Author: alohawild

The morning started early on Sunday, but this time, my iPhone alarm woke me instead of rolling over and over until I gave up. It was better. At 6:30, I started the blog, and it took me a few hours to write and find my focus. I get tired around 9 at night, but rising early is starting to fade as I align to the Pacific Northwest time (PNW).

Cold pizza was again breakfast, sticking with one of Susie’s favorite breakfasts. I have not heard when my friend’s memorial (if there will be one) is planned, but I intend to return to Michigan for it. When there are plans, I will name him and include a link to the information now that it is on the Internet. But my thoughts are with his family and friends.

Sunday morning, I was writing, reading, and chatting on the phone. I made liberal coffee in my French press, as I have done ever since Donald Trump won the presidency. It reminds me every morning that vigilance is required to resist darkness. In this daily writing, I will not be critical of him or his policies. But I am liberal, and every morning, when I sip my coffee, I think of justice, compassion, and community. I have hope for the future.

The blog was finished around 9, and soon, I was cleaning up and putting on my gray suit. I have lost enough of my waistline that I need the suspenders to hold up the pants, and the suit is beginning to look like a wool bag. I will have to replace them in the spring for my birthday in April. Much like the drinking song from George Thorogood (“One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer–the long version“), it will be one blue, one gray, and one black. Plus shoes and a belt.

I put on the New Orleans tie (see picture) I purchased in the French Quarter on the last trip for too much money. It is silk and reportedly from Italy (though I imagine that the only thing from Italy is the spelling of Italy). I put on my golden vest (now a bit large) and added the cheap but good-looking pocket watch and chain.

My new belt (already with holes added to it), my Cole Haan plain black shoes, and my black Homburg hat finish the look. I boarded Air Volvo, put the Apple in the co-pilot seat, and crossed Beaverton in the Oregon Mist (with a bit of rain). The leaves are red and yellow, melting and slowly leaving the trees. The vacuum trucks are out on the street sucking up the detritus of summer green. This prevents the mass of fallen leaves from choking the drains necessary to prevent local flooding.

I arrived not early for church and watched the switch from Emmaus Church to our set-up for First United Methodist Church. Our church now shares (rents) our space with a younger community. We are happy to help them; they find it better than a school gym. The central church for the United Methodist approved the change and has published a note that other churches should be bold. It has its rough edges and some of the usual sharp elbows from the older Methodists, but most think it a good solution for us and them.

Church is the usual, with the hymn being easy for me to sing again, and one of my favorites, Lift Every Voice and Sing, makes me cry. We sang this after Pastor Ken Wytsma recounted his trip in the South, overlapping New Orleans, where I was last week. While my trip was for cooking and being a tourist, Ken’s experience faced the past and existing challenges in the USA with violence and racism. There’s was a tour of a civil rights pilgrimage, and he recapped it and offered to form a tour from our church members and friends. The most powerful image, for me, was the lynching memorial, the National Memorial for Peace and Justice. Today’s reading was from UMCJustice.org and included The UMC Social Creed.

Ken mentioned his experience at the Witney Plantation while I did the Oak Alley Plantation, which has just begun its voyage to understand its connection to slavery. Still, as I said last week in the blog, I was impressed with their mix of focus on slavery, building all this opulence, selling a Mint Julep (with or without booze), doing weddings, and focusing on their plantings. At Oak Alley, I found it to be a strange mix of history and emotion with drinks.

I connected with Anne and Wayne and joined them at Red Robin, and we talked about my trip and my next trips. The Beaverton location was unprepared for the after-church rush and the number of birthdays that descended on Red Robin. We were not in a hurry and waited for our food. I had a Stella, sadly from a bottle, thinking of Susie. Red Robin was a favorite for her.

I returned home, changed out of the suit, which still looked good, and put on my LL Bean pants and sweater vest. I rested briefly and headed to First United Methodist Church for the 2024 (2025 Church year) charge conference in Air Volvo. There are enough of us to fill two round tables, and I sit next to Rev. Anne (who I had lunch with). Pastor Anne, an elder in full connection (for you, United Methodists, reading this), runs the meeting. I helped Anne with a few details. I have done over a dozen charge Conference Meetings in various positions and report-giving. We all completed the meeting without controversy (with a few explanations of why and what) in less than thirty minutes. Perfect.

After discussing church business, I headed to Matt’s place to play Dungeons and Dragons. We are playing a high-level published campaign and reaching the end of the Vecna: Eve of Ruin. The writers decided to create a story that tours all the major (and some minor ones) Dungeons and Dragons settings, with the campaign starting at mid-level and taking the players (hopefully) to the start of Epic level. I have played two characters in our Dungeons and Dragons games as someone had to be sacrificed in the previous campaign (my good paladin of Death, Rath, volunteered to die as death holds no mysteries for him). I am playing a once-evil cleric who is now good and follows Light. My character never focuses on one god but instead works to bring light and end darkness (it has nothing to do with my liberal outlook, he says when sipping his liberal coffee).

(Yes, Matt has the best toys)

Matt has two epic-level monsters for us before we start on the next part of the adventure. We are collecting and reassembling an artifact as we go. Being Matt, he has the giant pre-painted official figures for them, and I am surprised as one is quite expensive (Matt said he got a discount). We will face a high level of undead known to all long-term players.

Our strategy focuses not on collecting treasure or fighting but smash-and-grab, and only what is fast and easy to take and, of course, parts of the artifact. It is a very old-school outlook. It will not service us well in the old-school tomb raiding and dungeon crawl. I will be developing a new list of spells for my cleric. Hmmm.

When I return home in Air Volvo, I stop by Plaid Pantry, our take on 7-Eleven in the PNW, to get a few overpriced popcorn packets. I make popcorn (dropping the last twenty seconds as the ‘Popcorn’ setting on my LG microwave burns it now—I suspect they shrank the package a bit, explaining the burning) and watch more of my Kolchak: The Night Stalker first season (episode three), I bought on Apple TV (through my laptop, but available on my Apple+ Cable now on the larger screen). This is one of the better ones, as it is about a lost alien, and Kolchak is nearly slain twice and blown across the screen twice. The film work of this copy is too dark, but this is likely the result of a poor transfer, as I do not remember it this dark on the broadcast version. Someday, there may be a rereleased version like Star Trek that will clean this up, but seeing the late 1970s take on news and Chicago is still fun.

I shower and sleep soon. I manage one more story in the Vampire Cookbook. With D&D, Kolchak, and vampires, I leave the door closed (to keep it warmer, not that I am scared) and soon sleep. I sleep through with strange, unremembered dreams. I wake early in the dark, but not stupidly early, and I am relieved that I am aligning to local times.

Thanks for reading.

I rose after 5:30, as I was still aligning with the local time, and I got to the laptop and started on the blog. Liberal coffee was made in the French Press. The taste of Justice, Compassion, and Community floods into my morning, and the bitterness of the coffee reminds me how much more needs to be done.

I had much to say about Friday, even on a quiet day, and writing and publishing the blog took a few hours. Thinking of Susie, I had cold pizza–she loved pizza for breakfast. The New Orleans School of Cooking (NOSC) warning came to mind that we don’t spice up our food if they are to be reheated as the seasoning will be overshadowed by the hot as it will expand while the spices become more subtle and are lost in the burn.

I am distracted most of the morning and find it difficult to focus. I decide to head out and deliver Z a T-shirt from Preservation Hall. Dondrea gets one of the cooking kits from NOSC and a bandana from Preservation Hall.

Traffic across Beaverton, following the familiar trail that once took me daily to see the hummingbird house. Construction has another stop light that takes three tries to pass. Just a typical day on Hall Boulevard. With the traffic and construction, I only see some of the usual poor driving and passive-aggressive behavior. Yes, we will get in line and then try to block those who try to cut in. The usual.

I wait for Dondrea, who took Z to soccer this wet morning. It is more than Oregon Mist today, with rain bouncing off Air Volvo. I did take it to be washed this morning in the pouring rain. Being in Oregon, I was not alone at the carwash on a rainy day. Here, parked, the water is beading up on the hood and running off the windshield.

I read the rules for the last extension of my favorite board game, Istanbul. I have never played the Giant Everything version. Someday, but I fear it will explode Z’s head with all the options. The expansions provide more ways to gain rubies to win the game. Thus, new strategies are available when another player focuses on one, and you start to block each other, likely giving the game away to a third player.

Dondrea and Z and then Larry, Dondrea’s uncle, appear, and I join them to talk about cooking and various other ideas. Dondrea is thrilled with the recipes, and I discuss some additions from the class. Dondrea and Larry try the supplied spices with the Cajan Power (no fish) Worcestershire Sauce, likely to be used up fast.

I leave and face rain and traffic on a Saturday afternoon but soon arrive and find free parking at Lucky Labrador off of Hawthorn in SE Portland. There, I get a beer, try to work on my sermon in two Sundays, and manage only a few paragraphs of questionable value; the focus is hard to find. I have a bowl of salted peanuts and drink the beer for a few hours. The place is quiet for a weekend, but the rains are new, and folks in the Pacific Northwest (PNW) huddle down at home, likely working on homework, damp soccer games, school projects, or housework for the first few weeks of the rains. We then love the rain again, rake our melted leaves in our soggy lawns, wander-soaked corn mazes, and select slicken pumpkins.

(Lucky Labrador)

I find another beer with less alcohol as I have a game to play at Richard’s at 6 and a salad. I am distracted and notice I run almost late, which never happens unless there are traffic events. I drive the short crossing of SE to NE and arrive just in time for the game. Richard greets me and is concerned I am not early.

Today’s game is new for me, and I am crushed with a last-place finish. I was surprised that Lauren beat Richard by a few points, who was doing his usual come-from-behind point-gathering trick. Kathleen rises twenty points, past my low score. I stayed with my day job too much and did not focus enough on the final goals, which were my usual issues in a new game. I am more interested in the mechanics and how the game flows (sorry, forever computer guy). Drugs disguised as ‘candy’ play a prominent role in this game. The cards you can collect include the usual fan romances. The theme is definitely late 1970s Sex, Drugs, and Rock, and it is immersive from a resource managing point of view. Ultimately, it was fun and aligned well with the edgy theme. Recommended with some caution for content.

(I always play yellow as it is a color nobody wants and also the color of victory in some events like biking)

Aside: These end-of-game public and private goals provide variation in these games. Once learned, without them, the board game becomes stale and repetitive. These goals direct how to play and win (often countering the efficiency of regular play). Kathleen frequently lectures me after another poor score that I should pay more attention to and collect them (in games where they are a resource to collect and achieve). I try. I win only once in a great while.

I drive Kathleen home, and we talk about politics and concerns in Air Volvo. Soon, I drop her off, cross Portland, and arrive at the Volvo Cave in the pouring rain. With the rain, the traffic was lighter, slower, and, dare I say, a bit more sane.

I manage to get to bed before midnight and soon sleep. I likely dreamed of ‘candy,’ sex, and how I can’t play a single instrument or sing. Likely, I scored low in the dream, too. At least for my music…

Thanks for reading.

I learned on Friday that one of my oldest friends passed away unexpectedly in Michigan. We have been friends since fifth grade, and he was (so difficult to use the past tense for him) a good man. I will miss him. I saw him at the party the day before Susie’s Concert and Celebration of Life and at the service. I had hoped to see him again in December. It is his family’s story to tell his story, so I will not take that away from them by saying more.

The loss colored my day. I will try to create a clear narrative of a day that was not easy.

I rose too early but felt I had enough sleep at 6. Getting back home on Thursday was busy, and assembling that chaotic day into a narrative took most of the morning. I had to return to the story and add parts I had missed as I remembered something I had missed in the initial writing. I am also confused about the colors of political parties: The color red does not fit right-wing politics to me, having grown up in the Cold War, as it is the color of Communism, but Deborah reminded me to just think of the red hats at Trump crowds. Ah, that works–I fixed the text later.

I saw the note about my friend’s passing when I published the blog.

The New Orleans School of Cooking (not what I used before, “New Orleans Cooking School”) package of two of five class packages arrived. One for me and the others as gifts. More should show up over the next couple of days. They are using “if it fits, it ships” USPS shipping, which will take two or three boxes (explaining the $30 shipping, $10 each) for the mass. Each pack has a roux whisk, a logoed hot pad, a cookbook for class recipes, spices, and grits–perfect.

Dondrea has decided to call together the DMZ (Dondre–“Birdie,” Michael, and Z), AA (Ashley and Andrew), and Mom to cook a meal according to the recipes and what I learned for the second week of November. I am considering menus and whether I should practice before the party. One person is allergic to seafood, but the shrimp dish with grits and cheese grits was lovely when I made it twice in class. I am leaning towards sausage, chicken gumbo, BBQ shrimp, NOLA style, and cheesy grits. Hmmm. Maybe Banana Fosters with a small fire. Dondrea says she has a fire extinguisher. More to follow.

Liberal coffee, finally, in my cup from Equal Exchange, French Roast, in my Moulin Rouge! The Musical coffee cup I got the night Susie, Mariah, and I attended our last event on Broadway together (not knowing at the time it was Susie’s last show) and used while stuck in NYC for my coffee in my temporary apartment in Upper Westside. And while I don’t have a balcony in the French Quarter here in the Volvo Cave, the coffee is better, and my roses are still in bloom. Mister Lincoln is now producing nearly perfect blooms. The coffee reminds me that I am home. I can taste Justice, Compassion, and Community in every sip. I recommend a dose of Equal Exchange or other fair-traded coffees every morning; it brings you focus to what really matters. Go ahead, be liberal with your coffee!

I shared the news of my friend’s passing with friends and family, tears.

I traveled to Hellfire Pizza, which is no longer The Rock Wood-Fired Pizza and has dropped the Rock and Roll theme (to my discomfort). I had a local beer (instead of the restricted selection of their corporate products) and a pizza no longer named for Rock music. The beer was good. The pizza, a large one, so I would have leftovers, was undercooked. I saw a medium pizza delivered near me, and it looked properly prepared. Hmmm. The Hellfire Pizza has cooked onions, shredded hots, and meats. Sadly, it tasted more industrial than good. The waiter, Tiffany, was also the bartender and the host. Wow! Talk about downsizing, but I was there mid-Friday afternoon, a quiet time and usually shift-change.

I used to eat a lot of pizza with my late friend and Susie. I remembered them as I ate.

Tiffany was young, thin, and tightly squeezed in her clothing; her shirt was not low-cut, but suggesting there was more to the tattoo that was just showing. In response to my questions, Tiffany explained that the previous place, The Rock, was failing. The owners of this location decided to go it alone and run it without the corporate chain after not finding any help from the central office. She said business was good now as Hellfire Pizza.

Alas, there were no men to be seen (and to describe here) as Tiffany ran the whole place alone. But I am sure that there could have been a guy with a tight shirt who left no doubt that he taught fitness at a local gym. He would be a wonder of muscle lines and strength, with appropriate tattoos proving his love of the outdoors and a logo on his shirt suggesting he loves to camp in the Pacific Northwest. But, again, no men were available to describe.

Tiffany suggested that the next pizza order include the well-done to get that crunchiness I was missing. I gave the couple next to me a slice as they wanted to try the Hellfire version. They liked it. I got a box, took the rest home, and paid the bill.

I returned home and spent some time chatting and texting. Dondrea will take the sermon if I have to travel to Michigan for the funeral that weekend. I tried the show, The Silo, and it was dark and dystopian–not my favorite. But it is well done, and the story is compelling. I did most of the second episode. With my grief, I could not get through it, but I will return to it.

I read more Vampire Cookbook, which has a story set in the current French Quarter and loose murdering vampires (my experience was the NOLA vampire bites involved money, not blood). The recipes look easy and familiar now that I have had cooking classes, with one at the end of each installment now being chapters. It was initially published in a penny dreadful format, with each edition continuing the story and supplying a recipe. It is now all combined into a book. Definity will try some recipes. I expect no vampires will appear while cooking as they are not here but in NOLA.

I showered and put on my PJs, expecting to read more. But vampires before sleeping were bad for me in the past, and I soon put away the cookbook with stories. I also slept quickly. I’m still tired from travel and time zone confusion, but I have no bad dreams. I did rise to prove hydration once.

Thanks for reading!

It has been years since my travel has been broken and chaotic. One of the reasons that I pay the least for flights that I can, ignoring buying seats, places in line, and worst, paying an extra $500 for First Class, is that these investments in comfort are only marginal improvements (as far as I am concerned but you do you) and the planes are still late and miss connections. Direct flights are better, and I would spend more there, not paying $75, as one person described it, “to be able to cross your legs for a few hours.” But I won’t spend too much more for direct as they cancel, and soon you will be rebooked on some four airport odyssey.

Thus, I woke at 2:45 for my 3:15 taxi appointment, known as too-f**king-early, for my flight boarding at 4:45. I wanted extra time in case this flight was late and I had to be rebooked again. I dressed, packed a few items, got out, and checked multiple times to ensure everything was back in its place for travel. I changed into a clean T-shirt and a sweater as the planes are sometimes cold. Since the chemo, Oxaliplatin (not recommended by me as a party drug, “let’s do some chemo and get cold!”), I feel frozen, but this is more unusual; I am not cold, but instead, I just feel it.

There is no f**king coffee. There is no coffee maker in the room. There is no coffee at 3 at the desk, “The restaurant opens at 7.” F**K!!!!!!!! Unprepared with caffeine, I must face the Louis Armstrong Airport. No dose of coffee and certainly nothing liberal here in the red of red state (and oddly highly taxed with sales tax–9.4%, income tax–three percent to four, and property taxes–3/4 percent). Yikes.

Aside: Housing values in New Orleans (NOLA), from Zillo, lost about 7% last year, with some housing costs about 50% of Beaverton (French Quarter can still be millions). According to other sources, rent is about 8.5% lower in NOLA than here, but food costs may be higher (hard to imagine and likely a lack of comparison data, I think). A big real estate rush in 2022 seems to have passed now. A shotgun house in a poor neighborhood just out of the French Quarter and towards the lake near the Marigny section (the up-and-coming alternative to the French Quarter) and slightly worn is about $90,000 and is a tempting buy (arranged into four small bedrooms for that B&B experience). I picked the house as I may have walked by it. However, the fully remodeled firehouse in the French Quarter is only $4.2M (for those well-off would-be ghostbusters). I remember checking last year, and it is still unsold. I suspect the lack of parking is the issue; the entire building is now modern living without a garage.

Returning to the narrative, I found a kiosk, produced my boarding passes, printed my bag tag, applied it, and delivered my bag—all without coffee. Next, I joined a long line of would-be travelers, all waiting for the TSA to wake up and let us in. Shocking, this is not a 7/24 airport. After ten minutes, two agents started the process. Soon, I was beltless, shoeless, and happy that when I raised my arms to be scanned, there was no extra exposure. I passed and recovered all my stuff without issue or loss of pants. I suspect yesterday’s high-calorie meal helped the pants stay on. I gained back four pounds and am now at 232, which is not terrible considering all the food and booze.

Various types of coffee, the dark corporate brew, Starbucks, which tasted like the Pacific Northwest, and also of billionaire ego rocket projects, were available. I walked by a line of folks waiting for another one to open; I continued to walk and found one by my gate open that was friendly and without a line. They poured the cream into my coffee for me (as the cream was not out yet). Smiles and friendly words work here.

With caffeine, I tried to find my gate. The gate numbers are not in order for reasons that are only clear to the airport’s architects, and I found my gate, B11, between B8 and B14. I drank more coffee and thought Douglas Adams was laughing somewhere in infinity. I opened my American Airlines-purchased snacks. I had fruit and cheese for a too-fucking-early breakfast (food places are still cleaning and trying to find their way).

I wrote in yesterday’s blog while waiting for my flight. I looked up, and the board said I was headed to Philadelphia. I blinked, turned away from B8’s board, and saw that B11’s board was still headed to my connection in Dallas. Again, the unique arrangement had no chairs actually pointed at B11, f**k. As Douglas Adams would suggest, the universe has noticed me.

I boarded in the last group, turning down the $33 cost to board earlier when I got my boarding pass. At that time, I was relieved that American Airlines remembered I had already paid for my bag, $35. On the plane, I had the window and was alone in my three seats—thank you, kind agent, for booking me a more comfortable seat.

The Airbus was warm, and the less-than-two-hour flight was tolerable. I was nodding off during the landing when suddenly, the engines roared as the pilot aborted the landing. I was now awake and looking out the window. We did a scary flight around the airport and were told that a plane was too close for us to land on the first try. We landed on the next pass without issue for a still-on-time landing. I did not need any more coffee to be awake.

I arrived in Texas and immediately paid back the water I had received last time with something for Louisiana. I found the train and road it for twenty minutes as the sun started to rise, my second sunrise in Dallas, and found my gate. I tossed my last set of snacks as it faired poorly on the warm plane. I also needed no food as my gumbo blood level was still relatively high. I suspect you could detect New Orleans Cooking School spices in my blood! I had a ginger ale with ice on the first flight and managed not to spill it this time. The bubbles and sugar help me be ready for Texas. Yet-another-full-flight-to-PDX (seldom have I flown a non-full flight into PDX) was my lot, and an aisle seat (again, thank you, kind agent). It was cold on the Airbus, and I was comfortable in my sweater.

And the universe messed with us again. Someone had a medical emergency in the back of the plane, and a doctor volunteered to help. I will not describe that, and I tried to be unaware, as it is not my place to take advantage of someone else’s distress for a good story. I my last EMT training was in the 1980s–best to stay out of the way. We landed in Portland, and the passengers did not jump up and start getting their stuff until told, as we were all unsure if the paramedics were coming. We were told to go, and everyone, slightly subdued, knowing that events were unfolding, got their stuff and left. We all sent good thoughts to the impacted passenger(s).

I walked and walked, then turned around and walked again to baggage claim. The exercise was welcome, but it was a long walk and hard on some. The construction is still ongoing at PDX, but we will soon not have to use the bypass, and we can walk directly out. I took a picture of my shoe, not on the usual unique PDX carpet but on the new wood floor on the way to baggage claim. Maybe this is a new tradition.

My bag was slowly appearing, but soon, I rolled onto the streets and found the red economy lot-headed bus. I mistakenly mentioned that I had avoided the Taylor Swift crowd. For my benefit, I received a white-spaining of how bad Ms. Swift is. “Devil’s music” and “I fear for her soul.” And other less-than-pleasant comments about Swifties and their focus on worldly goods. I smiled politely; there was no reason to argue on the bus to the red economy parking. Yikes, again. The universe was still baiting me.

Air Volvo was still at F1 and ready to fly home. I checked the tires and the sides for damage—all good. I was able to pay $105 (yes, for the economy and often free parking if you spend the night before you’re at PDX for $200+) using my credit card for my ticket (that way, I don’t have to find the paper card).

I enjoy the trip home in Air Volvo. I like flying Air Volvo across Portland and Beaverton. I do witness proof that I am back in Oregon. The merging, lane changes, and simple stupidity of inexplicable braking in full, fast-moving traffic remind me why there are so many car body repair shops in Beaverton! I avoid contact and paint loss and arrive home at the Volvo Cave.

I began unpacking and was happy to see my suit unwrinkled and ready for use (I did not wear it on the trip). I was less thrilled to find a TSA note that they searched my bag. One last twist from the universe. I had lined the bottom of the bag with books, and my pocket watch for my suit was mixed with some wired earphones I carry as a backup set. Yes, I imagine that the image of a timer, wires, and books might have upset someone. F**k. Everything was there, but slightly in a different order than I last saw it.

I finished the blog about Wednesday and published it.

I arranged laundry into piles and loaded The Machine, and soon, my mail arrived. I put my mail on hold and arranged for delivery on the return day. I write a memo to the mail carriers as it seems to work better. I arrived only twelve hours later than planned and soon was reading my mail.

The folks at NW Parking sent me another complaint about my parking ticket, which I had already paid for, and the check had cleared. Frustrated at their attempt to get me to pay twice for the ticket, I printed copies of the check with their deposit marks on the back and sent all of it back to them, making a copy of their letter so I have a record. I will have to pay my lawyer for help if this goes on. F**k.

Dear readers, their Parking NW app failed to charge me when parking for the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival across the street, and I missed that I did not get a confirming email that I had paid for the parking. This is how I got into this mess. I am frustrated.

Corwin and I meet for Corwin to get his T-shirt and a bandana from Preservation Hall and again later for an early dinner (I am pretty messed up by time changes) and pick Nonna’s for Italian food. Corwin was delayed as he was being paid for plasma donation, but a fault in the machine had left him not getting his blood cells back. F**k!

Corwin was unusually quiet, but soon, some food and drinks returned him from his blood deficit (!). We talked about how I cooked gumbo and learned to make jambalaya and other foods at the New Orleans Cooking School. He is making what I would call techno music, and he took some online classes. Now, Corwin was using new tools with better results. We talked about cooking, music, and plans. Corwin will have the house available for the holidays as I plan to be in Michigan during those days and have OK’d parties and so on at the Volvo Cave, with the requirement that everything is laundered and cleaned before my return. And while some of you, dear readers, may be wincing, since the house would be here and he might decide to use it, it is best to set parameters instead of being surprised. The house rule, now revised, is don’t do anything that will piss off Michael (previously Susie) and make him talk to you in his corporate voice (a terrible experience, according to Corwin).

I had spaghetti with two meatballs, which I completed except for a few bites of pasta (slightly overcooked). Corwin had veal piccata (remembering Susie’s love of veal). It was all good. The bread coming with the meal was thin slices of toasted bread now, not huge bits like before. I think it is an improvement.

Air Volvo returned us to the Volvo Cave, and soon Corwin left to rest from his food intake and blood cell reduction. Having started at 2:45 in another time zone, I was fading (zoning out?!). I continued with laundry and set an alarm. I shower and find my PJs (I have two sets after enjoying brain surgery with so many people at the house). I read the NOLA Vampire cookbook and nodded off. Waking to the alarm and the house feeling spooky after reading about vampires and food (when I am tired, I get scared of the dark; it is best for me to sleep through!), I rise and get in the next load. I return to reading. I wake at midnight and stumble and finish the laundry.

I crawl into bed, satisfied that my trip is not over (it is not over until the laundry is washed), and I sleep without issues and a few ignored shadows that could be vampires. I wake at 6 thinking it is still yesterday evening and I have laundry to do, but then remember when it is and that I done with that. I roll over, but soon rise.

And I can end the story of Thursday there. Thanks for reading!

I was happy to start early and make industrial coffee in my room. The room cleaners left me no coffee except decaf, but I had put a spare one away and popped it in the machine this morning. I’m glad I had thought ahead, but I only had one. So, only partially fueled, I took on writing the blog. I also had to pack, shop, ship, and get to the airport. Deborah sent me an Energizer Bunny meme. My insanely expensive but extra-dimensional roller bag and suit holder somehow held all of the stuff, including the new acquisitions, but it was wise of me to ship most of the latest books! I was done with the blog before ten and packed!

I went outside and sat on the balcony one last time. One has to have a balcony in The Big Easy, and the Holiday Inn French Quarter-Chateau Lemoyne, a bit loud at night, provided an excellent street view. They also charged me $200 in valet parking, but Air Volvo was in the economy lot in Portland. I had no rental. This required a visit to the front desk, and after some effort, I was assured they would fix it. My bags went into storage, and I began walking to the shopping.

I found the General Store across from Cafe de Monde and sent out a smaller group of items, primarily to new folks. I sent out beignet mixes and other memories of New Orleans (NOLA) for friends I missed sending something to last trip. There were two birthdays to cover, too. The New Orleans Cooking School had its set of school kits sent to my house to share with locals in Oregon. I did this six months ago, and they were happy to help and remembered me. While this is an expense, it is not more than a few dinners and drinks at the vampire places!

(So many jokes for this picture)

I have never done brunch on NOLA, and the folks at the General Store thought The Court of the Two Sisters would not be busy on a Wednesday morning (before the Swifties arrive) and decided I should try it. Yesterday, I was there for a drink on my tour/pub crawl and thought returning was a good idea.

I touched the charming gate; the legend is that it makes you charming. I soon had a table and access to a vast buffet. My magic dress shirt and sweater vest with hat worked (or maybe it was touching the gate), and I was treated well and got lots of smiles and offers for help. The food was good but not great, like most buffets, but endless. Jazz music started with a banjo, clarinet, and bass. The jambalaya rice was chewy but still good. I skipped the egg bar and later saw that Eggs Benedict was offered, but I stayed to local items. The lemon cake for dessert with white chocolate shavings was heavenly and light. The staff laughed and smiled with me. All good.

The area was starting to get busy as noon approached. Time for me to go. Next, I stopped by the Dirty Coast store, closed or “back in five” every time I walked by. Open! They sell a shirt with a non-canonical version of the Last Supper hinting at De Vinci’s version, but with someone dumping a pile of cooked crawfish before the Lord but everyone looking happy and hungry. Definitely had to have one. I texted Dondrea, and she said she did not need one, but I checked. I talked to the folks there, and they try to deliver a quality product that is edgy and fun but no offense–in the usual ways, but still NOLA. They started with a sticker after Katrina, “Be a New Orleanian. wherever you are,” and built it into multiple edgy stores now. The guy at the store was a refugee from Katrina who had now returned and gave me one of their stickers. A treasure.

Jackson Square was nearby, so I sat on a bench for a while, texted, and chatted on my phone. Finally, the Glory Band started, and a man sat down and talked with me; he suggested he was homeless and searching for work. He claimed his necklace contained the ashes of his wife and tried to connect to me when he learned I was widowed. I did give him the $5 bill, but his sparkling white new Air Jordans suggested he was not what he said he was.

The band was excellent, and a woman singer was even present today. They started about 1 and were still playing when I headed back. It was time to exit the Big Easy. The Swifties were coming, and they were coming for three shows with 30,000 folks for each—all sold out. Already, there were notes for bright and young drinks and food. The “Someone has to suck it” T-shirts were replaced in the shops with white and pink colored NOLA positive words and images, and even Taylor Swift herself on some! The Big Easy was staggering into a new experience of bright colors with a bad hangover from the football games and the masses of drunken folks from Krewe of Boo. The locals are happy for the business but unsure what to do with so many Swifties, who are not their usual jazz party group.

My taxi to the airport is $40 with a tip, better than an Uber. My phone shows a 4AM boarding time, which I figure is me connecting to an old flight. I head to the kiosks to print my stuff and check my bag; nope. After a short wait, I talked to an agent, and all my connections failed due to late flights to my connecting flights to Portland. I am not getting home today. I do whine that I would have preferred to have known this before I left NOLA, but now I am here, and they have gotten me a $12 dinner coupon, taxi vouchers, and a hotel room.

The Clarion is happy to see me after I ride their bus to the hotel. Soon, I was in my room watching “Murder’s Only in the Building” with a remote friend. We start and stop it and have the phone open the whole time. I spend some time relaxing and then head to dinner. The nearby family-style Brick Oven Cafe is strongly recommended. The chicken parmigiana is excellent, with the breaded chicken crunchy and covered with sauce and then with baked cheese. The salad, their salad dressing, was perfect. A glass of wine matches the house Chianti well.

I manage a shower. A poorly maintained shower is not a welcome sight, but despite the low pressure and cold water starting, it works and is welcomely hot. Cleaned and finding things in various bags, I managed to get to bed and fell immediately into a dark Italian-style food sleep. I wake at 1AM with a start check that I did not miss my alarm. It is set to too-f**king-early time. I returned to sleep and woke up on time for the following day. Well, it’s more like the middle of the night.

Thanks for reading.