Living in moderate climates with a dog means you spend a lot of time with crows, whether you want to or not. Dogs and crows enjoy similar things – namely, smelly rotting things on sidewalks and parks – and they are constantly engaged in a low level contest to consume such things before the other can get to it. My dog gets along with crows as well as any other dog, I suppose, which I appreciate as I enjoy spending time with crows, and if they really didn’t get along, I’d not have the opportunity to spend time with them.
Take a safety break!
Alan’s water bottle had slid off the armrest and out of reach. I was mid-Sunday morning tired, and needed some air. We had an hour to go until we got to the berry patch.
REST STOP, 1/4 Mile / Volunteer Coffee Available, said the white on blue sign (indicating “information or services” according to interstate sign iconography)
Limbo calling
I’ve been a bit on edge lately, which among my friends hasn’t been particularly surprising. The relationship I was in recently ended, I’ve been chronically underemployed, and the long days of Seattle summer mean there’s simply more time to fill. In other words, I’m bored.
I doubt anyone reading this is surprised by this revelation. After all, I’m just starting a post of my writings online, which typically is driven by a combination of boredom and narcissism that enables someone to write enough to maintain a steady output of writing, and to feel confident enough in their own importance to post it on the Internet. Surely, Peter, the reader is saying, it’s obvious that you’re bored. Please, dear God, don’t bore us.
Paris without tears
My retreat in southern France ended last Friday, but the timing and logistics on flying back were a bit complicated. I had some meetings in New York on the following Monday, which made flying back to Seattle just to board a flight twelve hours to backtrack to the east coast seem like a really bad idea. Lucky for me, though, the timing worked out that if I went to Paris, I could see the fireworks on Friday, which was Bastille Day. So I got my flights to New York worked out for a Sunday night arrival, and booked an Airbnb for two nights in gay Paree.
Valence
The cities of the Rhone are more or less all the same, once you get south of Lyon. The light certainly is all the same, a pale yellow or ochre or dirty creme (depending on the time of day) falling on traces of Roman walls and streets of the old quarter where names like “Grand Rue” mark out lanes which narrow into pincer points. Outside of the historic bits, the light remains harsh and yellow, but falls instead on southern French suburban sprawl, boxy concrete houses with roll-shutters on the windows that seem never to open. Finally you reach a ring of big box retail stores with names that make no sense to North Americans (Geant Casino? Piccado?) and then almost immediately the fields and vineyards and orchards begin. There is no gentle shift to the countryside, and only there does the light change into something less angry, something you could imagine inspiring paint and music.