Probably not my most uplifting entry ever

My question is, how do people on bed rest do it? I’m thinking of women confined to the prone position in the last weeks of pregnancy. Or anyone who gets doctor’s orders to stay inside, to remain inert, to rest. Because I’ve been sick with a malicious case of Influenza B (revealed by a delightful nasal swab) since Tuesday, and the depression is starting to set in.

This is what I’ve done in the past five days:
--Read two whole issues of the New Yorker.
--Slept.
--Finished the (amazing) book Enduring Love, by Ian McEwan.
--Had terrible, high-speed, gabbling dreams about Barack and Hillary and people at work and to-do lists and other nonsensical things.
--Watched The Wire, Project Runway, Countdown with Keith Olbermann, The Daily Show, and the movies Vanity Fair and Sherrybaby (both pretty good).
--Picked up cough-drop wrappers.
--Tried to keep up with work email, with varying success (depending on how high my fever was at the time).
--Slept.
--Talked to my mother. Three times.
--Wept in frustration.
--Lay aimlessly on the couch wrapped in a blanket, staring at the ceiling.
--Made the bed, sometimes.
--Slept.

Now, I know that very few people would find that schedule enjoyable, especially when coupled with feeling incredibly, incredibly sick. (I actually took three and a half days off work, which I’ve never done before.) But for me, it’s really been torturous. I mean, I love our home, but I am so damn sick of it I can hardly see straight. I miss going to work, seeing friends, running, having an appetite. I’m so used to daily mobility, consistently changing surroundings, having a strong and healthy body. It’s a rude awakening to realize just how fragile that all can be—and this is just the flu, not a true debilitating disease or illness. I know perspective is warranted, but what’s a journal for if not to vent occasionally in a shameless me-centric fashion? It’s Saturday! I want to sit in the coffee shop with a Chai tea and the paper, chat with neighbors, walk to the bakery to buy a cupcake, then go for a nice 3.5-mile run. Instead, I’ve read, laid on the couch, emailed some people, and emptied the dishwasher. (Well, and written this entry. So hey! That's something!)

In truth, 2008 has been a pretty bad year so far. One of the reasons I haven’t written here since January 1 is to avoid writing about Moose. And even now, I don’t think I want to do it. I can point you here and here for the story, and simply say that I miss him so incredibly much. It’s very lonely being home without him. Something reminds me of him every single day, and daily, I wish I could pet his soft, velvety, bicycle-seat head and lay my cheek on top of it.

So there was that. And there’s been extended-family stuff, a terrible falling-out between my maternal grandmother and my parents based on my grandma’s ailing mind and some pretty wicked folks in my mom’s family. Eloquently put, it sucks. And Chicago is being lashed by the worst winter we’ve had in a long time, snow- and ice-wise; spring is a shimmering green mirage that seems laughable at best. Then, this week, the Influenza B. I’m working hard to maintain that “radical optimism” touted so breezily at the top of this page, but it hasn’t been easy.

Yes, it's a meme

But it got me to write, so I’m not going to knock it. I omitted the questions that seemed repetitive and/or dumb.

I also wanted to say here (and in doing so, hold myself accountable) that during a few months of this year—including January—I’m going to take at least one photo a day and post it on Flickr. So if you’re interested, head on over to view snapshots of my daily life. I’m not promising anything other than frequency.

1. What did you do in 2007 that you’d never done before? Got promoted to a managerial position, and started learning how to make big decisions by myself and manage people. Real, live, breathing people. It’s an ongoing challenge, but I’m loving it. I also ran five 5k’s—I’ve ran them before, but never five in one year. My best time was 28:44, which I feel pretty great about.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year? My big resolution for this year was, boringly, to work out more, scale back on portions, and lose a few pounds. Actually, I’ve been pretty successful in this regard. I’m working out regularly five days a week, and as I type this, I’m wearing pants that I almost threw away last year because they pinched my internal organs. They feel great!

As for next year, my resolutions are focused on photography (doing more of it) and running (I’d like to run an 8k).

3. What countries did you visit? We stuck around the U.S., mostly: St. Augustine, Florida; Sonoma and San Francisco, California; and northern Michigan. We did go to the Bahamas’ Abaco Islands, which, excitingly, requires a passport.

4. What would you like to have in 2008 that you lacked in 2007? More confidence in my new role at work. A more zen attitude about possible parenthood. A slightly thinner waist would be nice, too.

5. What was your biggest achievement of the year? Same as #1—running and working. A lesser achievement was getting out and doing more Chicago things during the summer, which was a goal of mine. I went to the Renegade Craft Fair, the Randolph Street Flea Market, a free symphony concert at Millennium Park, the Taste of Chicago, the Police concert at Wrigley Field, the Freedom Museum, several architecture tours, and the Greek Festival.

6. What was your biggest failure? Writing. I blew it off in a big way, both in this journal and in my free-time creative projects. I really want to do better this year.

7. Did you suffer illness or injury? Nope.

8. Whose behavior merited celebration? My good friend Rachael, who, along with her husband, bought a boat, sold their house, and embarked on a year-long sailing adventure. She is incredibly inspiring to me.

9. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? George W. Bush’s—nothing new there.

10. Where did most of your money go? Mortgage and savings. And to paying off my college loans—which we finally did, no small feat!

11. What did you get really, really, really excited about? Seeing Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova in concert at the Vic in Chicago. Wow. That’s about all I can say about that.

12. What song will always remind you of 2007? Anything from the Once soundtrack: “Falling Slowly,” “Say It to Me Now,” “Leave,” “When Your Mind’s Made Up,” etc. Runners-up would be “I Turn My Camera On” and “You Got Yr Cherry Bomb” by Spoon and “End of the Night” by the Traveling Wilburys. And I shouldn't leave out the Weepies or Death Cab for Cutie, either.

13. Compared to this time last year, are you: a) happier or sadder? b) thinner or fatter? c) richer or poorer? Just as happy, a bit thinner, and making more money.

14. What do you wish you’d done more of? Writing, taking pictures

15. What do you wish you’d done less of? Obsessing about having a baby

16. How did you spend Christmas? The usual—in Michigan, ping-ponging between our parents’ houses at an alarming rate. It’s wonderful to see everyone, but the jam-packed schedule leaves something to be desired. Still, I enjoyed helping my mom prepare the traditional Cuban Noche Buena meal. I received some excellent presents, including a 1979 edition of the Lonely Planet travel guide to the Netherlands—very cool. I drank heaps of beer with John’s family as we played raucous versions of Taboo and bingo. I ate and talked a lot.

17. Did you fall in love in 2007? Being married is a funny thing. Sometimes I cannot be in the same room with John because he’s annoying me so greatly. But then it’s Christmas night and I look across the crowded living room at his parents’ house and see him, and I feel such a surge of love I can barely suppress it.

18. What was your favorite TV program? I just started watching and enjoying Project Runway. But I’m going to have to say The Sopranos, which very sadly ended this year. Runner-up is Big Love.

19. What was the best book you read? Ooh, tough one. I think I’ll have to go with The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje. The writing blew me away.

20. What was your greatest musical discovery? I know this is repetitive, but Glen Hansard.

21. What did you want and get? A few beautiful pieces of clothing from J. Crew and Anthropologie. Getting promoted enabled me to not feel guilty about buying them. I also splurged on a really expensive pair of jeans, and they were worth every penny.

22. What did you want and not get? Not sure about this one. I honestly feel like, at least materially speaking, I have everything I want. I'm trying to work on not wanting a lot (this isn't easy). I suppose a big back deck would be nice.

23. What was your favorite film of this year? Once, Paris je t’aime, Sicko. I don’t really see a lot of movies.

24. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? I turned 31 last January. It was a snowy Saturday, and I spent a few hours reading magazines at my neighborhood coffee shop. John and I went out for tapas downtown, then we met up with some of his coworkers at a bar/club and I danced as if I thought I was 24. Not a bad birthday at all.

26. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2007? This is a weird question. I dress fairly conservatively for work, but I like color and I’m not afraid to wear it. I love dressing up to go out on the weekend—slim jeans, black or gray boots, a fun top. I am a huge sucker for handbags and interesting pieces of jewelry. This year I really got into wearing long necklaces, and I’ve always had a soft spot for big cocktail rings.

27. What kept you sane? Making time to read InStyle magazine while drinking a glass or two of wine. And, as always, Moose.

28. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most? This year I discovered the sharp, smart, and talented Keith Olbermann, and he has been added to my Secret Boyfriend List. He deserves a mention in this meme, so there it is. (Don’t worry, Stephen Colbert, I still fancy you too.)

29. What political issue stirred you the most? The appalling number of Americans who don’t have health care, or don’t have enough health care to keep them from going bankrupt if they become seriously ill. It makes me embarrassed for my country.

30. Who did you miss? My college girlfriends—I don’t get to see them often, although this year was better than most in terms of getting together with them.

31. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2007. I’m capable of more than I think I am.

Enough space

I’m not a person who would move to a far-flung suburb in order to buy a huge house. If the choice is between having four bedrooms and being able to walk to the corner store, I’ll take the latter every time. It’s just personal preference, I know, and it isn’t a black-and-white issue: when we bought our condo, we gave up our “hot” neighborhood for a lukewarm one a mile north, simply because we could get more space for our money.

Our home is around 900 square feet. We have one bathroom, two bedrooms (one is a study with a pull-out couch), a living room, and an eat-in kitchen. We have a small deck area that fits our grill and (snugly) two chairs.

But I don’t measure our living space purely by those dimensions. Our building has a laundry room, a party room, and a terrific gym, plus a beautiful common outdoor space. Lake Michigan and sprawling Lincoln Park are a stone’s throw away, with their trees, beaches, bike paths, playgrounds, and open green space. We take advantage of that area regularly, and it feels like our backyard, in a way—one that doesn’t require any maintenance on our part, other than picking up Moose’s deposits with a plastic bag.

I love my neighborhood—the people, their dogs, the architecture, the history, the restaurants and stores. My neighborhood can be friendly and it can be menacing: it’s $450,000 condos alongside boarded-up Section 8 homes; it’s ornately planted public gardens dotted with a cheap vodka bottle or two. It’s people of every color, hailing from the Ukraine and Mexico and Pakistan and Somalia and Vietnam and Wisconsin. Sometimes I feel nervous walking around at night. Sometimes I want to throw my arms wide and embrace my entire block in a huge (albeit awkward) hug. I love city life. I am a city person, and it’s hard to imagine living anywhere else.

Of course, I could segue here into the whole Children Topic—raising kids in the city, the school question, the safety question, the “but they won’t have any place to ride their bikes” question—but I want to talk about space, space for two people and their dog. Because sometimes, yes, our home feels a little too cozy. Our single-girl neighbor talks about how she’s desperate to move to a bigger place; her condo’s the same size as ours. I visit my sister out in the Michigan countryside and find myself lusting after her basement storage room (all those built-in wooden shelves!). John wants to come in the bathroom; I want to be left alone to examine my pores. I want to listen to my Harry Connick Jr. Christmas CD; he wants to play the guitar, loudly. The idea of a dining room—a separate dining room!—makes me swoon, just a little.

It’s easy to wish for more space, especially when we could easily have it (although the current housing market may have something to say about that). But do we need it? We have dear neighbors, a successful couple who own a four-bedroom, two-floor townhouse. It’s beautiful, but do they need it? I think of maintaining and furnishing and paying to heat and cool all that space, and it starts to seem a little wasteful.

In August, two Dutch friends of ours spent a few days with us during their three-week travels around the States. Kemal and Andrea are in their late 20s. They both have master’s degrees, they’re well traveled, and they live in Amsterdam, in a tiny studio in a great part of the city. And they simply could not get over the size of our place. “It’s huge!!” they exclaimed when they walked in. “You could raise children here!” When we protested that we could do no such thing, they laughed—kindly—and made a little comment about Americans and their space.

For some reason, that exchange has stuck with me. I think about those old New York tenements with two families crammed into one apartment. I think of middle-class European couples happily sharing a studio. I walk from room to room in our home, I stop to talk with a random neighbor while strolling with Moose, I fill my eyes with the big blue expanse of Lake Michigan whenever I want. It’s enough.

Just start writing

My friend Jessamyn, who is very wise about a great many things, suggested that I just start writing. “You don’t have to wait for a special event, and you don’t have to spend a lot of time editing what you write,” she said. “Just write.”

Of course, she’s right. And there have been so many times in the last eight months that I’ve thought about writing here. I don’t know why I haven’t, exactly. Only that the longer I didn’t write, the easier it was not to.

This year hasn’t brought much change to my little corner of the world. Still married to John, still living in our Chicago condo, still sharing that home with Moose, the nine-year-old greyhound who limps with arthritis every once in awhile but spent last Sunday tearing around the cold, windy beach like a puppy on speed, just to remind us that he isn’t that old.

Still on the fence about having a baby, and still overthinking it way too much. Still working the same job, but I was promoted to an editorial management position in the spring, so that’s brought a lot of change and challenge and a nifty new feeling of self-worth and accomplishment. Still Episcopalian, and still wondering sometimes, for a split second, whether Christianity might just be an immensely popular, elaborate, long-lived myth and whether agnosticism is the real way to go. (Despite that, still fairly involved in our church—helping out with meals for the homeless and editing the parish magazine.) Still loving photography and posting somewhat regularly on Flickr. Still fully committed to my moderately liberal views.

New things, besides the promotion: I ran four 5k’s this summer and achieved a personal best of 29:53, not too shabby for a 31-year-old. John and I traveled to St. Augustine, Florida, and to Sonoma and San Francisco—the latter being one of the best trips we’ve ever taken in terms of relaxation and food consumption. Speaking of food, I feel myself leaning more and more toward becoming a vegetarian, although I may be too lazy (see: eight months since I last updated this journal) to make the complete leap. I’m also trying to make small, environmentally friendly changes in my life: saying no to plastic bags, reusing sandwich baggies, cleaning with cloth rags rather than paper towels, buying organic fruits and veggies weekly from a local co-op.

I just submitted a poem for consideration in an anthology. I’ve been working on an essay.

So that’s where I am in November 2007, near the end of my 31st year. It’s a good place to be. My mind is full of work and family, politics and books, friends and neighborhood, and our upcoming trip to the Out Islands of the Bahamas, where we’ll meet up with my dear friend Rachael and her husband, Tim. They’ve sold their house and quit their jobs, and they’re spending a year living on a sailboat, traveling down the East Coast and into the Caribbean. I’m incredibly excited to try on their strange new lives for a few days, to feel what it’s like to be moving, always moving—from marina to marina, town to town, island to island, always following the dip and sway of the water. They remind me that anything is always possible.

I think I get an “A” in the compromise department

These are the television shows I watch regularly:

• The Daily Show
• The first half of The Colbert Report (then I get tired and go to bed)
• Most HBO shows, when they’re on: The Sopranos, Rome, Big Love, Entourage, Real Time with Bill Maher, Curb Your Enthusiasm

I also recently committed to 30 Rock and The Office (not as good as the original, but still pretty awesome). And I try to catch Check, Please! and Rick Steves’ Europe on Saturday afternoons. But that’s it. If John’s flipping channels and he stops at some history or nature program, I’ll usually watch—and I recently saw The Dog Whisperer and loved it—but I just don’t watch much TV (even though there are shows out there that I’d probably love: 24, Lost, Grey’s Anatomy). I don’t know; a lot of American TV makes me feel dumb, and sad about my fellow Americans. I like to read books and magazines (and yes, that includes InStyle; I'm not a total snob!). I get my news from NPR, the 'net, and the newspaper.

You may have noticed that the above photo depicts a rather large flat-screen television. It is in our living room. It belongs to us. Rather, it belongs to John. He bought it with part of his annual bonus. When we have friends over, I tell them that it’s not my TV. That it was one of John’s fondest dreams to have a 42-inch flat-screen television, and I gave in. Compromise is the secret to a good marriage, you know, I tell them sagely.

I’m getting used to our latest acquisition—concerts and movies and travel shows do look glorious on it, and being able to DVR shows for later is nifty—but it was difficult for me to allow the TV into my 900-square-foot home. I can distinctly remember standing with John in Circuit City, feeling helpless and a little desperate as he talked about warranties with the sales dude. I showed him a nice 30-inch screen (too small). I pointed out that our living room wasn’t that big (We won’t live there forever, he replied). I asserted that having a huge TV makes it look like we spend our lives glued to the tube (I do watch a lot of sports, he reminded me). I said that I thought the TV would make us look like materialistic assholes. He disagreed.

I really, really didn’t want that TV. And he really, really did. And I gave in.

I felt very conflicted about this for awhile. Should I have stood my ground? After all, it’s my house, too. Was it weak to give in? John and I have an exceptionally equal partnership, but I knew that damn TV would make him as happy as a clam. I also knew that he worked incredibly hard all year and deserved every cent of his bonus, and I wanted him to spend part of it on something he really wanted. I wanted to see him happy.

So I capitulated, I surrendered, I gave in. I made him promise that when we move, the monster will go in the rec room or den. And I declared myself the sole chooser of the new armchair we had space for after rearranging the living room. He didn’t stop thanking me for days; he was incredibly grateful and appreciative. I think he understood the situation, and that did make me feel good. Even though I still kind of hate the TV, I do love the person who wanted it.

I like imagining

I could write about how cold it is here. That’s boring to read. But it’s been influencing how I go about my days, what I wear to work, how long Moose’s walks are, which errands are essential to run during lunchtime (answer: not many). The predicted highs for this weekend are less than 10 degrees.

I could write about how after three months away from this journal, my first entry starts with a weather anecdote. But if that’s what made me start typing on a blank screen, who am I to judge?

I could write about how John is definitely ready to become a parent. But I already think about it every day; frankly, the idea of writing about the weather is preferable.

So many times in the past three months, I’ve thought to myself, I should write about this in the journal. This is what the first line would be. But then I don’t do it, and I don’t know why. I suspect it’s laziness—that blend of lethargy and procrastination tinged with fear that all writers face. I know I need to sit down and write, but these plants need to be watered first. Then I need to floss.

A few weeks ago, while walking with John, Moose stepped on a piece of glass in our alley and sliced open his paw pad. Blood everywhere, a limping dog, both of us freaking out. Hydrogen peroxide, a hastily made bandage, a trip to the vet. Everything was fine, no infection or stitches, but the cut took forever to heal—he still limps if he steps in road salt or snow—and John left for a four-night work trip a few days after the incident. It is not fun changing a greyhound’s paw-bandage every day, taping a plastic bag over it to keep it dry in the snow. That was a long week.

I am trying to eat better, more healthily. I know; aren’t we all? I ate a lot of cookies during Christmastime. But I did pretty well in January—more vegetables, smaller portions. I need more protein, fewer sweets, fewer calories. I need to work out five days a week. I know my body will change with age, but I also know the risk factors for heart disease, and the amount of control I can have over my own health. I turned 31 last weekend. (I actually feel pretty darn good about that.)

A new storefront restaurant recently opened in our neighborhood, Indian-Pakistani cuisine. We went there for a Sunday-night meal with our neighbors and their two-year-old, whose nickname is Sly. It was an early meal—see mention of two-year-old—and Sly was more interested in running around the restaurant than eating. Luckily, we were the only ones there except for a large extended family celebrating a birthday. They were Indian, I think Muslim. Their group included some gradeschool-age girls, and Sly was fascinated with them. The kids played together, skipping around the room and giggling, while the adults ate samosas and lamb and naan and other amazingly tasty and cheap food. At the end of our meal, the Muslim family had the waiter give us a huge slice of their birthday cake. And all of us—Christian, Jewish, Muslim—dug in to the pink-and-white confection and smiled at the kids hopping back and forth between tables. Now, whenever I feel hopeless after reading front-page headlines, I remember that.

About a month and a half ago, right before Christmas, I received a letter in the mail from an address in Washington D.C. It was from the Spanish consulate there, and they were forwarding on a letter from the American embassy in Barcelona—returning my stolen driver’s license. There I was, 25 years old, pink scarf, eyes half-closed, none the worse for wear. Where has this card been since October 1? Who took it, and how did it get to the embassy? Did the police find it? A sympathetic Spaniard? A fellow American traveler? I’ll never know. But I like imagining.

It was Sunday night, our second day in Spain

Walking home from the gym in the early evening, I note that the air in Chicago, in October, feels so different from that in Barcelona… lighter and crisper, and certainly colder. And I wonder where he is right now, what he’s doing, if he kept my picture, if he ever even looked at it. The stranger who stole my bag right out of my hand.

It was around 10:30, 11 p.m., and John and I were in Barcelona, walking back to our hotel after dinner. It was Sunday night, our second day in Spain. It should have been our third, but our flight on Thursday had been cancelled because of mechanical problems (a thousand poxes on United, by the way). So we left a day late, lost a whole day of our vacation, and spent much more time at O’Hare than I want to remember.

The one consolation had been a six-hour layover at Schiphol Airport. We took the train into Amsterdam and spent a few gentle hours wandering around the Saturday-morning city: the quiet canals, a few bikes whirring past. Tall, narrow buildings leaning on their old foundations, shopkeepers sweeping the sidewalks, a few tourists snapping photos. The sky was blue, the morning light sifting through the trees lining the canals, us cradling our coffees and just wandering, wandering, on intuition and memory, no maps in hand. We’d stayed a few days in Amsterdam in 2004 and loved it, and this was such a gift, these unexpected few hours of strolling. We took photo after photo.

Anyway. Barcelona, Sunday night, 10:30, 11 p.m. We had enjoyed a great meal of tapas, split a bottle of Rioja, and I’d successfully communicated in Spanish with our bemused waiter. Now we were tired, satiated, and strolling back to our hotel, in a pleasant residential neighborhood just east of the Placa de Catalunya. We were about a block away. I was carrying a small purse under my arm, containing our camera, my driver’s license, my credit card, my debit card, a pocket translator, powder and lipgloss, and around 80 euro. (My passport was in the hotel safe.) It was still warm out, and I took the purse from under my shoulder to carry it in my hand, holding onto the straps. A few minutes later, we heard the roar of a moped, and a guy drove onto the sidewalk and snatched it away. It happened in an instant—one second I had my purse, the next I didn’t, and the guy was gone.

I have never felt such shock. I immediately began screaming “Thief! Thief!” and John took off sprinting, his sandals flying off his feet, yelling “Hey! HEY!” But of course there was nothing we could do; the moped was gone. It took me a few seconds to register the loss of the camera, and I think that’s what made me start crying. My camera. Our pictures. I stood in the street and sobbed. John came back and put his arms around me.

The whole thing was witnessed by a guy walking his dog (a greyhound—I tearfully explained to him that we had one, too), who seemed shocked that this had happened in his neighborhood. But I’d been warned to watch out for pickpocketing in Barcelona. After four trips to Europe and five years living in a big city, I truly didn’t think it could happen to me—I was aware, I didn’t dress like a tourist, I kept my bag on my lap when we ate in restaurants. If I’d been wearing a moneybelt, my cards and cash would’ve been safe, but the biggest, most upsetting and costly loss was our camera.

The two hours that followed are a dark blur to me now. We tried to find a police station that the greyhound owner said was nearby, but we couldn’t. We went back to the hotel to retrieve the piece of paper containing my credit card numbers and the 1-800 numbers to call; luckily I’d written them down just that morning. We attempted to use a public phone on the corner. We learned that you can’t make 1-800 calls from Spain. We went to a nearby Internet café to access my cards’ websites and find the right numbers. I called and cancelled my cards. We learned, to our great relief, that John’s debit card had a different number than mine, so we still had access to our bank accounts. Finally, around 1 a.m., we collapsed in our hotel room. I felt guilty, uncomprehending, in shock. John was angry at the thief. We lay down and turned on the TV for company, watched an old Spanish-dubbed episode of Knight Rider. It was the worst night of “sleep” I’ve ever had.

*****

Thankfully, the rest of our trip was trauma-free. The next morning we went to El Corte Ingles, Spain’s major department store, and bought a new camera. The saleswoman didn’t speak English, but we were able to muddle through. With the bad dollar/euro conversion, and the fact that we had to buy new batteries and a memory card, this was a pricey excursion. But it’s a nice camera.

Then we picked up our rental car and left Barcelona for the Costa Brava, the beautiful coast a few hours north: medieval villages, laid-back beach towns, the Mediterranean. Our base for three days in the region was an 800-year-old stone house in the quiet village of Peratallada. It was a good place to start putting the experience behind us, but it did take a few days. I often had flashbacks of the moment my purse left my hand, light as a feather. The sound of mopeds made my stomach tighten. It took me awhile to fall asleep at night. I knew John was thinking about it, too.

But as we saw more beautiful places, did more interesting things—hiked in the Pyrenees, immersed ourselves in beautiful, graceful, vibrant San Sebastian—the event fell further and further behind us. And now, almost three weeks later, it’s lost its bite; it’s a vacation story to tell. The financial cost of it still stings a bit, but I wasn’t injured. He didn’t get my passport. We had only two days worth of photos in the camera—what if it had happened at the end of the trip? (But oh, that morning in Amsterdam… it hurts to lose the evidence of that.)

My credit cards have been replaced, and I went downtown for my new license yesterday. Before that, every time I opened my wallet I was jolted anew to see the empty slot where my license used to be, where my own face used to look back at me. It made me think of some of the photos in my camera, the ones I took of myself in the hotel mirror, the ones John took of me… did he look at them? If he kept the camera, is he still? If he pawned it, does someone else have them now? It’s a strange thing to contemplate, and I haven’t quite stopped contemplating it yet.

Note: I’ve begun uploading some of my Spain photos to Flickr; it’s still a work in progress.