France has better food.

The French work a 35-hour workweek and get an average of 37 vacation days per year.

France’s healthcare system consistently tops the list of best in the world.

Oh, and the French are better parents, too. (Watch the video and tell me those American women don’t sound crazy.)

The Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame, crepes from street vendors, the Louvre. And don’t forget Provence, fields of lavender, Marseille, Versailles, Julia Child, the ex-pat literary figures of the 1920s, Van Gogh, Pasteur. Croissants.

Tomorrow’s high temperature in Paris: 26.

Tomorrow’s high temperature here: 64.

…

Well, then.

North Carolina for the win!

My parents came for a brief visit on their way back to sunny Florida (from snowy West Virginia). We had a lot of fun, even if we did only have basically one day. We ran some errands, walked around the Arboretum, shopped at the local Asian market and Carolina Farmin’, drank chai, and ate good food (thai Monday night and Mexican Tuesday evening).

The Arboretum has finished adding a few new features, and even though not much was in bloom, the place was still lovely.

It took a few tries to get Mom and Dad to hold still for a picture. And then, when I finally got a decent shot, it turns out Mom was blinking. (Oops.) So, here’s the best shot:

Yesterday evening, we were all tuckered out. I put the cats in the laundry room (where they sleep) when Mom and Dad went to bed. I tried to stay up to wait for Jesse to return from band practice, but I gave up around 10:30. Before heading to bed, I remembered I hadn’t scooped the litter box, so I went into the laundry room to change it, and this is what I found:

They’ve got their own beds (and the one next to this one is larger). But it’s winter, so what better time for cuddling?

The Bad…

1. I did not get to attend a peanut boil this year. If you know me at all, you know how much I look forward to eating boiled peanuts. You know boiled peanuts are the only reason I’m still living in North Carolina at all. (Forget the whole job and house thing. I’m only here for the peanuts.) Eating boiled peanuts once a year makes up for the fact that the rest of the year, I feel kind of like I’m living in a foreign country, far from my family and all my Floridian customs. Here is something southern I can really get behind. Here is a custom I can adopt as my own. At a peanut boil, I don’t feel so much an outsider without family.

For past peanut boils, here’s last year and 2009.

But this year. This year–no peanut boil. Oh, the trauma! Actually, did you hear there’s a peanut shortage? I wanted to cry. Seriously. Then, I wanted to move. Then, I remembered the whole job + house deal and gave up on that. (Okay, fine, so it’s not the peanuts after all.)

2. We also weren’t invited to any Halloween costume parties. Pales in comparison to no peanut boil, but still.

3. Winter is on its way. (NOOOOOO!)

But,  let’s not dwell.

The Good…

1. Yesterday morning, I made a chai tea latte that tastes just like the ones I drank all the time in San Francisco, except I didn’t use one of those expensive mixes. A chai tea latte at Starbucks costs around $3. A boxed mix from Trader Joe’s costs about $3 and makes maybe four servings (plus the cost of the milk). This chai I made cost me about 40 cents. I felt like the sky opened up and the angels started to sing. I do believe I love chai even more than I love boiled peanuts.

2. We don’t have money for Halloween costumes anyway.

3. It’s still fall, and the weather is getting gorgeous. We’ve had the AC off and we’re not turning on the heater yet. Yay saving money on utility bills! Plus, the cats are even more cuddly when the temperatures start to drop.

4. The “good” list is longer than the “bad” list!

5. The Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Year holiday season is one of my favorite times of year (and the only time I actually don’t mind the cold weather–makes things feel so festive!). And even though publicly I complain that the Christmas decorations are already going up even though Halloween hasn’t passed, I secretly love it.

I love being around these people, folks we’ve known practically since we moved here. Little S. and H. played on the blankets spread on the grass, and I thought about how I met these girls only days after they were born. Now, one is four and the other is three and a half. Impossible. I imagined what it would be like to see them start high school, and then college. I wondered how well I would remember these days, when they both dog-piled onto Brandon and then shrieked with joy as he stood up, lifting them into the air.

I thought how old we’d be when the girls got to college.

And, then, we talked about taxes and colonoscopies, and I realized we are already old.

Eventually, the party wrapped up, and we stood and picked up our blankets and chairs and empty Coke bottles, and as we waved our goodbyes, I felt very, very happy.

North Carolina, you aren’t half bad.

I remember the first day we were in the city, on the shared-ride van that drove us from the airport to the apartment—I remember looking out the van’s windows at the highways and the hills and the trees that were so California, and I held my breath and felt immediately and completely at home. I remember driving through sunny neighborhoods of stucco houses, the Spanish tile roofs, the pastel colors of the Sunset district. The day was bright and unseasonably warm and we were giddy on little sleep and little food and too many hours spent cooped up in airplane seats. Everything was beginning.

I took the same shuttle back to the airport the night I left. The sun had set, but it wasn’t fully dark. The drive was longer this time, more stops to pick people up on our way, and as we wound through the city neighborhoods, the streets I knew by now, I felt quiet and torn. I’d been alone for weeks at this point, and I couldn’t wait to see Jesse. But in the month I was there, I did not for one minute feel homesick for anything other than the people in my life back here.

The van stopped on a residential street to wait for a passenger. The light was failing, and the fog was rolling in. Inside the houses, people were switching on lamps and watching TV and running the dishwasher and doing homework. Our driver called the passenger again as we waited, shifting in our seats, tapping our feet, clutching our carry-ons.

A door opened across the street, and we watched a man walk down the stairs of his house, carrying a suitcase. He was taking his time, and at the door he paused to kiss the woman holding it open. In my mind now, they are frozen in that moment, bathed in the warm light of their home, just before he is about to walk into the weak gray dark.

When I got home, I felt half here and half somewhere else. Even the mention of San Francisco could make me cry. I’d look through the pictures I took and close my eyes and breathe deep and try to smell the eucalyptus. I’d remember the wind on my face, the gentle fog, the Western sun setting. But I was home with Jesse and my cats, in the same time zone as our families, and close to our friends.

Now, as time continues to pass, I feel myself settling back into life here. Perhaps it’s my classes, my students throwing me an anchor, giving me something to focus on. Maybe it is my friend’s new baby.

Maybe it was the wedding we attended last weekend—the reception, at an old Southern mansion. We sat drinking sweet tea with friends at a long table under sprawling oak trees, our faces gently lit by candles and soft white lights. The day had been cloudy, and now the night sky was oddly orange and felt far away. Maybe it was dancing with Jessica and Amie and Kirsten under a bright white tent, the dark Southern night surrounding us but not touching us. The air was sweet and humid and everything was lovely.

Maybe it is a hundred other things, but I am settling into a sense of comfort here, a sense of being where I am, of loving San Francisco and the memories I have there, but also loving this place for what it is, and enjoying the memories I am currently making here.

Yesterday we came home and picked up the debris in our yard and put fans on the wet baseboards and carpet around our doors.

Now things are largely back to normal and it’s back to business. This week is the first full week of classes. I’m hoping to get keys to my office so I can start moving all the textbooks out of my guest bathroom. I’m hoping to get myself on a regular writing schedule. I’m hoping to get things done ahead of the rush. I’m hoping to start feeling settled in a routine.

I’m hoping the rest of hurricane season is uneventful.

The coffee shop was re-built, and I remember sipping coffee with Simona and talking about Congo, before Congo was a place I was going to, had gone to.

The coffee shop is still there, but Simona is in Atlanta now, and it’s been a long time since we’ve talked Congo, and there’s a grocery store called Carolina Farmin’ that sells sourdough bread, local jams and jellies, produce I wasn’t impressed by, locally made hummus, lots of organic food, and pigs’ feet. (Not the pickled kind. The real thing–the raw feet of pigs, on a foam tray, wrapped in plastic wrap.) The grocery store is California meets Carolina. What impressed me most was their selection of drinks–flavored waters, sodas, teas, and so on. I saw the root beers we drank in Maine last summer. They also sell HINT, the slightly flavored water I bought in SF to take with me to Muir Woods. I had raspberry-cucumber. It was okay, but made better by the environment I drank it in, the fog-wrapped redwoods, the clean and cold California air, talking about the career prospects of English majors with Claire, my new-found SF friend.

Walking through the grocery store yesterday, I felt pangs of what I can only call a variation of homesickness, but it was oddly mixed with the curiosity I often feel here. What would one do with the feet of pigs?

In the end, I bought an avocado, a bottle of ginger ale made with fresh ginger and Jasmine tea (it was a little odd), and a bottle of sparkling Martinelli’s apple juice for Jesse. The store is, ultimately, too expensive for me to regularly shop at, but it was a fun excursion, a little step outside the ordinary. And for that I was greatly appreciative.

Most everything about July, I miss. But, I was also very very alone for most of it. I could go days without seeing a single person who knew who I was.

On the whole, this alone time was a good thing, as it gave me time and space to think and write, and it was something I’d never really done before. But I cannot say I miss that part of July.

If you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time, I’m sure you know how happy I am to be back with Jesse, so I’ll spare you more of the gushing. It’s also nice to be back in a town where I know people, and where people know me. A few other things I am enjoying:

Cooking for two-plus: I’d always heard my single friends complaining about how hard it was to cook for one, but I never really understood until July. Cooking for one sucks. Recipes are always written for crowds, and even if you halve the recipe, you’re still eating leftovers far more than you’d like, and not everything reheats well. It was much harder for me to motivate myself to cook for just myself, and it wasn’t nearly as fun. I’m sure with enough time I’d get the enjoyment back and get used to it, find a kind of beauty in cooking for one, but I didn’t manage it in a month. Now that I’m home, and especially with our new trimmed-down budget (not a lot of room for eating out), I’m cooking up a storm and loving it.

Birthday parties: Since I’ve been back, I’ve been to two birthday parties, and there’s something strange and lovely about celebrating with people you’ve known for years, people you met when you first moved here and didn’t know anyone. These are people you met when you were twenty-two, and somehow they still like you enough to invite you to parties.

Board games: To be more specific, Settlers of Catan, which I was just introduced to. (Beginner’s luck–I won my first game. This may have contributed to my liking the game.) Have you played that game? Also, telephone pictionary, sitting around a table with several friends and laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe, eating far too many snack foods, wondering what we’ll all be doing in a year, two years, ten.

1.  A cheapskate,

or

2. A glutton for punishment.

One of the two.

I mailed some of my things home, since I didn’t have room in my suitcase. Or, more accurately, I didn’t have any more weight left. It’s not the packing I don’t like; it’s staying under the airline’s weight limit. (If you’re over, you pay like $100, and that is not an exaggeration.) On Saturday, the day before I left, I bought a suitcase scale so I could try to get as close to the fifty-pound mark before mailing off the rest of my stuff.

By the way, this is what the box looked like when it arrived here…nice, hmm?

Sunday, having sent my box the day before, I finished packing and weighed the suitcase again just to make sure all was good.

The way the scale works, you attach it to the suitcase and then pick it up and look at the little dial to see how much the suitcase weighs. This is a little tricky when you’re by yourself because you have to hold the suitcase up, keeping it still, and look at the scale at the same time, which is of course pointing the exact wrong direction. This is even trickier when you have a bad back and the suitcase is fifty pounds.

Excuse me, fifty-four pounds.

Crap.

This was a half hour before my shuttle to the airport was to arrive. I was checking as a formality, since I was certain I had covered my bases the day before.

Panicked re-packing of the suitcase and carry-on items ensued.

To make sure I was getting an accurate reading and wasn’t looking at the scale wrong, I set up my camera on its self-timer and took pictures of the scale as I heaved the suitcase up.

I did this probably a dozen times. My back was screaming at me. Finally, I couldn’t do it anymore, and I looked at what had to be the last picture and realized I’d taken too much out.

Sigh.

Somehow, I got everything squared away before the shuttle picked me up, whisking me and a group of strangers off to SFO and our late-night flights. Both my flights home were uneventful, and then Jesse was waiting at the airport with a flower and a big grin and all was well with the world. He carried all my bags for me and then drove me home (I slept the whole four hours, except for a couple breaks to wake up and groggily eat some trail mix).

This week, I’ve been getting used to real life again, slowly. I haven’t driven in a month, and the other day I sat at a light for probably three solid minutes before I remembered I could turn right on red. And yesterday I went to the beach to visit with my godsister. I haven’t been to the beach all summer, since I had mono by the time it was warm enough to go. I knew my pale skin would be prone to burn, so I went crazy with the sunscreen–and still got ridiculously burnt. Funny thing is, my face, arms, and back aren’t burned at all, but from collarbone to toes my skin is an angry shade of lobster. I’m going with long skirts right now as much as possible, so if you see me you probably won’t guess that I am in a world of burning pain.

And that’s about it. The heat is awfully hard to get used to again. (The burn doesn’t help that any.) I am missing the sights of the city, the ability to walk a couple blocks and get a fabulous plate of pad Thai, the bay, the bridges, the public transportation, my beautiful apartment (pictures to come).

But, now I’m back with the person who is my life, and that trumps everything else, and makes it all worth it. Of course, I look like a tomato, but somehow he doesn’t seem to mind.

It didn’t take much to figure out what the situation was about or what each party thought about said situation. Clearly, the Walmart employees thought the trio was stealing. Clearly, the trio did not appreciate this and was making that known quite loudly.

I mentally sided with the Walmart employees. This judgment was based solely on appearances (and tone of voice–my professional opinion is that loud voices indicate guilt), proving that I am just as judgmental and haughty as everyone else. I should remember that next time I try to get on my high horse.

(Do you have a high horse too? And where the heck did that expression come from?)

I left the store. As I walked toward my car, I heard the alarms going off and turned to see the trio leaving the store, still loudly complaining, though they clearly found the ordeal fairly funny for some reason. (Laughter = also sign of guilt.)

The woman then became excited and I watched as she ran to jump piggyback on the brown-haired man, who I assumed was her boyfriend.

Only, the man didn’t see her and kept walking.

So, she jumped, but she jumped too soon. She didn’t get a good grip on his shoulders. Her timing was off.

She fell to the ground. Then, she shrieked with laughter.

I didn’t know whether to be amused or mildly horrified that this is where I live. (I was leaning toward the latter.) I think there’s a metaphor in here, a nugget of wisdom about humanity.

But honestly, I don’t really want to know.