Hi, Sugar!

A big part of what I wanted to experience in the south was the food. Biscuits and gravy. Southern sweet tea (essentially sugar water with a touch of tea taste). Fried chicken. And of course, barbecue. We had barbecue last night (Corky’s – perfection) and today – a chopped pork shoulder sandwich and a Sock It To ‘Em cake at Interstate BBQ.

All of it tasted good, but my word, it’s no wonder that obesity is on the rise. I must have consumed well over my daily allowance of calories at lunch alone, what with the sweet tea, the pork sandwich, the beans, the cole slaw, and the cake, which was essentially warm pound cake with icing on top.

I am feeling very expansive, and the waistband of my jeans agrees. Wow. Living here would probably kill me.

But I don’t live here, and that means I was a tourist today. We went to the National Civil Rights Museum in the morning, and unintentionally spent 4 hours there going through the remarkably well-executed audio tour and exhibition. The museum is attached to the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot in 1968.

It was a rather chilling experience, looking out the window of the erstwhile hotel at the balcony where Dr. King was killed. The whole visit was deeply moving, having been to a couple of the places notable in civil rights history – we started in Oakland, where Huey Newton founded the Black Panthers, we went to Chicago, the site of terrible race riots (and where Rosa Parks moved to when she could no longer find work in Birmingham after the boycott), and of course, we were in Memphis. I’ve been meaning to read more about the civil rights movement for a long time, and the visit reinforced my interest in the topic.

We of course had BBQ for lunch, as I mentioned. And then I took Pepto. Again. To appease the angry stomach.

And in the afternoon? We went to Graceland. Whoo hoo!


















I’m not an Elvis fan (I’m not anti-Elvis either, I’m just neutral about him), so it wasn’t a pilgrimage so much as an educational opportunity. I didn’t know that Elvis was a big reader, often underlining passages in the primarily spiritual material he read, or that he donated a lot of money to local charities and individuals. I didn’t know that he was such a shy, soft-spoken, and polite southern boy. I didn’t know he had black belts in both karate and taekwondo.

My image of Elvis before visiting Graceland was that of an extravagant, flashy, sweaty fat man. A tragic figure, in many ways. I’d seen pictures of the young Elvis, but I never understood the transformation from that lithe, shy, beautiful boy to the oft-lampooned figure in the white jumpsuits. I also never understood the way he could be that polite southern boy but rock so hard at the same time. And you know what? Graceland didn’t illuminate either of those dichotomies. It was a soft sell, a sop to pilgrims, and what else could I really expect? I saw the shag carpet wallpaper, and the fur-covered circular bed, and that was fun and cool, and I learned some new things (including that young Elvis really was that hot), but there weren’t answers at Graceland, just more questions. Something else to read about, someday.

What Graceland did provide was great kitsch, and we reveled in it. It was like a pilgrimage to the Elvis gift shop, more than anything. Whee!

Tomorrow we are going to Mammoth Cave and Lincoln’s birth place, both in Kentucky. Then to Lexington, where Joiner leaves the train and I continue on back to the east coast, alone. A little anxiety-producing, that. And sad, because this has been such an amazing trip, full of firsts and nice people and cool things to look at and taste and experience.

Tennessee!

After spending the night in Bowling Green, KY, we passed into Tennessee today. Tennessee, the volunteer state! (Still don’t know what that’s about.)

We were originally going to do a bit of a drive-by in Nashville – take a picture in front of the Grand Ole Opry and zoom onward to Memphis – but I discovered online this morning that the biggest flea market in Tennessee was happening in the Nashville fairgrounds this weekend. I love me a good flea market, so although Joiner warned me that it probably wasn’t much of one, I insisted we at least stop by.

It cost $3 to park the car, and for the first 20 minutes, I thought Joiner was right and that $3 had been wasted. It was hot, and although the first vendors were, interestingly enough, Korean, there wasn’t much to catch the eye in the first several stalls.

But there’s rarely a flea market that doesn’t have something worth $5 to buy, and this was no exception. I mean, it was the biggest flea market in Tennessee. The trick was to go inside, where it was air-conditioned to the max, and where, among the usual treasure/junk, we found:

• Hematite jewelry (me a ring, Joiner a bracelet) that supposedly relieves stress and improves circulation. Joiner swears that she hasn’t had any tooth pain all day, and after a few days of getting on each other’s nerves, we were markedly more relaxed today.
• A man who makes all manner of items from old silverware – magnifying glass handles, hair clips, key rings, necklaces, belts, rings. I’d never seen anything like it, and although it was kinda hokey, it was also kinda cool.
• A cast iron kettle with a lid inscribed with a “T,” which Joiner bought for (I think) a steal -- $13. In beautiful condition, and as heavy as an elephant.
• Mac Davis, an older gentleman selling awesome antiques like leather bags for machine gun ammunition dating back to WWI, phonographs, and a little ashtray from the Anchor Motel in Nashville, which must date back to at least the 1960s, since the phone number on the ashtray started with a name and had only 5 digits.

I kind of fell in love with that ashtray, which was too much at $10, but the seller wouldn’t lower the price, so I started talking with him. Turns out Mac, a tall man who sported a neatly trimmed white beard, cornflower blue eyes, a worn but clean dark blue button-down workshirt and jeans, grew up in Nashville. When I asked him about the ashtray, he asked if I smoked, and I admitted that I sometimes did. He shook his head and said, “I haven’t smoked since 1959. I made a bet for $2 that I’d stop smoking, and I did, and the other guy didn’t. He’s dead now.”

I made some sort of face, murmured, “Oh, wow,” to which he responded: “Well, actually, he didn’t die from smoking. He got hit by lightning. That’s how he died.” Hee!

Mac, who must be in his 80s, worked at the Ford plant for 31 years, where he made a bet with three co-workers to stop smoking. “Two of us did it – stopped smoking. One fellow came in the next day and he kind of sheepishly handed over the $2. And the other one, he didn’t stop, but he never paid the money either!”

I asked him how he liked the changes in Nashville that he’d seen, and he said, “Well, it’s mostly been for the worse. Too many people!” Mac and his wife live out in the country now, but homes keep getting built around them, and he lamented the poor credit practices that allowed people to buy homes without adequate leverage. “Living through the Depression, I get worried about that,” he said.

“One thing I will say is better, though,” he allowed, “is that in the old days, we used to burn coal for electricity. You’d walk out of here, and you couldn’t see those hills out the door. A breeze would come by and sweep the coal dust away for a few minutes, but then it’d be back. And you couldn’t walk outside for more than a few minutes without coal dust getting up your nose.”

I must have chatted with Mac for at least 10 minutes about the items in his stall, about Nashville, about odds and ends. He was retired now, and just did some collecting and selling, and he’d “met a lot of nice people, never had a bad check from anyone doing this.” He didn’t know anything about the ashtray, only that he’d picked it up because he liked collecting things that had Nashville referenced on them, and that the Anchor Motel had been somewhere near Centennial Park. Did I know where that was? he asked. No, I said, we were just passing through town.

“So you don’t live here or go to school here?”

“No, we’re just passing through.”

“Where are you headed next?”

“Memphis.”

He shook his head. “They shoot people in Memphis.”

I pointed out that he had just told me that someone had been shot close by the fairgrounds in Nashville.

“Yes, but there’s a shooting every day in Memphis! Move to Nashville!”

I thought about asking again for a discount on the ashtray, but I had had such a lovely time talking with Mac that I just forked over the $10. I like to think he would have given me one if I’d asked. As it was, the last thing he said to me, with a smile, as I shook his hand was: “I’m here every weekend. You come back some time! You should move to Tennessee!”

People! They are just so charming.

We left the flea market about $70 lighter and had lunch at Mrs. Winner’s, a KFC-type place with what Joiner said were extremely good sweet tea, biscuits and fried chicken. They were good, but I think I lack the ability to really appreciate southern food. It’s just so greasy and heavy. I took two Peptobismol pills (bought at Wall Drug on the advice of the free spirited cashier, who told us to buy it when we told her what we’d eaten for lunch at Wall Drug) as a preventitive measure, and we moved on from Nashville down to Memphis in the Behemoth, which is the name of the Mustang. Okay, not really, but I think of it as a behemoth, because it feels so big and growls so loud when you rev it.

Memphis! We walked down Beale Street, which is very, very similar to Bourbon Street in New Orleans – sticky, stinky and touristy, with beer stands on every block. I did, however, see the musical note (like the stars on the Walk of Fame in Hollywood) for Robert Johnson, which was pretty cool.


















Next, Joiner found us the best Comfort Inn in the world: for about $80, we have a view of the Mississippi, Mud Island, and the Memphis pyramid (will have to investigate that tomorrow, but it’s highly weird). We watched the sun set behind the river while making some phone calls, and then set out for dinner.














Again, Joiner found us a can’t-be-beat dinner place: Corky’s. Memphis’ favorite BBQ place, it delivered one of the most perfect meals I have ever eaten: chewy, creamy warm rolls, the freshest cole slaw I’ve ever tasted, sweet baked beans, and outstanding wet and dry ribs. Damn. I told the waitress that it was a perfect meal, and she said, “It’s even better with banana bread puddin’, baby.” We were far too stuffed, though, so instead we went over to the cabinet with Corky’s paraphernalia, and I bought far too much, egged on by the tall, amused black man manning the front desk, who Joiner later pointed out was the original pitmaster of Corky’s. The pitmaster of Corky’s sold me t-shirts! That’s pretty freakin’ awesome.

Sigh. What a lovely day. (Wait. Is that the hematite talking?)

Tomorrow: "I'm going to Graceland, Graceland, Memphis Tennessee, I'm going to Graceland!"

State fair!














Awesome.

KY has the 3d largest state fair in the country, according to some guy emceeing the “Cast Iron Chef” competition (featuring pork raised in – you guessed it – Kentucky). If this was the third largest fair, I’d really like to see the first and second largest fairs, because there was nothing that this fair didn’t have. There was an outdoor midway. (At Joiner’s insistence, I tried darts and won a stuffed penguin.) There was a competition for every conceivable noun – sheep, quilts, blueberry pies, christening gowns, largest pumpkin (815 pounds), pigs, wedding cakes, tobacco, goats, cows, ugly lamps (I kid you not), honey. There was the national horse championship. There was fair food of all artery-clogging types: corn dogs, cheese fries, polish sausages, pineapple soft serve (curious – wanted to try it, but was too full from aforementioned corn dog, cheese fries and polish sausage), funnel cake, Philly cheese steaks, caramel popcorn, turkey drumsticks. There were exhibitions by state agencies, manufacturers, food industry reps (soybeans are big here, surprisingly), NASA, NOAA, nonprofits like the Kentucky Historical Society.

The most delightful thing about the state fair, however, was the people. We saw farmers, complete with overalls and leading livestock on ropes. We saw cowboys, young, lean men in white t-shirts, cowboy hats, and cowboy boots with spurs. We saw redneck couples, tattooed, bleach-haired/mustached, and holding hands. We saw gaggles of teenagers and families. We saw groups of elderly men and women with carefully styled white hair and sensible shoes. Toward the end of the day, before the concert, we saw the well-heeled sector of society – young women in sleek strapless dresses, peep-toed high heels and French manicures; matrons in sequins, gauzy panels and big jewelry; men in dark slacks and crisp button-down shirts. The fair was the crossroads for all walks of society, from all over the state.

There was moment, though, when I was reminded that not ALL types of people are regulars at the fair. I saw three Asian faces besides mine today, the last one a teenaged boy who turned around when both he and I heard the words “Chinese… Japanese? Dude, I don’t know!” from someone a few feet away from us. A group of three white teens were giggling and walking in our direction. As they passed me, they turned around and looked at me while I was looking at them.

Joiner and I have loved the small towns we’ve seen in the northern states. But I could probably not live in them, because of those kinds of moments. The moments that remind me that no matter how long I live here, there will always be people who see me as “Chinese, or Japanese,” and never as an American. It’s depressing, always having to assert your identity. There’s just less chance of that happening in a major city.

Despite that moment (which was probably also a product of only 5 hours of sleep), I had an amazing time at the fair. It was AWESOME. Go now!

Pigs in love:














Dressed sheep (looking eerily like KKK members):














Prize pie:














Ugly lamps?














In fact, yes:

Weather weary

Ack. Long-ass day, and now I'm in a hotel room in Louisville, Kentucky, desperate for sleep.

Louisville?

Yes. Louisville.

Why Louisville? you ask.

Because it's the gosh-darned state fair this weekend, that's why! Eeeee! (squeal of glee) Get me some deep-fried Twinkies and some prize-winnin' hogs, I say!

But man, it's been a long road here. Last I wrote, we were in South Dakota and loving it. But we had to move on. Unfortunately, there's nothing much between Sioux Falls, SD and Chicago, where we were headed next, except 600 miles of range lands and farms. But we managed to amuse ourselves by having lunch in Winona, MN, and stopping in Lacrosse, WI to buy University of Wisconsin at Lacrosse paraphernalia. For some reason, I'm loving the obscure university wear. Joiner mused out loud that it would be kinda cool to buy a lacrosse t-shirt at Lacrosse, so of course we had to do that. (C'mon, you think it's cool too.)

Now. Let's talk about weather. If you recall, we entered South Dakota under a black, lightning-filled sky, as thunderstorms rolled across the unending plains. We had good weather while exploring the Badlands and Mount Rushmore, though, and all the way through Minnesota and Wisconsin.

But. We crossed into Illinois on Route 90 sometime in the evening, and we could see a darkening sky in front of us. By the time we were about an hour away from Chicago, the storm broke.

It was the worst weather I have ever had the misfortune to drive in. I turned on my brights to see if it would help with visibility -- it only revealed that the rain was coming in sideways, hammering on the windshield with such ferocity I thought the glass might break. I could only follow the red tail lights of the car in front of me, hoping that they were within the lines of the lane and the road. When the trucks passed us, their wheels kicked up so much water, the windshield was a blur.

This lasted for about an hour of tense driving, and then we were through, and finally in Chicago.

Chicago! The lights! The height of the buildings! The size! After being in towns with populations numbering in the hundreds, Chicago seemed impossibly big and unnavigable, overly dazzling, dizzying in scope. So many cars! So many people! We felt like hicks coming into the big city.

After our initial shock, and after a good night's sleep, I went to have breakfast with Double M, whose first day as a professor at a local school was that day; it was wonderful to see her. And then Joiner and I toured Chicago. We walked the Magnificent Mile, admiring the shops. We walked along Lake Michigan, which looked like it had been sliced out of the islands and dropped incongruously in the midwest:














Note, if you will, the way the palm tree is swaying. There was a strong wind that kept the heat almost bearable. Here's another indicator of how strong the wind was blowing, taken as we strolled down the length of Millenium Park -- see the position of the tall fronds in the middle?















Joiner reminded me that Chicago is the Windy City, after all. But, as we soon learned, it was not a mere summer wind blowing. There was, in fact, a tornado watch that we were unaware of that afternoon, as we strolled through the park. We of course could see the dark clouds rolling toward us, but it was not until Joiner's mother called and asked if we had been watching the news that we learned it was no mere rainstorm.

You can see the storm clouds behind Joiner, who is on the phone with her mother. Not two minutes after I took this photo, Joiner gasped and said, "The building is coming apart!" Construction material from a building that was under construction across the street was being blown into the air -- foot-long pieces of wood, plastic, styrofoam.


And then the rain came. Sudden, violent, frightening. We were almost to the Field Museum, and we sprinted the rest of the way, battling the winds that slowed us down, battered by the pelting rain. It was a little bit like Twister. From the entrance of the Field Museum, I took these photos during the storm:
















For comparison, look at all the buildings and cars that were visible after the storm passed.










So suffice it to say, it was a stormy day and night (weirdly, there were a few hours of calm between the first storm system and the next, which hit later that night). On the news the next day, there were reports of lost power, flooded streets, and delays.

Oh yes. The delays. The next morning, we set out for the south, but spent an hour on the freeway moving about 2 miles, because all traffic was being diverted due to a flooded section of the freeway. Ack.

We got off the freeway, navigated our way through some surface streets, and successfully got ourselves back on track, on the way to Indianapolis, which was kind of creepy. The town, I mean. Anyway, we got out of there, but just 30 miles outside of town, we had a boo boo. Or rather, the car experienced a boo boo. We unavoidably ran over tread from a truck tire on the freeway, and after verifying that there was an odd sound from the right of the car when we went over a bump, we pulled over to the side, where I began a series of firsts:

- my first time checking a car for damage on the side of a freeway
- my first time detaching part of a car for safekeeping (the tread had torn away part of the plastic undercarriage right under the passenger-side headlights, causing the brights headlight on that side to hang by its wiring -- I detached the light so it wouldn't get broken)
- my first time reporting an insurance claim to the rental car company and the credit card company
- my first time realizing that hey, maybe just getting the collision/damage insurance is worth it, since it's going to be a mighty hassle getting the credit card company to cover it
- my first time literally taping a car together









- my first time driving a freakin' Mustang, which is huge and a gas-guzzling behemoth and NOT a car I wanted, but it's the freakin' south, and there's a freakin' fair going on, and the rental car company didn't have anything smaller (and I think the rep thought she was doing us a favor by giving us this massive beast)
- my first time eating White Castle, because there was nothing else open at midnight

Yeah.

It's been a tornado-escapin', hands-dirtyin', wearyin' kinda day. And I seem to have adopted a fake southern accent. But I'm still lookin' forward to fried Snickers tomorrow.

Stuck in South Dakota!
(but in a good way)

Can't write much, since I must be up in 6 hours to drive 600 miles to Chicago (we are in Sioux Falls tonight), but suffice to say that South Dakota is beautiful, and we just couldn't leave. Yesterday we covered only 200 miles or so, but did 4.5 cool things:

(1) got claustrophobic in Jewel Cave (okay, not so cool, but I discovered that I definitely cannot be a spelunker or a dwarf -- I belong above ground);

(2) wondered if the sculptor who started the Crazy Horse monument (which will be, if ever finished, twice as big as Mount Rushmore) 60 years ago was crazy or inspired;












(3) decided (again) that Lincoln was my favorite president when I saw his 60-foot face at Mount Rushmore;









(4) saw the place where Wild Bill Hickok was shot in Deadwood; and finally

(4.5) got scared by a T-Rex in Wall Drug Store, located in Wall, SD.

And today! We planned to be on the way out of SD by noon, but because of the sheer crazy beauty of the Badlands...









... not to mention the prairie dogs (it was all very Meerkat Manor there)...












... and the kitschy loopiness of Wall Drug (where we met a lovely free spirit in the form of a 43-year-old cashier who worked one summer at Wall Drug when she was a teen and came back after deciding she wanted to cast off the shackles of material existence -- more later)...












...we didn't head out of northwest South Dakota until after 4 pm.

But of course, it was all worth it.

Pie report: 2 very disappointing pie days -- the cherry pie at Cactus Cafe in Wall was sour and undercooked, the cherry pie at Wall Drug today was bland and mass-production-like, and the lemon meringue pie at Fryn' Pan in Sioux Falls was soggy and tasted like kitchen cleaner. I expected better of your pies, South Dakota. But I guess you can't have it all.

Afternoon in Wyoming

Woke up in Billings, MT, going to sleep in Custer, SD.

In between:

- Got caught up in Custer's last stand in Little Bighorn, WY, where a Native American park ranger described the scene in 1867. Joiner and I walked up the hot and dusty hill where Custer met his demise and imagined the seemingly endless Indian warriors pouring out from behind every hill.









- Had a buffalo burger for lunch (the second day in a row), in -- hee! -- Buffalo, WY. We walked into the place and into a crowd of what I assume were Mennonites: beards, suspenders, denim, bonnets, flower print dresses. One young woman with a baby on her lap looked at me curiously, and I looked at her curiously. The patron before us wore a cowboy hat and boots. The place also had this on the outside wall:









- Puzzled over Devil's Tower, WY, a 867-foot tower of phonolite porphyry that rises out of the landscape like some giant fluted column cake. It was created when 7 Indian maidens, who were being chased by a bear, prayed to the gods to save them. The gods heard, and lifted them up into the heavens on a huge piece of rock. The bear, frustrated, raked his claws down the rock, but the maidens had gone into the sky and become what we call the Pleiades.

You can see the bear's clawmarks, can't you?


















The scientific explanation is that phonolite porphyry is denser than the rock that used to surround it and eventually eroded over millions of years, but there is nothing else in the area that looks like Devil's Tower. Why just the tower? Humph. The bear story is much funner (and makes more sense).

About 4,000 people climb the Tower each year, which is kind of awesome. Some American Indians see climbing on the Tower as a desecration to their sacred site, though, which I can understand. There was a climber who got banged up pretty badly today while rappelling down -- rangers escorted him to the waiting ambulance.

We rolled into South Dakota in the midst of an amazing lightning storm. Black clouds covered the sky for miles and miles, and flashes of light ripped through the sky and occasionally down to the ground for hours. Hours! I kid you not. It was the most spectacular light show I've ever seen (and kind of experienced).

Dinner: Bavarian Inn, Custer, SD. Bratwurst and apple strudel, served by a transplanted Hawaiian woman married to a cowboy -- literally complete with hat and boots, even inside the restaurant -- named Russ, whose grandfather discovered Wind Cave (now a national park near Mount Rushmore). Rosemarie told us that she loved Custer, where you can't buy a pair of socks (you have to drive 45 minutes to Rapid City for that), but where there's an annual biker's fair (last year, there was killin' between two rival motorcycle gangs) and an annual bison herding. There's one lawyer in Custer, she said, and there might be room for more, she hinted when we said we'd just graduated from law school. I'd like to imagine that I am that small town lawyer, in another life. Of course, Custer's only lawyer is very busy right now, what with that biker murder from last year. I'm not sure I'd like that.

Tomorrow, we see Jewel Cave, Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse monument, the town of Deadwood, and the Badlands. Whew! It's going to be packed.

Journeying

We are staying in the nicest Best Western I've ever seen. 3 pillows!

This is an important point, because we're paying $150 for this room, more than double what we've been paying to stay in Super 8s and Travelodges. Why? Because this was the only hotel room available in the city of Billings (and only because someone canceled at the last minute), which tonight just finished hosting Montana's annual state fair. The fact that we missed the state fair by about 40 minutes after learning about it would normally make me bitter, because I want to see a state fair on this trip, but the fact that this cancellation saved us from having to drive another couple hours into Wyoming to get a room kinda makes up for missing the fair.

I think Montana just didn't want us to leave. Which is fine, because Joiner and I love Montana. The "Range Cattle" signs, the fearless hoary marmots and the breathtaking mountains of Glacier National Park, the huckleberry products (especially pie), the endless golden rangelands dotted with free-ranging black cattle and the occasional grain elevator or silo -- Montana is the bomb, folks, and we should all live there. Less than a million people do!

Of course, there are the winters.

Okay. This entry makes no sense, and I understand that, but I am dead tired. Turns out that driving is exhausting, and we have been doing a ton of it (to be expected on a cross-country trip, yah, I know). Yesterday was a pretty light day -- we left Buttle in the morning, swung by Missoula to pick up a U. Montana t-shirt (I don't know, it just became a thing, to get a U. Montana at Missoula shirt), drove toward some of the fires infesting the region, and did a nice 5-mile hike through old growth cedars, ending up at Avalanche Lake:

Pretty nice, eh? It was a smoky, hazy day, a day where people were being advised to stay indoors, but as we got inside the park, the smoke didn't seem so bad. And even with the haze, Avalanche Lake was magnificent. Beyond words. Soaring mountains carved out by glaciers, waterfalls thousands of feet in height, absolute quiet except for the chittering of chipmunks and hikers.

We got back from the hike about an hour before sundown, without a place to stay, but because of the smoke, it wasn't too hard to find a motel in a nearby town of Hungry Horse. Of course, the proprietress gave off a sort of Norma Bates-ish air (white hair, pinkish eyes, laconic), but we fortunately didn't get offed in the shower.

We hoofed it to Columbia Falls, the next town over, for dinner last night at one of, like, two places open after 9 pm. Oh my goodness. I have a couple "themes" for this trip, one being "Real America." And this place was so real America: uniformed waitresses with names like Patty, pie in the display case, guys in work boots and grimy jeans, middle aged men with plaid shirts, thick unhip glasses and pot bellies, a young girl trying to become a professional cheerleader. It was awesome, and I am still sulking about the fact that they had nothing with their logo printed on it that I could have, to remember them by.

Oh my. So many more diners, pies, "Prison Area: Hitchhiking Prohibited" signs, and photos to share. But since I really, really have to go to bed, here's the truncated version so far:

1. Lost $20 in Reno.
2. Went to the Moon (Craters of the Moon National Park) in Idaho. Had strawberry rhubarb pie at Idaho Joe's.
3. Saw marmots, glaciers, and free range steak in Montana. Had huckleberry pie at Bojangles Cafe in Polson and razzleberry pie at Park Cafe in West Glacier.

Tomorrow, the Black Hills, Rushmore, and the Badlands. I hope.

Twas the night before

I've done my two weeks of unexpected labor, complete with free editing services for an ad that my dad is putting up on Craigslist for online tutors. (You know, of all the duties I've grudgingly taken on, I hated the editing the most. Which is weird, considering that I do like writing. I just hate trying to get through the business bullshit to figure out what my dad really means.) I picked up Joiner at the airport a few hours ago -- poor thing, I've essentially left her alone the past hour to work on this ad -- and I'm about to wash up and go to bed, for tomorrow the cross-country trip begins.

And you know, all I feel is guilt about leaving my dad and grandmother. I hate myself sometimes. I just want to be free to enjoy life, but I never seem to be able to let myself.

I'm also sad to be leaving my dad and grandmother. Like a self-absorbed teen, death is never far from my mind, and I'm always aware that this time may be the last time. You just never know -- with anyone, not just elderly people.

So there: I'm gloomy, guilt-ridden, and so goddamn tired. But at least bigbro opined on Sunday that the house seemed all right, mold- and wiring-wise. It actually looks like a place you'd live in. We finished the last touches today, gave it all a final vaccuum, and now it feels like a house, instead of a dark, cold, spider- and fly-infested cave.

On the road, I'm not sure how much internet access I'll have, but I'll try to update as I go. I hope that as the road unwinds before us, so will I.

Weekend

It was a proper weekend, away from the House O' Mold, away from our well-worn path to Target and IKEA. Bigbro was supposed to take a look at said House O' Mold when he got in on Friday afternoon, but his plane was interminably delayed, and so Sunday became the new day for the expert inspection.

My dad and I had talked about going for a mini-break from Saturday to Tuesday or so, but with this change in plans, it made more sense to be back for the house inspection on Sunday. So with very little preparation or ado, we decided to take off. Crater Lake? Awesome, but too far. Yosemite? Undoubtedly no camping space left. Lake Tahoe? Call 'em. KOA has a space on their campground? Take it.

And off we went.
My grandmother, in the back of the Caravan, en route. Roomy!

















A pleasant glade for camping...

















... and a beautiful lake for viewing.













The following was caught by my dad.




I think to myself, "Hm. A log half in and half out of the water. How picturesque. I shall walk on it."








I realize, "Hm. Now I have gone as far as I can go. But turning around on this slippery log may be somewhat difficult."








Ack! I have fallen into the chilly waters of Lake Tahoe!







I ruefully survey the extent of the damage: soaked sneakers, socks, and jeans.


Walking back to the Grand Caravan, my grandmother whispered to me, "They say that if you embrace a pine tree, you get its energy."










My grandmother grew up in the country. Can't you just picture her as a little girl, in the mountains of Korea, going around hugging pine trees?



Yes, it's a rice cooker. It is, in fact, a rice cooker hooked up to an electric post meant for an RV.


What? When Koreans go camping, they still need rice.










I don't know how she clambered up there, but I turned around and there she was.


We drove around Lake Tahoe, took in a couple vistas, went to a market where we bought $30 of fruit, and then -- well, it's Tahoe, baby, Tahoe! You know what happens in Tahoe.

Go, Grandma, go!

I've never enjoyed gambling, but it was plenty amusing playing with my dad and grandmother. I also got in a good hour of playing House of the Dead III and IV in Harrah's arcade room. I love that game.

We came back in the early evening, and I immediately noticed something missing from the table, where we had left the icebox and about a cup of uncooked rice, in a plastic bag, which was in turn in a plastic container. Looking around, I notice something in the woods about 20 feet away.

Some mischief had clearly taken place in our absence.

Not one grain of rice was left in the bag or container. There were about 7 grains on the ground where we found it.

Best guess? One or more of the chipmunks we saw sniffing around the table later.


Night fell, and we gathered some fallen wood for a fire. The acquisition of marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers had taken place earlier in the evening. But the pieces of wood were a mite too long for the stone circle. We had brought no axe. What to do?

Not to worry. Resourceful, he is, my dad.













Success! S'mores were enjoyed by all (sorry, no pics of that).











And the next morning, we went home. But not before we stopped at a flea market and bought $40 of glassware, including an amber glass fairy lamp for me, for $5.50. It was an impulse purchase, which I usually don't indulge in. But part of the relief about definitiveness in regard to where I'll be for the next 2 years is the realization that hey, I can buy stuff to outfit my own place. Not my grandmother's apartment (2 years in Korea), not a dorm (3 years in Crimson City), not my friend's house where I'm renting a room (2 months this summer) -- my own place. Part of floating around, residentially, was trying to avoid acquiring things, since I'd just have to move it (across the globe, down to the basement for summer storage, etc.). But now, I feel like I can acquire a few things. It's freeing.

Definitiveness

(1) Elizabeth II

Yesterday morning, one of the mekanix at Karma Kanix (Berkeley. I tell ya.) revised his estimate of $1200 for replacing the first, second and third gears -- he'd called VW and they have apparently superceded the part with another, fancier model, which is now in Wisconsin and is more expensive. So the $1200 went up to $1400, not to mention the gasket valve cover (or something like that) ($190) and changing the brake fluid ($70).

When I went in to reclaim the Jetta later that day, he said, "Automatic transmissions scare me."

"Aw," I said jovially, "they don't bite."

"But they do," he said knowingly. "They bite pretty hard sometimes."

He'd been discussing the Jetta's tranny (hee!) with the mekanix in the shop, and he just wasn't comfortable quoting me that revised price either, because there was just no way to tell what else he might find wrong in the transmission. Really, he'd rather put in a new transmission, and that would cost $3,050 in parts alone, plus at least a grand more for labor.

With that information and advice in hand, I felt a great sense of relief. No way was I going to dump $4,500 into a car that I might not even use on the other side of the country, especially since I still didn't know where I'd be. My dad paid him for the diagnosis and the research (when I told him he didn't have to do that, he said, "Goodwill. You prepped the dorm house out of goodwill, and I'm paying for this out of goodwill."), and I thanked the guy for being straight with us. He could have easily dismantled the tranny and kept charging more and more for each faulty part he found. The first shop I went to would probably have done so -- hence the "worn pistons -- yep, I'll have to take out the transmission" line when there are no pistons in the transmission. Not this guy. If you ever need work done on a VW or an Audi in the East Bay, I can recommend Karma Kanix.

Thus ends the dream of taking Elizabeth II across the country. I reserved a rental on Orbitz today, and bigbro and J1 will probably sell her when they get back from the shining city of West Hartford. Bye, Elizabeth II! It was nice while it lasted. You made me feel like a grown-up, all driving my own car and shit.

(2) An Answer, Finally, About the Job

Partly because I was debating whether to pay for car repairs, partly because I have been dying to know for weeks, I wrote to The Turtle, my clinical supervisor, yesterday, asking him to consider calling the foundation we applied to for news about our application. He wrote back a very nice email saying how sorry he was that it was taking so long, and that he'd been thinking about it every day, knowing that I needed to let people know and make some decisions.

So he called and left a message, and got a voice message tonight, saying that our application was denied because we didn't have tax-exempt status yet. (The Turtle created a nonprofit and incorporated it and applied for nonprofit status in the few short months since we conjured up this plan for me to stay and work on the employment discrimination project).

That's right: no more Crimson City for me. I'm going to be in New York, and I'm going to be working for a corporate law firm starting October 1.

The Turtle was depressed about it (how do I know? because he said, "I'm really bummed" and sighed deeply several times during our 10 minute conversation), and I am too. I also feel relieved, free, thankful, flattered, and appreciated. The Turtle made a point of saying how great the project was running -- 70 calls since June 1, and about 10 referrals -- and that it was all due to my work. Now that's something a girl could blush about. And put in her scrapbook. Even though he has an agenda -- keeping me out of the corporate clutches -- and freely admits it, I'm so grateful and pleased that he worked so hard to get me this funding.

If I had gotten the funding, I would have enjoyed living with Mathgirl and husband; I would have enjoyed learning more from the Turtle, who is an amazing lawyer and person; I would have enjoyed living at a more relaxed pace and finding myself again after 3 unhappy, whirlwind years; I would have enjoyed learning more about employment law and seeing if I wanted to practice it. So I mourn the loss of the opportunity to do all these things, as well as the loss of the chance to help poor people, and to fight discrimination in my own tiny way.

But we tried our best, and it wasn't in the cards. I'm terribly glad we tried. I'm terribly glad to have thought, and looked, and decided, and sought, and now, now that I've failed, I feel a great sense of relief to have it over with. Dearest Turtle! We'll always have Crimson City. And there's always next year.

(3) The Moldy House

No doubt about it: that basement is swimming with mold spores. I started sneezing my head off today until I closed the doors to the back room and bathroom, and my grandmother complained of itchy eyes. Fortunately for us, Landlord did essentially evict the upstairs neighbor, so my dad and grandmother will be moving upstairs a week after they move in, where there is probably (we hope) much less mold.

And my dad told Landlord that he reserved the right to move out at any time, so I repeatedly told him, "You've gotta move in December, after the first semester's over for these exchange students." I hope he takes my advice. I think he should have just found another house to rent, but there's only so much an hk can do with her dad.

(4) The Great American Adventure

I proposed a vague plan of travel to Joiner and Resident Evil, and Joiner's buying a ticket to Berkeley for the 15th. With the car question (and others) settled, I can actually start planning my vacation! Which, you know, I kinda deserve. It's been a hard 3 years, and an even harder last 2 months, and I need to play.

I'm not good at it. Relaxing, I mean. I went to J1's and bigbro's house in happenin' West Hartford two weeks ago, just after the bar, and it was like a tutorial in relaxing. People (J2 and J3 were there too) wandered around eating, going outside for a smoke, drinking, taking naps, playing with the baby, watching TV, working on a puzzle -- this is all we did for about 24 hours. It was so weird! There was nothing to do except relax!

The problem is that guilt IS my chauffeur, and I have a bad habit of letting other people decide what I'm going to be doing. This is born out of laziness, dislike of decisionmaking, lack of strong opinions, and maybe a touch of wanting to please others. So a lot of the time, I seem to put other people's wants and needs before mine. I do like to think it's at least in part a little bit of selflessness. But it takes its toll, and I often forgo things that I would enjoy or that would re-energize me because I'm too lazy to pursue them or because I feel bad about enjoying myself while others (here in Berkeley, my dad and grandmother) are working hard.

(Wow, that whole last paragraph was all about repetition. Sorry. It's getting late.)

Anyway. I've been working for over a week on this house, when I didn't even know my help would be needed, and after a very tough bar exam. So though I still feel guilty about taking off with Joiner on the 15th, I can at least hold up the (by then) two weeks of free labor and wave goodbye with a slightly less guilty conscience.

Damn the guilt!

And now, this entry has truly reached epic proportions, and must be stopped. NOW.

A less good day
(Or: A Lyin', Thievin' No-Good Slimebucket of a Landlord and Friend)

A far less good day, I would say.

I blame the cold coffee. Instead of getting a piping hot cup, I drank my dad's leftovers from yesterday. Tasted fine, but I should have known. No good can come from a day that starts with cooled down coffee.

While cleaning the bathroom, we discovered that the sink leaks like a motherf***er. The landlord, who is a friend of my dad from grad school, had said he would fix it all, but obviously didn't. Not to mention the shower that's missing a part, so that the shower part doesn't work.

That was bad enough. I noticed too that black mold was growing on the walls near the leaky sink, as well as near the toilet, which further unsettled me. But the worst was yet to come. We found out from the upstairs neighbor that:

(1) She's essentially being evicted because of my dad's arrangement with the landlord. Not my dad's fault at all -- it's the landlord, who told her that relatives were moving in until they could find a place.
(2) Remarkably good-natured about it, she told us that the basement tenant had left about a year ago because of serious mold problems that were causing her and her young daughter respiratory problems. Landlord had, in turn, ignored her, given in when she called the city, then fought her in court when she sued him.
(3) Upstairs Neighbor also said she had had some rewiring done, and the journeyman electrician suggested she always keep a fire extinguisher handy, because the wiring was a mess and a fire hazard.
(4) She showed us the back patio, which because of an easily blocked drain, tends to fill with water during the rainy season up to six inches, right up against the side of the house.
(5) She also showed us the pine tree in the back that was becoming so choked with ivy that it was only a matter of time until it would die and probably topple. Some of those ivy branches looked like tree branches, they were so thick.
(6) And she showed us a retaining wall that was disintegrating, so that it was also only a matter of time until the dirt above would win, and spill into the back (most likely in a mudslide, I wager).

"I know he's a family friend," she said, not unkindly, "but I'd watch out if I were you."

ARGH. I was feeling okay about the whole thing -- at times annoyed, at times feeling rather proud of myself for doing this flip-the-house kind of thing (I used a power drill today, which always makes me happy). I was even thinking today that most home improvement projects are really not that hard -- you study how to do it and then you do it.

But mold? Faulty wiring? Threatening trees? Broken retaining walls? These things are beyond the average homeowner. They are beyond me. They required experts and lots of money.

Money would make this house a marvel, truly a million dollar home. It's got a view of the Bay. I saw a deer and 2 fawns walk by the house, right on the street, this afternoon. It seems like a pleasant neighborhood. And maybe, as my dad suggested, lack of money is why Landlord did this -- lie to my dad about the habitability of the place, lie to my dad about the repair work he would do, lie to his tenant about the reason he needed the place. But ... no. There are just some things you should not do.

So now what?

To add insult to injury, the VW guy I took the Jetta to this morning gave me his diagnosis, and it wasn't good. The 1st, 2nd and 3rd gears have to be replaced, requiring in essence a rebuilding of the transmission. His estimate? $1200 for parts and labor for the gears. There might be other problems he can't know about until he takes the transmission out.

My question is, how the hell do you figure out who to trust? The first transmission guy said it was worn pistons, which I later found out through talking with Scientist (yes, he's still in the picture -- fun story to follow) aren't even in the transmission, they're part of the engine. He would have charged between $2500 and $3800 to replace the pistons and take apart the transmission to find out what was wrong. This second guy, a VW specialist, says it's the gears, and his estimate is half of the first guy's.

I'm more inclined to believe the second guy, in part because he's gotten some very good reviews online, but how can you tell? Should I do what my Auto Repair for Dummies book recommends and take Elizabeth II to a third mechanic?

Christ.

Aaaaaand, to top it all off, Scientist called today. I don't know what's up with us -- we had a pretty good run during the pre-bar period, when he was really kind of sweet, even suggesting that we could spend more time together if he helped me study. He drove me to the airport when I was going to Albany, and then again when I flew here last week. He was away in CA while I was taking the bar, so I saw him briefly before I left, and ... I just don't know.

I've been telling him about my car woes, though, and he surprised me by knowing quite a bit about cars -- more than the average guy, I think. Anyway, he offered to call a friend of his in the Bay Area who knows a lot about cars, so that I could talk to him, and he called me today with the contact info. That was nice of him.

So the funny part: I call the friend, who is funny and nice, albeit not very helpful, and the friend asks me how I met Scientist. Match.com, I say. Oh! is the reply. So you've dated in the past or are dating now...

"Yeah," I answered, somewhat nonplussed, "uh, I don't know really what we are."

Oh, so you've just started dating, and you've had your coffee date and now Scientist wants to make sure you get back to Crimson City safely so you can have coffee again.

"Er, well, actually, we've been dating for a couple months."

Oh! I'm just out of the loop, I haven't talked to Scientist for months. So what's going on with you guys?

"Um, shouldn't you ask Scientist that?"

Oh, you know Scientist. He just blushes and kind of giggles. We used to work together, and he was the only single guy in the lab, so all us married guys would live vicariously through his stories.

"Yeah, I can kind of see that. Well, I don't know if I'll be in Crimson City coming this fall, so I don't know where we stand. But, uh, hey, thanks for the car advice, I appreciate it --"

No problem. You have my email address too, right? Let me know if anything comes up.

"Sure, sure. I'll let you know all the gossip too. Okay, byeee!"

Now that I write that, it kind of makes the friend sound pushy and inappropriate. But it didn't really have that timbre. He was funny and kind of charmingly obsessed about Scientist's love life. I was bemused.

It only occurred to me afterwards that this was the first time I had ever talked to one of Scientist's friends. It also occurred to me afterwards that Scientist must have told his friend that I was a friend.

Sigh. A tripartite of blueness today. Cold coffee'll do that to you.

Chillin', caffeine, and self-congratulatin'

Every time I come to the Bay Area in the summer, I inevitably think of the "coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco" quote, which I learned just now did NOT fall from the lips of Samuel Clemens. Doesn't stop it from being true, though. Last night I sat indoors wearing jeans, tank top, hoodie, fleece jacket, and a blanket, and it was still kinda cold.

Today was a bit better than the weekend was, and I think I have to thank caffeine for that. After getting annoying and tired at Target yet again, I suggested we all get some coffee at the Starbucks conveniently located in the Target store. And you know, even though my dad forgot the key to the dorm house back at home, requiring us to go back home after we schlepped up the mountain to the dorm, we found a whole load of crap for really cheap at Goodwill (including cups, mugs, plates, dishes, utensils, paper shredder, 4 lamps, power strip, globe, and bizarrely, Czech crystalware), where they thanked us with a smile for buying so much; the beds from IKEA fit perfectly in the Caravan (albeit only 3); I was able to figure out the vacuum cleaner and get all the rooms vacuumed, including the fly corpse-ridden window sills; and the freakin' sun even came out in the afternoon.

The place is looking more and more livable, which is a blessing, since we need to move there pretty soon and get out of Housesitter's hair. I worry that it's a bit dank and possibly toxic-ly moldy, but well, people lived there before us, so I guess we'll survive. I hope. Mostly I worry about my grandmother, since she'll be there for several months. Sigh. I don't know.

My dad asked, "Wouldn't you like to stay here for 2 months?" And manage the place and teach the kids, I suppose. My answer to that: "No! I want to have some fun. I haven't had fun for 3 years."

To everyone who's been thinking that my dad has been taking advantage of his mother and daughter -- uh, doy. Ya think? My grandmother is pretty tired by all this shopping and deciding and going here and there, but you know what she said the other day? "I went to sleep early as a precaution, so as not to get ill. If I got sick, what would your father do?" But at least I know where I personally have to draw the line.

Actually, I don't know that he actually meant to exploit me, at least. I could very easily see him thinking, "Eh, setting up house will be fine, just a couple days, and grandma will entertain herself for a week or so just fine."

It's strange, you know. My dad is an expert at capitalizing on the situation. He's an entrepreneur, a businessman. If you're feeling unkind, you might call him a schemer. Such a life of constantly gauging people and circumstances for opportunities would stress me out beyond belief. I hate it when my dad suggests a way for me to help him because I never want to do what he suggests, but feel bad about saying no. He never pushes the point, but I do wish he'd stop asking.

My dad is also like me. Er, no, I guess I'm like him. In that we aren't very good at deciding things. Take, for example, picking out beds at IKEA over the weekend: Foam mattress, or springs? Springs will last longer, I guess. This one? Sure, that's okay. What about this one over here, though? Oh, I guess that's better. Hm, is it really better than the foam, though? Foam seems more comfortable. I don't know... Yeah, me neither. [Lie on foam mattress. Lie on springs.] Foam is more comfortable. But it probably will get flat pretty soon. Yeah, springs are probably better. Okay, let's get spring mattresses. Right, right, okay. Which one?...

This is why shopping is so exhausting. We just can't make up our minds, in part because we see the pros and cons of each side and can't determine which is more important to us. It's also why I hate making decisions in general.

Anyhoo. I have taken over some of decisionmaking in this venture of setting up house, and it's been all right. It was pretty satisfying today, for example, to assemble the vacuum, clean up the dead flies, screw in the curtain rods, and hang some curtains. It was also satisfying to have many of my ideas work out: finding the discount IKEA furniture on Craig's list, finding a decent guy to help us move desks on Saturday through Craig's list, finding a boatload of stuff at Goodwill, etc. I'd much rather do this than deal with hiring people to cook or finding distance learning tutors to lecture online.

As for the car and the trip, I think it'll be best to go on a 2- or 3-day trip with my dad and grandmother somewhere nearby, have Joiner come to Berkeley on the 15th, rent a car (or, depending on what the mechanic tomorrow says -- a second opinion, from someone with glowing recommendations on Yelp.com -- maybe even take the Jetta), and go.

Yes. A rather satisfying day. Tomorrow: taking Elizabeth II to Karma Kanix (a little precious, but eh, it's Berkeley), cleaning the house (ooh, first time using Swiffer Jet!), assembling the beds, and -- oh yes, drinking lots more coffee. I swear, that's the difference.

Playing house

I've been here four days but it feels like much longer. It's been pretty hard work setting up house and trying to figure out what to do with this cross-country trip, which feels further and further away from reality (reality being Target, IKEA, Craig's List, a basement apartment, the Dodge Caravan, and a sickly Jetta).

This morning we went to Target and got a boatload of household goods, including a vaccuum, Dustbuster, Chlorox, garbage cans, sponges, soap, a lamp, kitchen towels, pans, scissors, Palmolive, and more. Lots more.

I've never had a house, never had a place that I considered my own, really. It's been five years since I even rented my own place or cleaned my own bathroom. So you could say that I am not the most qualified person to try and set up a house. No doubt this could all be done a lot more efficiently and with less expense by someone else, which would cut down on the irritation factor too. Because I get irritated. I try not to, but I do. When my grandmother asks me what the Swiffer is, or calls me into the kitchen to tell me that we need foil, plastic wrap, and Ziploc bags for the dorm, or says she doesn't know what to get because she isn't familiar with any of the products -- these things annoy me. God knows that it's hard being in a foreign land with a job to do, and harder yet to do it when you're 75 years old, and -- dear god, WHY is she here, and WHAT is my dad doing?

This is what I was feeling today at Target, so I did a good thing for myself and my sanity and probably that of those around me, and I took off a few hours. Went to see a friend from law school, who drove around in the Jetta with me and directed me to one of the ubiquitous taco trucks around Hispanic neighborhoods in California, where we had the most delicious tacos ever, and then drove around aimlessly some more, like high school kids, stopping only for more tacos. It was fantastic.

My friend is recovering from the fourth serious back surgery he's had since he herniated a disk as a kid, but was remarkably sanguine about it, as he is about pretty much everything. Take, for example, his reaction to being mugged in Oakland last year: "Yeah, it's not such a great neighorhood." Or his reaction to his mom being mugged by two kids, on his block, while with him, in broad daylight, during his convalescence: "Yeah, she was a little freaked out."

Although he lives in what sounds like a scary neighborhood, his little apartment was sweet, complete with a little calico cat that was born right outside his place about a year ago. (The cat hissed at me, then wound itself around my legs, then hissed some more. Dumb cat.) Before aimlessly driving around, I hung out with him there for as long as I could before succumbing to allergies. My friend's always been kind and generous to me, and as I drank his coffee, I mentioned that I wished I had more stability in my life. He asked me what that meant. I struggled with the answer.

I have been aimless, I guess. I led a pretty straight arrow path until graduating from college, after which I meandered through three full-time and two part-time jobs before heading to Korea and then going to law school. In the past ten years, I have lived in seven cities and 13 buildings, had 7 sets of roommates, and logged at least 100,000 miles in air travel.

Whatever stability is, it's not that.

I'm blogging tonight while sitting on J1's and bigbro's couch, surrounded by photos and books and things acquired and accumulated through seven years of marriage and 14 (?) years of togetherness. Is this stability? Who the hell knows? But if this isn't what stability looks like, stability's stylist should be fired.

I just want to know. I want some definiteness. I want to feel free to acquire things without weighing in my mind how difficult they will be to move within a year.

But mostly, I really want to know.

Of sick cars and a lyin', thievin' drunk of a grandma

Let's bring the funny on first.

My dad, grandmother and I are, for the moment, sharing bigbro's house with one of J1's and bigbro's friends, who is supposed to be living here, taking care of the house while they're away living the high life in West Hartford. It's not the most convenient or comfortable situation for any of us, but we're all managing just fine.

Housesitter is a collector of wines, and boxes of the stuff are scattered around the house.

Last night, my grandmother made some beef. And during dinner, she said, "Hey! Do you want some wine with this? You have to have alcohol when you eat beef." This was not a tongue-in-cheek way to get loaded; it's actually a bit of a tradition in Korea. Perhaps it stems back from the days when beef rarely made its way onto the table and such an occasion called for celebration. Or maybe it's thought that alcohol makes the beef go down better -- I dunno. Point is, she asked my dad if he wanted some wine with the beef, and he indicates he's down with that.

So my grandmother went into the kitchen and came out with a half empty bottle of 2005 Beaujolais and three glasses, and starts pouring the wine.

I have no idea if this is a good wine. All I know is that it's not our wine. So I protest. "This isn't ours," I said. "It's Housesitter's."

"Eh," my grandmother said. "So what? There's lots of bottles around the house. He won't miss it."

I sort of understood. In Korea too, if an older person were to ask you for something, you wouldn't question her, you'd just give it over. There's a sense of community ownership about most things in a house. "But," I thought out loud, "we don't know if he was keeping it for a special reason or what. He said he bought a box of something a couple years ago and was slowly drinking it."

"Eh," my grandmother said again, pouring out the third glass. "We'll finish it and then he won't even notice! He'll think he finished it and forgot about it."

I looked at my dad. "Dad, I really don't think we should drink Housesitter's wine."

Finally, my dad weighs in, telling my grandmother, "These kids, they don't really know our ways. And he's a collector, so we don't know what he's keeping this stuff for. See, he even has a special wine fridge. That's how into it he is."

"All right, all right," my grandmother relented. "Let's pour it back."

"We need something with a spout," my dad said. We all went into the kitchen. "Oh, we can just use a rolled up piece of paper," my grandmother suggested. "No, no, we should use... -- this!" my dad found a small sake bottle in the cupboard. And he poured the wine from the glasses into the sake bottle and back into the Beaujolais bottle, which went back into the kitchen with no one wiser. Until now.

The really funny thing? Tonight, sitting down to more beef, my grandmother said, "Hey, you know how you scolded me for the wine last night? Well, there's lots of beer in the fridge! We could have had that! Want some now?"

Some cultural differences just can't be explained.
------------------

Now for the slightly sad and tired-making part.

This morning, I took Elizabeth II to the transmission guy, a non-descript, friendly dude with the unlikely name of Reece. Reece took a look and called me in the afternoon with the news I had been fearing: the transmission fluid level was fine. It was a more major problem -- the pistons in the transmission were worn out. To fix it, he would have to take out the entire transmission and go through all the parts as well, to make sure it wasn't something else. Starting price? $2495.95. (He was very specific about it, which was kinda funny.) But it could go up as high as $3,800. Elizabeth II's Blue Book value is, at best, $3700.

Bad, bad news. Reece said we'd be crazy to drive across the country with the Jetta in its current state -- it might keep working for 200 miles more, or 2,000 miles more, but then it would leave us stranded. So either I plunk down the money and wait up to 5 business days for it to get fixed, or I find another car to drive.

Sigh. I just don't know.

More tired-making things: The other thing we did today, besides dealing with Elizabeth II's ailment, was get furniture for the "dorm" that my dad is providing for the Korean students he's bringing over. I found a going-out-of-business sale on Craig's List with a bunch of IKEA furniture, and we bought a slew of tables, chairs and other equipment for about half the list price. Good show.

But when we got to the house, I realized the magnitude of the task. The house needs to be cleaned and painted and completely furnished: beds, dressers, washer/dryer, desks, lamps bookcases, computers, etc., not to mention all the accoutrements of daily life like food and toilet paper. I have no idea how my dad thought he'd do this in a few days. It looks like a good week's worth of work to me, especially since so far it's just me, him, and my grandmother -- all three of us with bad backs, 1 with almost no ability to move large items (grandma) and another with bad enough RSI to also limit her ability to move heavy things (me). The owner of the house will probably get it painted and hopefully cleaned, but who's going to move all the crap we bought today?

Sigh. I want to help, and I'm glad to help, but sometimes all I can do is sigh.