my secret vacation (#12)

took a mini-vacation to the desert this week, for two and a half days.









just me and the desert and the sun. and the pool. I read books and slept the wrong way in the king bed and paid a guide to let me gallop a horse (mouse) through the sand. I hardly told anyone I was going, and the only talking I did during the trip was while ordering drinks and riding horses. traveling alone provides such unspeakable freedom. nobody's needs to fill but your own. only when I got home and walked into my dark apartment did I feel lonely. it's always better when somebody's happy you're home.

tomorrow: candide rehearsal. just one more opera, then we can breathe until the fall. thank the heavens. we might love what we do, but several months without last minute crises sounds pretty divine, thanks.

the end of february

today I rented some snowshoes



and went up to the mountain. which mountain? this mountain.



I climbed up a big hill



and I almost made it all the way to Timberline but I got nervous because there were a lot of skiers and my legs were pretty tired. I wasn't sure if I could cross the ski path fast enough, and I wasn't sure what good snowshoeing manners were in terms of traversing the path with my crampons, so I went back down. but that's OK. when I got back down to the end of the trail I got in the car and drove to the lodge anyway.

hey, you guys? I have a guilty secret. I've lived here 4 1/2 years and I'd never been to Timberline. I know, I know. it's because, honestly? ski culture scares me. I have very little experience with winter sports -- we always vacationed in the summer and cocooned in the winter -- so being around all these alpine people is like visiting an alien tribe. there's all this gear, and I don't know what any of it is called or what it does or how to use it, and everybody seems really die-hard. and clad in gore-tex.

(I did go cross-country skiing once, in college. I loved it. everybody told me it was so hard, but it was like a cross between running and skating, two things I love to do. but I've never been since, and I've never been downhill skiing. it just goes so ... fast. so fast!)

what finally convinced me to go up to the mountain this weekend was a post on the Run Oregon blog about free snowshoeing trips guided by U.S. Forest Service Rangers. FREE! I like free. Snowshoe rentals from REI are only $20, which is almost free. So I was pretty stoked to learn about the aerial tramway from the 1950s, and Mt. Hood birds, and other things I imagined the ranger would tell us. only, see, that didn't quite work out, because the ranger couldn't make it. there was only me and one other couple waiting for the guided trip, so I debated for a minute or two about what to do in the absence of a CHAPERONE. but hey, snowshoeing is just hiking with pointy shoes! I can do that. so, I followed the trail we would have taken, and walked 2 1/2 miles up the side of the mountain. like, straight up. but that's OK! because in two weeks I'm running a 15K and half of that is also straight up, so I could use the conditioning.

anyway, I'm glad I got over my alpine sport aversion and can I just say, I want to sleep over at Timberline TONIGHT. or maybe last night. all the hewn rock and the giant wooden beams. also, the snow covering the windows. and the cozy fireplace. I'm a big sucker for cozy.

it's not exactly the same, but I'm going ahead and crossing off number 21, more in the spirit than the letter of the law. I just wanted to get in the snow.

Nub enjoyed the mountain too.

a good weekend

yesterday morning, brilliant airy blue sky; by 9:30 I was at the barn, the back doors thrown open to the sunlight. Cookie rolled & snorted the dust out of her nose. Up by her stall, she stood in the cross-ties while I untangled her mane, too long braided, with my fingers. Our riding lesson was better than usual, lately -- she threatened to buck, throwing her head down to her knees, but I managed to ride her through it each time. At the canter she finally gave in and complied. We loafed around the arena bareback for awhile, my dark breeches covered in white hair.



what a nice weekend. for nearly a week now it's been gloriously nice here, sunny and in the 50s. it feels sinful after the week of snow at home, but it's been a blessing too. I was pretty blue at the start of the week, totally overwhelmed by funerals and stress and feeling like I had no idea what direction my life was headed. it's amazing what a little sunshine will do.



this afternoon I went over to the library. I dropped 3 books and came back with 7. hopeless. I meandered over to the tack store downtown in hopes of checking out their saddles. did I mention that I've just now realized my saddle doesn't fit my horse? I've looked it over several times in the past but only yesterday did I realize that it's too narrow in the shoulder, which means it's tipped back, which is why I can't get my damn legs in the right position. I'm sure it's hurting her too. so now I'm tentatively beginning to look for a new one. to the tune, I'm sure, of several hundred dollars.

the tack store, however, was closed. so I wandered down to the waterfront, where I walked barefoot through the grass. barefoot through the grass! in february! thanks, universe.

then Nub and I went to the world's smallest park.


so, see you later, number seventeen.


I was really happy to discover a tiny treasure trove of wild park animals: a butterfly, a horse, and two dinosaurs. I'll have to go back and visit to see if anybody else moves in.

On my way home, I passed a mustache on a pillow. Good day.

furlough, days 1-3

day one:



sleeping in. cleaning stalls in the rain, raking the poo pile (above), letting the mare cavort around the indoor arena. chai latte at home, cat-shaped lap warmers, balancing the checkbook. TV in bed.

day two:



coffee and oatmeal. working through a hissy fit from my horse; afterwards, watching her float over ground poles at the trot. working on our manners, our ground tying. an involved video game.



a date.

day three:



discovering the cat has figured out how to jump on the kitchen counter. spraying the cat three times in rapid succession after he jumps on the kitchen counter. lining the kitchen counter with double-stick tape. and pots and pans from the cupboard. a solitary mid-morning ride. a bareback walk back to the barn. vacuuming the car. making the grocery list, the christmas list, the to-do list. fishing the cat toys from beneath the furniture. and again. and again.

great vacation so far. I've already forgotten what day of the week it is.

a happy ending.

This is Noah. Noah works at Departure, where seven and a half weeks ago, I left Nub.

Late last week, on realizing that my hedgehog still had not been returned, my friend Jennifer (our production stage manager at the opera) sent a disgruntled email to the management company who oversees The Nines Hotel, where Departure is located. She got a blanket reply, and then a second reply saying "someone will be responding to you within five days." Today she received an email from one of the managers at the hotel, saying that he had inquired into the matter with the restaurant's manager and with, it turns out, Noah.

I received the copy of your comments to Starwood, and can personally help and follow up on the situation.  I would like to apologize for the poor communication and follow through of our associates. 

Upon receiving your letter today, I discussed the matter with Ron Acierto, our Departure manager, as well as Noah  - the associate who you spoke with.

According to Noah, he personally took the stuffed animal – a small monkey?- to the post office, and sent it via regular mail in a small box.

Noah did not send it express mail, or certified, and does not have a tracking number for this shipment.  He believes that he may still have a copy of the receipt from the payment at the USPS office, but will be out of town for the remainder of the week and will attempt to locate it upon his return.

I will let you know what we discover later this week.  If you would like to discuss the situation further, I can be reached at the number listed in my email signature.

Regards,
David Marsh
Director of Operations - Food and Beverage

When I got this email, I realized that maybe instead of being lost somewhere in Departure, Nub was in fact lost in the mail. What if, I thought, the address on the box was wrong and there was no return address? I called the post office and created a report with the Lost Mail division, who took all the relevant addresses and agreed to call me in two business days with their findings.

I got home tonight and was busy cooking dinner when I poked into my bedroom for something, only to hear my phone buzzing. I answered, thinking it would be the post office. Instead, it was Noah.
"I'm standing at Portland Opera and I have Nub," he said. "But the office is closed and I can't get in to deliver him."

It turned out Nub had, in fact, been sitting at the post office for five weeks, having been improperly labeled and lacking a return address. Noah hadn't thought anything more about him since dropping him off five weeks ago. No one at Departure had followed up with him so he had no way of knowing that Nub had never arrived. Today his manager called him; he was spending a day at the coast. He DROVE BACK to take care of the situation: called up the post office, swung by the branch where Nub had been dropped off, and brought him to the correct address.

"I don't want to leave here without dropping this box off," he said. I told him that there was no one to open the door: the folks in Patron Services don't really know me, and probably wouldn't let him in anyway. Cristina was in yoga until six inside the building, but there was no way of reaching her for another half hour. I offered to meet him at the office. "I'm only two miles away," I said.
"How about I drop him at your house?" he offered. "Unless you think that's weird."

So that's what he did. I gave him my address and then sat out on the stoop to wait. I warned my neighbor, Andrew, that I might shed a tear when Nub was delivered. Less than ten minutes later, Noah was smiling and walking up the sidewalk with a parcel wrapped in paper and string, and an envelope. "It's a little outdated now," he said, "but that's OK."

The envelope and letter were both typed up on a typewriter. The envelope is addressed with my name, "AKA: Nub's Mumsy."

The contents of the letter:
Dear Miss Jessica,

I have most certainly missed you. It's been torture these weeks apart and I can't say I've ever been more bored. This lovely gentleman who was kind enough to rescue me from that awful safe in the basement of that glitzy hotel may be sweet and all but he certainly doesn't travel NEARLY enough for my tastes.
He made sure to pack me carefully into this cozy little box for the journey home and he wanted me to convey a little message for you:
'I can assure you that Nub has been exceedingly well-behaved and quite entertaining in the week he spent with me. And he was remarkably gracious what with having been locked up in the basement up until I was able to procure him from security. I certainly hope he hasn't left too gaping a hole in your I'm positive quite lovely family and home. All my best, Noah.'
I must reiterate, Noah was the soul of provision and care during my brief stay in his home. I'm sure he'd love a picture or post cad from us on one of our future adventures. I'll be sure to get his home address prior to my departure. I look forward to seeing you again upon your opening this parcel. Just be careful, I may be sleeping and you know how grumpy I can be.

Love, Nub

the ongoing adventures of Nub the hedgehog

where to start?

three weeks ago a group of us went out to Departure, a restaurant on top of The Nines Hotel in downtown Portland. Departure has two decks that overlook the city, and because it's known as one of the swankier places in town, we had planned on a fancy ladies' cocktail hour and dressed accordingly.

Of course, I brought Nub.



Three of us got there right as happy hour started, and ordered a bottle of prosecco, which was their happy hour bubbly special. By 5 PM another friend had joined us and we had ordered two more bottles. Then the whole group arrived, and -- well, it was downhill from there.



Our numbers swelled. More prosecco arrived. We ordered food in great quantities. It was a great time. Nub got to visit with everybody.





It got dark, and grew chilly. It was already an overcast day, and not terribly warm. The waiter generously brought out blankets for us to cozy into. Glasses were continuously refilled. We drunkenly called a colleague and talked him into joining us. Kids, this is how accidents happen.

Somewhere in those blankets, Nub got lost.



It was a long night. I won't get into the details. The weekend that followed was rough. When I awoke the next day, my clothes from the previous night were either missing or soaked, someone else's dress was on my floor, and I had mysterious bruises. And Nub was missing.

I figured right away that either he had been forgotten at the bar, or someone else had taken him home. Neither Cristina nor I had our cars at the apartment -- we had both gotten a ride home. So we walked to pick up our cars, and then we went back to Departure for a rescue mission.

Let me tell you: there's nothing like saying, "I was here for happy hour last night, and I think I may have left my hedgehog."

After having to repeat "plush hedgehog" several times, they went on a search. Cristina and I stood at the desk for several minutes, and the hostess told us how she had a friend who liked to walk around with an actual human skeleton named Mr. D. Bones. After that, I didn't feel so strange. A lot of staff came and went, but no talk of the hedgehog. Finally, a guy came out and strolled over.

"Are you girls here for the hedgehog?" he asked. We nodded. "Well, we found him last night, but we didn't know what to do with him, so we gave him to security and he's locked up downstairs. We don't have a key and nobody will be in to open it until Monday. Can we mail him to you?"

I was so relieved that he'd been found -- and so amused by the idea that Nub was in lockdown -- that I didn't volunteer to come pick him up. I wrote down the opera's address, my cell phone number, and then scribbled "Nub the Hedgehog" on top.

"Do you take him places, like a traveling gnome?" the guy asked.
"Yup," I replied. "He even has his own Facebook page. And Twitter account."
"No kidding!" He scribbled something on the paper. "That's hilarious! OK -- we'll send him out on Monday."

We left and I was incredibly relieved. I was afraid I was in very real danger of bursting into tears if he hadn't been found. We went home and I looked forward to Tuesday or Wednesday, when he'd arrive at the opera.

Then, a week passed. No Nub.

The following Monday I drove back to the bar, figuring that he'd just been forgotten in the daily hubbub of running a restaurant. I was dismayed to discover that Departure is not open on Mondays, but the guys working the front desk of The Nines told me that since security was actually on the 8th floor, I could go talk to them. I made my way upstairs and once again had to explain that yes, I'd left a toy hedgehog at the bar a week ago. They phoned security but got no response. Will you be here for awhile? the girl asked. I said no, but left my name and phone number, and the word "hedgehog" at the top of the note. I went home and kept my phone on me all night. No word.

A few days later, I called The Nines. It was mid-day, and Departure hadn't opened yet. The girl at the desk didn't know anything about a hedgehog, but did let me know that actually, the bar had its own lost and found, so the hedgehog wouldn't be in security anyway. Then she suggested I leave a message at the restaurant, but I didn't, since they hadn't called me back before anyway.

Then, last Friday, unbeknownst to me, our friend Bob made an attempt at hostage retrieval. He showed up at Departure and demanded the return of the hedgehog. He was mailed yesterday, they told him, and he reported that he had reason to believe there may be photos included in his return box. I was bolstered. He was really on his way home! And the hotel staff had played along!

Monday morning I anxiously awaited the mail. I mean, it was really like a kid on Christmas. But no Nub. The same on Tuesday. And yesterday. When I left work yesterday afternoon, I went back to Departure. I arrived to discover that there was a private party being hosted in the restaurant, and it was closed to the public for the entire night. When I told the girl working the elevator that actually, I just needed to retrieve a lost hedgehog, she didn't bat an eye. "Oh!" she said. "I thought we mailed him!"
"It's been a week," I said, "and I'm a half-mile from here, and I haven't gotten him yet."
She frowned, and suggested I ask the guys at the front desk to call up and let me speak to the staff in the bar. It took several minutes of wrangling them -- well, you can't go up there, there's a private party .... well, security's on the eighth floor ... well ma'am, I don't know of any lost and found in Departure ... we only work down here, we don't know what goes on up there -- before I got someone on the phone.

Then the guy on the phone was a royal bitch. I explained that, though it was starting to feel like a joke line, I was calling about my lost hedgehog. He immediately put me on hold, and when he returned a minute or so later, he said he couldn't find the hedgehog, and he believed it had been mailed.
I was losing my cool. "Okay, see, here's the thing. I either want to speak to the person who put the hedgehog in the box, or I want to walk out of here with the hedgehog in my hand."
"Well, the person who mailed him isn't here, and I don't know where the hedgehog is." Long pause. "You can leave a message."
"See, here's the thing," I said. "I've left my phone number like four times, and nobody ever calls me. So no thanks."

And that was how I had to leave it. I wanted to be able to stand at the desk until somebody gave me a direct answer. A direct answer like HE WAS MAILED ON THURSDAY, or WE ARE VERY SORRY WE'VE BRUSHED YOU OFF FOR THREE WEEKS or best of all, WHOOPS, HERE'S YOUR HEDGEHOG. Instead I had to turn around and storm back to my car, angry that because my lost item was a stuffed hedgehog rather than a purse, nobody cares to give me a straight answer. Angry enough that when some passing panhandler asked me for money, I replied NO SORRY like a fire-breathing dragon, and when the stupid clipboard nazis on the street corner accosted me I yelled I AM NOT INTERESTED! Because that's about as rude as I can get.

Today I had to tell my sister that actually, I would not be bringing Nub to my cousin's wedding this weekend, despite the fact that I have been threatening for weeks to find some way to stash him on the altar. She was audibly disappointed -- after all, she gave him to me. But I can't lie to her, and I'm not sure what else to do.

we miss you, buddy.

back east

north carolina:



a blast of humidity upon setting foot outside the airport. driving to the beach house, the road was lined with myrtles. we stopped at dunkin donuts on the way -- we don't have it on the west coast and after years drinking iced coffees in college, I miss it -- and then we took the old familiar roads back to the island, watching for alligators in the golf course water hazards.

in my summer away from the beach, construction began on the new bridge, which will eventually replace the old, beloved, single lane pontoon bridge that connects the small barrier island to the mainland. other than the new bridge pilings, the island existed as a near-perfect replica of the image I keep in my memory. it makes the place feel eternal, somehow. the old dilapidated pool hall building is still on the corner; the rain still puddles on the side of the road. inside my bedroom the wood paneling is the same, and there are still the same wall hangings, the same green cot folded neatly in the closet.

five days, distilled: showers outside, in the outdoor stall nestled between the house's stilts; mornings on the beach -- by 8:30, some days -- carrying the chairs down the new walkway, watching the sun grow brighter over the still-empty beach as early morning runners pass by. afternoons biking from the house to the end of the island, where we comb for shells and on one adventurous day I swim across the intracoastal waterway that separates our island from the one farther north; I emerge from the water and wave to my aunt and cousins, who remain on the opposite shore. a singular feeling, the sensation of swimming across a body of water and surfacing on a different island. vaguely like columbus.



at night we eat shrimp and steamed crabs, standing at the kitchen counter; we sit on the porch and paint our nails or borrow someone's wifi on our laptops or, in my case, sit in rocking chairs with one bare foot pressed against the porch railing, listening to the locusts in the trees and watching the approaching thunderstorm. we joke about the real estate we will purchase nearby (trailers in trailer parks, mostly) and amuse ourselves with long strings of "do you remember" stories, which are of particular interest and delight to my oldest cousin's 11-year-old daughter. do you remember the night my cousin and her friend ended up in jail, after the friend was pulled over on I-40 in clinton for reckless driving and couldn't pay the $200 fee? do you remember how beth jumped into the dunes that night we ran from the police after the party on 12th street was raided and we were all found to be underage and loaded up with beer? do you remember the year we walked barefoot to the far end of the island each night for four nights, in search of sand dollars -- a trip that we only just learned is a total of 6 miles?



my cousin stephanie and I left the beach quickly on wednesday morning, in order to beat the bridge, which opens to boating traffic every hour on the hour. There was none of the usual lingering goodbye, none of the usual attempts at imprinting everything indelibly to memory. after so many years, those attempts are unnecessary anyway. on the ride home, we stopped for boiled peanuts and homemade peach ice cream (the ice cream stop, off Hwy 701 in tiny Newton Grove, NC, is tradition). I heard the details of her upcoming wedding as I watched tobacco fields slowly give way to traffic.



maryland was snowballs with an old friend whom I don't see or talk to often enough; a reunion night that lasted until 4 AM; the first morning of my life where I awoke hungover at my mom's house, walked into her bedroom, plopped on her bed and said, "I don't feel very good." it was a daily thunderstorm; riding roller coasters at hersheypark; playing card games with my brother; watching my mom's new chickens peck for bugs in the backyard. sunday night we stood for a long time in the backyard, watching the fireflies hover over the neighbor's 10-acre soybean field.

"If you'd never seen them before," my mother says, "they would seem like magic." they don't live in oregon or in syracuse; I haven't seen them in years. they do.

the Nub chronicles

some back story: last year when my family visited, my eleven-year-old sister bought herself a chipmunk puppet, promptly called Chippy, who has become a ubiquitous fixture around the house. I had interactions with Chippy every day for the two weeks I was home at Christmas. Ashley's become adept at manipulating the puppet; he has a pretty extensive vocabulary of moods and facial features.

Later in the summer, prompted, of course, by Chippy, my brother (also eleven years old) bought himself a porcupine puppet, called Quilliam. (Travis is particularly good at this sort of clever word play). Then, this past fall, they bought my mom a squirrel, Sully, for her birthday. That left me as the only member of my immediate family without a puppet familiar. I had suggested I wanted a skunk.

My mother sends me an Easter basket every year, and this year it took days for me to be able to pick it up from the leasing office at my apartment, since they open after I leave for work and close before I usually get home. My sister was unnaturally impatient to have me pick up the package. On Friday, just before leaving for the airport, I finally got it. Inside my Easter basket (actually a tote bag) was my new hedgehog.

Enclosed was a letter, which I share with you verbatim:

Dear Jessica, congratulations! You finally have a puppet of your own please call us to tell us what you have named it. Chippy is a little upset that the hedgehog gets to go but he doesn't get to live or visit where he is from. He asked me if you could read the rest of this to your knew family member. Oregon is a cool state and you'll love it there but there are some things you need to know before you get to cozy. Number one there is less humidity there then here so you can breathe a little better. Number two make sure that Jessica (your owner) takes you on most of her car rides because they are loads of fun! Number three is to be careful of little children because they will hurt you, but don't worry about Ashley or Travis because their gentle. Also you won't have to worry as much because you don't have the family over your house. Fourth or last when Jessica flies here to Maryland make sure she takes you. I'm a little homesick but I hope you'll have a great time there as I did send postcards.

Love
Writer Chippy but Quill, and Sully

p.s. don't forget to wave to people in other cars and make sure she'll let you drive!

So I stuffed the as-yet-unnamed hedgehog into my backpack and headed to the airport.



Meet Nub.

Top row: Nub preps the four-wheeler; Nub finds a shrub; Nub practices his marksmanship. Bottom row: Nub meets a plant version of himself; Nub enjoys a Sunday drive; Nub is locked & loaded into his airplane seat.