October 3, 2005
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This week I was struck a new sort of summer-sick: sick for some reason
for the West coast, for afternoons where all the world asked of me was
that I navigate grape-clothed hills and pick at shrimp ceviche grinning
at Nick eating a burrito the size of my torso in the soft sunlight etc.
There’s a problem (or maybe not): that whole time we talked of nothing
but a grand Alps getaway this winter, ordered the ROMANTIC EUROPEAN
WINTERS FOR REFINED FOLKS AND SO FORTH Frommer’s and emptied our
pockets into an empty carafe crayoned Wine Fund for January,
essentially. But now, after last weekend’s realisations and the
present’s sort of sorry state (I’m beyond overworked and a truant and
my throat’s sore and other things) my dream destination is really the
least glamorous cabin you’ll rent me in Wyomingish with the most stars
and the biggest fireplace.
