Between Sunday night and tonight:
- Realization that this month's epic DSL nightmare may not have anything to do with the DSL, but is probably the fault of my Mac and its stupid broken Ethernet port.
- New living room rug purchased after finally deciding to chuck old, stained, Craigslist rug turns out to be wrong for the room. So very wrong. Roll it right back up again.
- Weird bumpy rash decides to attack left shoulder.
- Insomnia at 4:15 a.m. after vivid dreams about giving birth in a fluffy white room filled with pastry. Totally Marie Antoinette's fault.
- Check Engine light goes on. Holiday gift budget recalculated to include car repairs.
- Cell phone screen actually dies after threatening to all week.
Tonight between 7 and 8 p.m.:- Mac Genius assures me laptop will be whisked away to Tennessee and cured in the shortest possible time. For free.
- Incredibly bored IKEA staff truly excited to deal with the rug. They almost tussle over who gets to ring up the return. In and out in five minutes flat.
- Check Engine light goes off.
- Latest installment of West Wing from Netflix waiting in the mailbox.
- Antibiotics start to work.
- New phone dutifully copies entire address book from old phone like the little digital miracle it is.
One good hour can trump 48 wicked ones, hands down. Happy Halloween.
It is one. And they say California has no seasons.
Ha! We know better here in the north.
That's all.
Yes, I survived!
Sorry it's taken me a few days to let you know, but my DSL connection is still on the fritz despite a dozen calls to customer service and a visit from tech support. Of course, the line worked perfectly the whole time the guy was here. At least he was nice about it. "Murphy's Law," he chuckled, and didn't charge me anything.
Anyway, the marathon: It was pretty chilly outside and the hills were brutal (five of them instead the two I expected, so unfair), but I didn't stop at all and finished just under my target time, so I feel great about the whole thing.
Miles 7 to 9 were the hardest for me, but once I got past 10, each step I took was farther than I'd ever run before. It's amazing what kind of adrenalin you can drum up by telling yourself that. Even manged a sprint at the very end.
The only time I felt uncomfortable was after eating a couple of nasty Clif Bar energy blocks. Stay far, far away from them. Otherwise, my head was clear and my legs kept on going, so it was all good.
Here's my gear, by the way. Just imagine the runner has exited stage left:
My race rewards—other than the little Tiffany necklace handed to me by a tuxedoed fireman (seriously) after I crossed the finish line—were a stack of pancakes and 30 minutes in a rented hot tub. If I could always have those two things afterward, I'd run half a marathon every weekend.
Well, maybe not. But it's cool to be able to say I did it once.
The marathon is tomorrow! I'm amazed. Given the usual breakneck pace of California time, I feel like the months leading up to this self-induced test of will (and leg) power have been trickling by.
But here I am, with an official number bib thing:
Plus a fancy dri-weave shirt and a collection of pouches that attach to different parts of my arms and waist to hold my cell phone. I kept trying to find one that's comfortable, see, and it turns out none of them are. But the Nike "arm wallet" doesn't cause actual pain and doesn't fall off after the first few miles, so it's the big winner. And you've already met my excellent running shoes.
Today was the ooh la la Nike Expotique at Union Square, where I joined 16,999 other energized ladies to pick up our race packets, mini Luna Bars, Macy's coupons, and power to the (female) people T-shirts:
You know this is a women-focused event because they had a tent for massages, manicures, and sport underwear fittings. It was all free, but I didn't feel like waiting in a three-hour line so a Nike rep could tell me my bra size and try to sell me pink sneakers. It was way too nice outside for that.
One neat addition to this year's expo was the huge list of runner names posted on the side of the Nike store, à la Vietnam Memorial (creepy reference, but they look just the same). I forgot to bring my camera, but I did find my name and grin at it a little.
Now it's time for me to revisit grade school by going to bed at 9 p.m. Anyone—ahem, Amy—who remembers last year's alarm fiasco will understand why I'm setting at least two clocks to wake me up in the morning. Maybe three.
See you in about 13.1 miles. Woo hoo!
Remember that one time when I said I was going to eat at all the places in my neighborhood I hadn't tried yet? Wasn't that an excellent idea? Especially the part where I didn't do it.But wait! I finally did. Here goes, the inaugural meal in the soon-to-be-infamous Locally Grown series, brought to you by The BCB.
The other night was my first dinner at Mitama, a newish place (one or two years old) less than 10 minutes away by foot. It looks friendly and it's usually packed, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything other than convenience—it's the only sushi joint along that stretch of College. It also replaced the beloved Buttercup Café, so that's a wee pinprick in my back. But deep down, I suspected greatness. It just had that vibe.
There was no line at 8 p.m. on a Sunday, a promising start. I'm not a fan of the marathon waiting list, even though it seems to be a point of pride for most Bay Area restaurants. Then they had an eggplant and garlic appetizer on the list of specials . . . my idea of heaven on a little white plate. I ordered that to start, then an avocado roll and inari.
Just the basics. When a sushi place makes good inari and knows how to pick an avocado, most vegetarians will leave happy. (If you're looking for a review of their fish, try here.)
All three dishes were excellent, fresh and clean and carefully arranged. The inari wasn't too sweet, the eggplant was cooked just enough and spiced well but sparingly, and the avocado tasted like the reason why I live on this coast. Their green tea was a little bitter, but that's a preference thing, not a quality thing. The wine list was brief, straightforward, and Californian.
Mitama (fresh, simple, tasty) is located at 3201 College Avenue in Oakland.
Last night, I went to hear some friends play at The Hemlock.
Hudson Bell, Stoo, and Brian are the latest touring incarnation of Hudson's band, and this show was the first in a two-week ramble across the U.S. for the boys and their wondervan. They kicked the adventure off right with a great set of guitar madness. Snaps all around.
Between bands, I stepped outside for some air. It's a sketchy neighborhood with the usual crowd of homeless folks wandering by, so it was par for the course when one of them stopped to chat.
"Can I serenade you?" he asked. Everyone has a gimmick. Really, to the point where you expect it. Just asking for change is old. If you want my money, give me art.
"Sure," I said, empty-handed, "but I don't have any cigarettes or money for you."
"I don't smoke," he said, and launched into "Lean on Me" in a rich tenor.
Back in 1995, my first summer in the Bay Area, I had a coworker and friend named Sarah. We used to kill time between houses (canvassing door-to-door for a nonprofit) singing that tune and another soul classic, "Son of a Preacher Man." We must have put on a thousand curbside shows of each one in a dozen neighborhoods between Bernal Heights and Woodside.
So the harmonies are embedded somewhere deep in my music brain, to the point where I think it might be physically impossible for me not to sing along. I did. The guy didn't seem to notice or care, but it sounded pretty good in the end. He mumbled something I didn't catch and then shuffled away.
No profound conclusions here, epiphanies about a universal language or the brotherhood of man. It was just a breath of air and a little night music, and I appreciated them both.
I somehow managed to drive across the country a couple of times without ever seeing Iowa. Without even passing through it. I guess it's not that hard to avoid—just don't take 80—but I was still a little ashamed to call myself a traveler while skipping most of the midwestern U.S. Then came a chance for redemption.
If you've never been to Iowa, here's the scoop: It's exactly what you imagined, except for the sharpness of its beauty. It's truly beautiful, full of corn, gentle neighbors who always say hello, and gasoline so cheap it made my West Coast brain hurt.
corn!
And it's in the middle of nowhere. But you suspected that part.
I landed at the tiniest airport ever—Quad City, in the heart of Moline, IL—to visit my childhood friend who teaches at Cornell College (go Rams!) in Mount Vernon, IA. One of her students cleverly nicknamed her Pro Mac, so that's what we'll do here in Blogland also.
After landing, I gave Pro Mac the usual call to strategize finding each other outside the airport. "Don't worry," she said with that special touch of wryness reserved for anyone who lived in Manhattan for the better part of a decade and then wound up in Iowa, "It's like a bus station. It won't be a problem."
don't blink
Right she was. I was one of two people standing outside when her car pulled up in the little airport driveway. There wasn't a white-gloved officer in sight to order us along, the way they do at Oakland and SFO if you spend longer than 10 seconds by the curb. Pro Mac got out to walk the dog, Roscoe, who quickly made friends with the other woman who was waiting.
Welcome to the Midwest.
Pro Mac and I spent a relaxing few days wandering along Mt. Vernon's cute downtown, the pretty Cornell campus, and Iowa City. Since the celebrated Iowa Writers' Workshop is based there, the city has a literary charm, with nice restaurants, lots of coffee shops, a few overpriced boutiques and funky vintage stores, and a collection of wise bon mots engraved in the sidewalks:
"poetry is nothing but its own madness"
I also got to visit Pro Mac's class. That was a huge kick, because even when you know your friends are great at their jobs, you almost never get to see them in action. Also I got to feel like a big, scary grownup for a couple of hours, with a roomful of cherubic, brace-toothed, 18-year-old faces eyeing me nervously.
It's OK, kids. I was you five minutes ago. Trust me . . . life gets easier.
you will escape the dorms
But my favorite Iowan pastime is officially apple-picking, followed closely by apple-eating. Pro Mac and pals planned a date for us at Wilson's Orchard, where a crowd of locals had gathered to spend a perfect fall Sunday shaking down the trees.
farmscape
what century is it again?
the rogue apple in its natural habitat
Each variety of apple has its own row or set of rows, with the trees spaced generously apart and supported by posts:
The varietals are neatly marked by name, season, and hybrid recipe (if applicable):
sorry, dad, just missed your season
Hungry? Here, you can have one. I just took a little bite:
Before I sign off, I'd be remiss not to mention the two most popular Iowan modes of transportation. First is the tractor, of course:
there's a john deere shop at the airport
shocking but true
And the second is anything—from shiny SUVs to ancient pickups to minivans stuffed with apples and kids—with a vanity plate. I've never seen so many vanity plates. Every other car seemed to have one:
Now if I'd only spotted a tractor with a vanity plate . . . traveler's bliss.
