To Leonard

Today, I’m having a Leonard Cohen day kinda, shuffling my feet under my desk and letting his ole tattered ribbon of tune take me where it may.

I remember the first time I heard a Leonard Cohen song, on a road trip into the High Sierras with one miss Annie Fast. She had that compilation I'm Your Fan, all of our favorite indie bands doing cool Cohen covers. The Pixies playing "I Can't Forget"—well I never do forget how good it is. Anyway, this moment, on this trip, was a tiny pinhole turning point. When I got home, I started unraveling his discography like a thread—like you did back then, buying records, one by one until you had a big stack. His songs are like paintings, they capture the light. The more I listened, the more I got the witchy sense that this old gypsy poet was my spirit guide. More accurately, I (a lost and lonesome little girl)—well I wished he was my spirit guide.

Here's to Leonard. To Mr. Cohen. What an amazing mind. Thank you for always illuminating the biggest mysteries, which are really just the simplest mysteries—the ones we're faced with every single day.

November To-Do List

1) Teach the puppy to come when he's called, and to walk on a leash without resembling a kite caught in a windstorm, and to not be dead-scared of the trash truck on Fridays, and to let the cat walk through the room quietly with little-to-no accosting, bouncing, or otherwise carrying on, and, and, and ...

2) Unlock the mysteries of the Aeropresse coffee maker. I got one for my birthday. It seems like it should be simple—but it isn't. Beakers. Tabulations. Temperature gauges. It's overwhelming to someone who hasn't had their morning coffee yet.

3) Strip the various linoleums and other ancient subfloors off the stairs leading down into my basement, and then paint them crisp, shiny black. OCD-wise, I get loads of anticipatory satisfaction when thinking about this project.

4 ) Locate, as well as purchase, a new automobile. You see, Volkswagen's buying back my lemon of a diesel Jetta (within the month, one hopes—as several sensor lights have blinked on in the last couple days and money-pit orientated service appointments loom). Wherefore art though, fuel-efficient wagon of my dreams?

5) Pursue enlightenment through brisk outings in the cold.

Puppy Days

Hello to you. Have you met this new puppy? His name is Durango, and he resides, cutely—and with sharp teeth, at my house on 57th Street.

What happened was, I couldn't stand the quiet. I'd come home to the most awful stillness, a house full of nothing but air molecules, of lonesome mental tumbleweeds rolling across the hardwood floors. Life, in the end, is just more life-y with a dog in it.

And so squarely one month after Lefty died, Mark and I took a little trip out to the Yakama Nation in Eastern Washington, where stray dogs are everywhere, anywhere. There, we picked up a little dude, a mystery mutt straight off the rez—part border collie, part boxer, part ???? Maybe panda? Or raccoon? It's all possible.

A note about baby dogs. I'd forgotten that you have to teach them everything. They don't know how to go on walks. They don't know how to climb up or down stairs. They don't know how to fetch a ball. We think that stuff comes naturally, instinctually, but in fact, every last thing is brand new to a wild animal who spent his first weeks living all feral on a concrete slab.

Anyway, here's to a house full of paw patter, here's to wagging tails and wiping pee, here's to slow morning walks holding fast to the leash like it's the end of a kite string in a tornado. I love it all.

Portugal Mega-Post

Hi to you. I've just returned from Portugal. I've been dreaming about that place for years, ever since I saw a picture of Lisbon—a whitewashed and red-roofed city tumbling down to the sea.

The place/experience/trip was epic as hoped. Sure, I submitted some formal complaints to the ether about airports, customs, and all the rude dickheads throughout. The shitty plane food. The hours of standing in line, as we all must, to fly somewhere. But physical acts of traveling aside, Portugal was, as they say, dreamy. Magnificent empty beaches. Tidy blue-and-white buildings. Olives. Bread. Wine. Sunshine everyday, everywhere, all the time.

A note about "tourism": Personally, I travel somewhere for the there-ness. With the exception of Lisbon, Portugal was delightfully un-touristy, and, for that matter, un-crowded. We had room to breathe—really see/feel/taste what was going on in the place. This led to 2 realizations: 1) the U.S. is very crowded, and 2), the tourism industry kind of benefits the economy at the expense of the culture. Like, AirBnB brings in money, but it displaces people. I mean, the fairytale jalopy buildings of old-town Lisbon were filled, not with Portuguese people, but rather with foreigners who, like us, were Air-BnBing their way through the country. Truth be told, I peeped anti-AirBnB graffiti all around the city. I'm not sure exactly what I think. Big ups to considering yourself (like I try to!) a Traveler vs. a Tourist—but I came home with a gloomy feeling that the cultural spirit of a community is a lot more fragile than we think.

Medieval fortifications overlooking the sea. All the Portuguese castles had that sickest ocean views. "Easier to defend," the ancients claimed, but we all know the real truth ...

The pretty beaches in Peniche with the nicest little waves. Here is were I went surfing, bravely but poorly.

We took a wee day trip to Porto, a city in the North (where, obvi, port wine was born). I loved this place. It's fairly untouched by time. Basically, you're on the set of a Shakespeare at all times.

Medieval stairmaster! See ya, vacation calories.

Porto azulejos. Painted tile game on point.

Sundown on my birthday in Ereicera. Gold star emoji on this scene right here!

Palace hunting in Sintra. Yep, another castle with an epic view.

As a settlement, Lisbon has been around for 3,000-odd years. I'm a student of history, and I was super in awe of the cultural and archaeological mishmash. Phoenicians. Romans. Visigoths. Moors. Celts. Christians. See the pic below—it's all layered in there like a cake!

Cotton candy sunsets in Lisbon, as seen from our attic apartment.

Stone-cold sightseers. Behind us, a statue of a prince, Lisbon city center, and the Tejo river. Got it? Got it. Now let's all go drink a beer.

After a laborious week of avoiding octopus tentacles out in the fishing villages, we came into city and our veggie-minded stomachs were rewarded.

No-fucks-given parking situations everywhere you turned your head.

Ciao Portugal! Obrigado.

Birth-Day In The Life

When you're not really in a celebratory mood, I find the best place to celebrate your birthday is far away. That way, the simple act of living is a kind of observance, both unique and memorable. As it happens, we'd planned a trip to Portugal a few months ago, and that's where I was on Friday—the anniversary of my birth.

Upon arrival, we were in another world, a sunny, serene place where the people are forever in sandals, forever tan, forever gesticulating happily during conversation and forever ready to laugh with you, at you.

All I did on my birthday was slow down. The things I enjoyed most were as follows: The fairytale peach nectar we spread on our fresh-baked rolls as we drank coffee with the sun streaming down. The empty beach with the perfect aquamarine barrels. Mesmerizing. I could watch them forever and ever—the deepest, truest meditation. A respectable glass of cool, bubbly wine on an a modest wooden deck. The prettiest pink sunset—a little show just for me, as far as I'm concerned.