Yesterday.

Yesterday was not a good day. I had been feeling a little strained this week anyway. I leave for Charleston tomorrow and will be gone for ten days. So excited. But I've got work pouring out of my ears, and only one coworker with as much work to do as I have to pick up the slack when I leave and I need to get my prospectus finished for my master's thesis in hopes that when I get back from Charleston I can hit it hard and get it finished up. Which means I've been putting extra hours in at work, taking a half hour break or so, and then it's right back to the computer for school work.

Yesterday, traffic was heavier and more parking lottish than usual. I didn't mind too much. The commute to work is kind of restful in a way. I can't do anything. Literally. All I can do is drive. It gives me time to think and reassert my emotional balance. I was in the process of doing so very successfully when I got banged up from behind. Luckily, nobody was moving quickly on the freeway. Things could have turned out a lot worse. Particularly when you compare the size of his GMC Sierra to my little civic. His car looked fine. My back bumper did manage to bend his front license plate in half (yeah, civic!). My car didn't fair quite as well.

I climbed out of my car, expecting the big man in the big car to take charge or be mad or something. But nothing. He just looked at me with his sad, little eyes and said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He clearly had no idea what to do.

I have been in a car accident before as the driver. Somebody ran a red light and I t-ed him. Also a big truck. That time, though, I was smart and had my parent's, massive van. Take that, red light runner. I was just 16 and was an emotional wreck. My experience there was no help yesterday.

I pulled my frazzled mind together, asked for his insurance and contact information, didn't take a picture of our cars (as I realized I should have after I got to work and sat down and had time to think a little bit), and didn't write down his license plate number (also as I should have). We did not file an accident report with the police. I was fine, he was fine, both our cars still worked, and didn't even look too banged up. I needed to get to work (remember impending vacation strain?), and I was struggling to function. I still feel good about that decision, but I should have gotten that picture.

Ah well. I filed a claim with his insurance yesterday and so far things seem like they will work out well. Fingers crossed he'll cooperate with the insurance when they verify the accident with him.

In the end. I'm grateful. For a lot of things. I'm grateful the big truck didn't smash into my car and bust up the trunk and push me into the car in front of me. I'm grateful the big truck didn't crush me, like it could have. I'm grateful that even if the insurance falls through and I have to pay for the damages myself, my car maintenance fund can handle the cost of the repairs with money to spare. But what I'm most grateful for is the experience. Yup, I said it. I'm glad someone ran into me on the freeway yesterday, and that I was already feeling strained and that it nearly put me over the edge. Someday, somebody is going to run into me again. Having dealt with it on frazzle brain with a driver who had no idea what to do or how to take care of it but could only say over and over again, "I'm sorry," will make it so much easier for me to deal with it later when maybe the other guy isn't so nice or the accident is a lot worse. I've done it once; dealt with it all on my own and did okay. I can do it again. Next time, I'll even do it better.

I rode home in a mountain of tissues.

Which might not have been so bad if they were new, soft, cushy tissues. They weren't. They were slightly damp and sticky, used tissues. I dislodged my mountain at every stop for food or gas or a stretch of the legs, but it took nearly no time at all for the mountain to grow again. Luckily the Ma and Kelly Belly mostly stayed in the front of the car while I and my mountain of tissues stayed in the back.

The Ma also made sure I was well drugged, particularly at night. When you share a hotel room with someone who is hacking and coughing and sneezing you only sleep as much as they do.

I think I picked something up from Uncle Sam. The poor man couldn't stop himself from sneezing. I don't blame him. He's old and frail and each time I see him he seems to have collapsed in on himself a little bit more. One of these days a strong Iowa wind will pick him up and gust him away.

Mountains of tissues aside, I always look forward to Iowa at Powwow time.

This is my cousin Jaron, the one in blue. He dances at every Powwow. He's really very good. Also, I think he looks fantastic in his dance garb.

I spent the days in Iowa working, but Kelly Belly went to the Powwow grounds in the morning and helped braid all the little cousin heads so they would be ready to dance.

I love watching the dances at Powwow while chomping down on hot, crisp, chewy frybread. More than the dances, I love the music. Groups of men sit around a single massive drum, each with their own drumstick. Together they beat on the drum and sing. It's beautiful.

The Ma has come home once again determined to make piles of frybread. Frybread is easy (flour, baking powder, salt, and water, and lard for frying), but it's difficult to get it just right. You need a good, hot fire. We don't have a fire pit. The Ma is contemplating squatting in the currently vacant garden and building a fire there. If I suddenly gain twenty pounds you'll know she's succeeded. I could eat piles of frybread for days and not grow sick of it.

It is good to be home. It is much better to be droopy and sore-nosed in your own bed than an indifferent, hotel bed. I've pulled a steak out of the freezer and intend to make about a gallon of beef barley soup with oodles of delicious vegetables. I'm also contemplating hot apple cider to soothe my achy throat.

4 hours 58 minutes

That's how long it would take me to get to Chicago.

Did I mention that I love Chicago?

Don't get me wrong. I love Iowa (kind of) and I really love my family (definitely), but sometimes I want to just throw Grandma in the car and hit the road. What I would do with Grandma once I got to Chicago, that I don't know. But it wouldn't matter! I'd be in Chicago.

I know that Chicago and I have only the most fleeting of acquaintances, but we were meant to be together.

How I Fared in Portland

I've discovered something about myself recently. I am exhausting to go on vacation with. I exhaust even myself. I pack more into two and a half days than most people get done on a week of vacation. And mostly it's all food.

I flew to Portland with my father for the weekend. Flew in Friday night, late late late; flew out Monday evening, not so late. I've been to Portland a few times. My aunt has lived there with her family for as long as I can remember. But visiting Portland for family reasons is not anything at all like visiting Portland. This time around, Pa and I were playing tourists.

Saturday we got up early enough to enjoy the Hillsboro Saturday Market. It was packed with deliciousness. My aunt and uncle had a booth where my cousin was selling bread. We didn't buy anything (I don't know that my aunt would have let us) but we stopped in and picked up a sample of blueberry lemon bread. It was moist and lemony and bursting with blueberries.

Oregon is mostly rural and the market showed it. Booths and booths stocked with the most delicious looking farm fresh vegetables,  fruits, and berries. I wanted to grab it by the armful. I didn't. It would have been impractical, being on vacation and all. And I like to pretend that I'm a practical sort of person. I did eagerly try any sample that was handed to me. I also purchased and shared a number of market goodies with my father, aunt, and cousins. We bought pita and hummus, a lemon white chocolate chip cookie as big as my face (so good!), a raspberry peach pie, a bumbleberry pie, and some potato salad.

We said goodbye to our poor cousin manning the bread booth and headed toward downtown Portland. We stopped in at Pittock mansion for the view and smelled the roses in the rose test garden at Washington Park. Then it was off into the heart of Portland for more food. Our first stop was a food cart for lunch. Food carts are all the rage in Portland. Pa was brave and tried a Korean food cart with me. The food was fresh and delicious and perfect for sharing. After the food cart we hit up Voodoo Doughnut. No, I didn't try the maple bacon donut, but I did sample a variety of others. Voodoo cooks up some super delicious donuts. I wouldn't wait in that line for them again, but I wasn't disappointed that I had. Also, carrying around a pink Voodoo donut box makes you an instant celebrity. "Hey, where is that place?"

After Voodoo donuts we wandered through the Portland Saturday market. It was big and loud and crowded and full of people showing off the stuff they can do. Pa and I shared a cherry lime sno cone and watched boats go by on the Willamette River.

After downtown Portland we headed home to pick up my cousin from the bread booth. He was done for the day, and it was nearing dinner time. We went to the part of Portland that used to be downtown but isn't anymore. We stopped in at the Salt and Straw first. Ice cream is far more important than dinner, as anybody ought to know. I had a blueberry lavender sorbet in a freshly made waffle cone. It was heaven. I savored it while we walked up and down both sides of the street, looking in the cute shops. I couldn't resist stepping into Moonstruck Chocolate. I limited myself to four: huckleberry truffle, lemon truffle, milk chocolate, salted caramel in milk chocolate. Some of the best chocolates I've ever had. Then it was time for dinner. We went to Pastini Pastorina, a local pasta restaurant for dinner. It was delicious. Pa and I shared, of course, leaving just enough room for us to share a tiny caramel steamer at Powell's Books after dinner, perfect for keeping you company while you walk up and down the endless aisles filled to the brim with well-loved books.

Sunday was far less intense. We didn't do much and ate even less (hard to believe I know). Before church we took a jaunt in the car up to Vancouver and drove along the Columbia. After church we headed to the Multnomah Falls. They were gorgeous and it was fun to climb to the top with my cousins, even though they though I was slow. I wasn't slow. I was enjoying the moment.

Monday, we started out early in the morning. We stopped for breakfast at Camp 18 on our way to the coast. Breakfast fit for Lumber Jack's. We shared a cinnamon roll as big as my face (really, it was that big) and each ate eggs and potatoes and biscuits on top of that. Also, the hot chocolate was delicious.

The Oregon coast is beautiful. When my aunt first suggested the beach I was not interested. I was thinking beachy beach. The Oregon coast is not beach. It's beautiful and rugged and gloomy. I fell in love.

We stopped in at Seaside, walked around the touristy shops, and grabbed a bag of sea salt taffy made in Seaside to munch on. Then we sat down to share a couple bowls of seafood chowder and a big platter of fish and chips. On our way out of town my Pa grabbed some peanut butter fudge. By that time I was all eaten out. Bet you didn't think it could happen, did ya? But I was, and I didn't have a single bit of that peanut butter fudge.

After Seaside we had just enough time to stop in at my aunt's house, gather up our stuff, and head to the airport to catch our plane.

I wasn't there nearly long enough. Portland is beautiful and delicious and I can't wait to go back.

PS I wore my pedometer the whole time I was there. Portland Vacation step count: 36,000. Not bad considering I spent hours sitting around while we traveled by car and plane.