home stinky home

My second Saturday is going well. The first one was spent trudging through train and airport lines, lugging our gluttonous suitcases, then inching across the Pacific, lower back pinching, skin continuing to erupt—it has protested each new climate I’ve plunged it into over the last two weeks. I knew it had been a good trip—the memories were already taking shape—but I also had that exhausted-nervous-weird feeling I always get when coming home after a long trip. As if I might have forgotten how to go about my old life.

I needn’t have worried. The cats didn’t forget who we were, and B and I managed to hunt down some bean burritos quickly, and my face was thrilled to be reunited with its apricot scrub. I’m happy to be back in LA, in my apartment that smells like cat pee (it doesn’t normally, for the record, but someone got a little bored in our absence) and the new shoes I bought in Singapore’s Little India. They smell like spices and something else I can’t quite place, something a little more troubling. I’m letting them air out.

So here’s the plan: I’m going to transcribe my journals from the past two weeks, noting the dates and editing to make them more blog-worthy. In other words, more wit and less about my spats with B. I’ll add pictures later.

B and Temecula are catching up on the news online: runaway rats and wacky car-jackings gone wrong. I’ve missed America.