The Burrow

(This post should be less difficult for those of you with phobic reactions to slithery beings.) Our known-them-forever-friends came down from Phoenix last weekend. It always seems strange to say "down from" when referring to that trip; Tucson is 1000' higher in elevation than our low desert neighbor and, even though we are further south, saying "driving down to Tucson" just doesn't seem right to me. Even the highway has issues with the notion of direction; it's I-10 East that takes you here (and on to El Paso and Biloxi and Jacksonville). In any event, they arrived on Friday, and, after cracking open the champagne and snacking on treats from Costco (shrimp and cheese and tri-tip and mini-peppers and a yummy multi-grain loaf of just baked bread) we drove to The Rialto to see Pink Martini and marvel at the ease that is seeing music in Tucson. Park on the street. Stroll to the theatre. Feel comfortable in shorts and t-shirts surrounded by an eclectic mix of...

The Big Cuter and I were together for 7 days. Almost immediately, we were in a comfortable rhythm of eating and driving and sleeping and packing and loading and doing it all over again. From the desert Southwest through LA and up the Central Valley to Marin and San Francisco we watched as both the landscape and his life began to change. We saw an overturned mobile home, whose sides had separated from the base and which was spewing pink insulation all over I-10. The two 60-something be-hatted women beside it were an unlikely pair to be driving the shiny F-150 which was attached to the toppled home, but there they were, standing on the side of the road as traffic inched by and sighed for them. Aside from that delay, we had smooth sailing and excellent weather. We ate at In-n-Out Burger which was a treat for his East Coast palate and I failed, once again, to take a proper picture of the Welcome to California sign. People still don't understand how to merge onto 580, and their need t...