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The West Coast has been traumatized (or, HFB)

17 Jun

A week after seeing Scott in San Francisco on May 1, he flew to Portland. A week later, I flew 5,944 miles to Spain not really knowing what would happen when I opened the door and found him in our Barcelona room. I kept joking that we’d either hate each other or be madly in love by the end of the trip. Things ended somewhere in the middle, and then we flew back to our respective states. We saw each other a few days later due to his friends’ wedding, and a few days after that we saw each other for a few hours, and now he’s 5,918 miles from here. (That sounds far, but until last week, it was 8,707 miles from here, so it’s all a matter of perspective.) In a little over a week, I’ll see him again, and a few days after that, I’ll be 643 miles away from home in his house. (more…)

The rain in Spain falls not at all

25 May

The rain in Spain falls not at all

As previously mentioned, Scott and I went to Spain. As you can see, we had a horrible time and annoyed each other to no end. (more…)

Barthelona or butht

12 Apr

My niece was born when I was eight years old, and that event propelled my family to England. I still remember sitting with Elizabeth, holding her carefully in a room filled with porcelain, trying hard not to break the baby or the Royal Worcester. My parents and I also made the journey from Merry Olde to Paris on a hovercraft; I suppose we must have left from Dover, but I don’t recall seeing its white cliffs. Regardless, I still have little bits and pieces of that trip in my head, and whenever I go to Paris, the rubbery scent of the Métro whisks me back to that time. (more…)