking their chops in anticipation of biting us.

The place next door was equally scary though darker and less populated; I turned on my heel and retreated out the door faster than I came in. Strangely, our third option was an upscale cafe with prosciutto panini, espresso, and mysteriously categorized female-themed greeting cards (diet humor, chocolate humor, fat humor, shopping humor). We ate quickly, eyes on the clock for fear we might miss the ferry back to Seattle and be stranded in Bremerton longer than necessary, which at this point was an hour. With a few minutes to kill, we walked along the boardwalk, which was so sad and barren under construction, each recycling bin and garbage can plastered with a plaque dedicating it to a lost naval officer.

Upon the all-aboard call, we secured our spot at the back so we could watch the seagulls spiral in the wind pockets created as the boat sliced through the air. The gulls were playing on their wings, digging the free ride and rejoicing in their own flight, swooping and spinning, diving, catching a gust and riding it up then plunging down to the water and skipping sideways, climbing back up -- a dozen of them, synchronized swimming, dancing above the wake. A fistful of little kids started throwing bread to them, and they spun at inspired angles to catch the treats midair. Soon they were so fat they couldn't fly and dropped off down to the Sound to digest. Except for one gull who stayed lofted long enough to take a giant crap on some teenager's head, much to the boy's horror and his friends' amusement.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull smiled.

White girl got a sunburn.

What a perfect day.

Unfortunately, while leaving Mt. Rushmore, we drove through the expansive aftermath of a forest fire that ravaged Little Bighorn last summer. The forest was so sick I could feel it mourning. It was like driving through death itself -- as far up and out and across as you could see were scorched trunks and black branches jutting out into the sky like creatures from a Tim Burton film.

But as we drove on, Rapid City exploded in a sunstorm of hot wet wind and gave birth to a vivid double rainbow. Then the skies exploded. In the end, it was a colorful evening, and a reminder of how Nature goes on in her own beautiful way when humans stop messing with her.

Shea took all of the pictures in this post. Props to you, bro.

But we could drive through and it was on the way. So.

It was around seven PM and the sun was starting to sink. As we rounded the corner of parched earth, I saw tips of the canyons peaking through. I couldn't fix my eyes on them. I couldn't tell how big they were or how far away. In minutes we were surrounded by them. I parked, jaw hanging open, and walked to the edge of the most strangely beautiful landscape I had ever seen in my life.

Shea and I silently parted and began to explore. I sat down in the dry dirt in my blue linen dress and my head spun at the sight. I felt like I was sitting on an alien planet. My bare feet were buried in the sand. The wind raced across the open plains behind me. Far away, a coyote howled cinematically and Shea and I turned to each other and smiled.

The sun was dragging itself down in a fit of tangerine and magenta when we got back in the car. Both of us were speechless. We drove through the Badlands National Park, twenty miles of curving roads blanketing the perfect landscape. Shea was waist-height out of the sun roof taking panoramic photographs of the sunset. It was easily two of the best hours of the long trip.

Thanks for the tip, Rizz.

"NO, Mom!!!! Please!!!"










Verrrryyy stressed-out at the Days Inn, Wisconsin. *yawn*

The University of Washington pulled me in this morning for my third interview and then offered me the job. This is the dream job for which I curtailed our cross-country escapade -- the job for which I bought a suit and rehearsed for hours answers to questions like, 'Tell me about a time you had a conflict with a co-worker and how you resolved it.' 'What do you think is your greatest weakness?'

Oy.

My greatest weakness? I cry when people tell me I screwed up. My conflict with a coworker? We resolved that one out in the back parking lot afterhours. There was a baseball bat and a trash can involved.

So my new place of employment, from here on referred to as "THE U" or "U DUB", welcomes me on Monday. I'll continue along the lines of my position at Harvard. This spot is in the Pharmacy department. (Shea during mock interview: "Do you have any experience with pharmaceuticals?" Me: *giggle*) I'll be processing proposals and grants to the National Institutes of Health to get money for drug research. It's going to be good. The staff is great. And they pay for acupuncture.

Speaking of which, I went for acupuncture last week. There's a gaping hole in my intestines from the ibuprofen I've been inhaling and I'm out of... um... pharmaceuticals so I went to have some needles stuck in me to see how that worked out.

The woman looked like Grace from Will and Grace. So much that I kept staring at her and she's like, "Are you okay?" and I said, "Yeah I'm sorry -- you just look so much like Grace."

She worked on me for an hour and a half, and it lessened the pain for a few hours. I think I'm going to need a few more sessions. Like, 100.

But I'm determined to turn this spine around. Doing lots of physical therapy, laying on ice and resting. And praying.

Put in a word for me, will ya?

Mags: Tetris Genius/Champion Packer, Goddess of Chocolate Cake, Physics Teacher Extraordinaire

Mags is a Tetris genius. This is evidenced in the ridiculously mathematical accuracy she employed in packing my U-haul in Boston. In fact, while trying to dig something out of a buried box inside the U-haul, I removed ten or twelve items from the U-haul and discovered that there was no way to put them back in. I don't know how she did it. I'm serious. My bike came out and it won't go back in. I found the nylons I was looking for, but now the innards of the U-haul are barfed all over the floor of my friends' garage, where the stupid vehicle is being temporarily housed. Mags, I need you to draw me a diagram.

Our plans had been to meet and greet at Mags' place in Somerville for some noshing and then head to the Lizard Lounge to see my favorite local band play. They had returned from a long trip far away and it had been six months since my last show. Their music had been feeding me on a daily basis until they left in January, and I was starved for it. There were about 20 of us, ready to leave for the show, when I received news that there had been a screw up at the club and the show was postponed.

This was terrible news -- not only from the selfish disappointment of not seeing one of my favorite musicians perform before I left the East Coast, but also because I knew how much that show meant to him. I was crestfallen. If I had a crest, it would have been on the floor. You know, if I were a cockatiel or something.

But he played anyway. In Mags' living room. We cleared the furniture and I got to hear my favorite songs acoustic, live on the couch. When he played the Shower Song, I cried... somewhere along the line that song started making me cry every time I heard it, which became a problem when seated in a crowded bar. It's never a sad cry though -- it's always the kind where my heart is so full I feel like I'm going to explode. It represents every flawless breath of synchronicity in this universe that keeps me going day to day.

Then Mags made me eat chocolate cake with Power Puff Girls on top, "We'll Miss U" spelled out in M&M's, and everyone went home happy.

That's a good question. I'm not sure why.

Me and Mon Frere.





Paivi (are you really my roommate?!) & Ahmed





Dan & Steph

P.S. 'Waltz #2' just came on in the cafe as I'm finishing this -- in the place where I make no mistakes. Thank you, Elliott Smith. XO Please pause for a moment of silence.