Ok that was entirely too much whiskey even for hallowe'en. I feel Russian at times like that--someone offers up a shot and you can't very well refuse it, otherwise your committing a huge social faux-paux as well as insulting the person offering up the shot. According to my Russian neighbor's wife to refuse a drink would be tantamount to saying "you asshole, I won't drink with you" to a Russian. Now, of course, none of us were Russian last night, but when someone pulls out the expensive bourbon, you don't say no.

Well I feel much better than I did this morning, anyway. I feel badly, however, because I ditched Candace's moving day. Bah. Bah. If there is anything I hate is letting people down. Bah. I'm such a rat bastard. At least I called her and left her two drunken messages at 4 in the morning saying I wouldn't be there. Ah drunken message talk. If I were her, I'd never talk to me again. Last night's dissipation should tide me over until New Years, which, I might spend in New York. Woop!

Ah Hallowe'en. I'm over at Kendrakoo and Kunta's writing this in a slight lull in the party. I suppose it is not a slight lull at all. Kendrakoo inspired it all. I am just trying to get the pictures we've taken with the Koocam.

Well be silly, people. It is pretty much all we have in this world.

I caught myself whistling an Elliott Smith song today. Now I would not necessarily call myself Smith's biggest fan, but I did like his music--apparently enough for it to come out in whistle form in ZCMI Center while I was riding the escalator down. There was something haunting about the music, I guess--something that touches that angst we all have. It is sad that he decided to kill himself--particularly in the way he did--a knife through the heart, but I'm not sure that I could join in really feeling the loss, as some seem to have. When Kurt Cobain offed himself I was depressed. Now I don't know what I feel. Another one goes down. It is sad, of course, and I don't wish to seem glib about it all. I'm not a glib person about death--just one who is well-experienced with it. You get numb after it happens to you various times, so the death of a singer of songs I like doesn't seem to have as much impact as seeing your mother lying in a hospital bed being kept alive by tubes, eyes glazed, all that was her and made her and gave her life and feeling and love was gone from the world. Yeah, I still think of that. Tell me how I could not. The image pops into my head at random moments.

A friend of mine was so worked up about Smith's suicide that he called me at 5 in the morning mountain time while I was in PA. "What the fuck is up with that?" he asked. "What the fuck?" Yeah, what the fuck.

He was sick of it all
Asleep at home
Told you off and goodbye
Well you know one day it'll come to haunt you
That you didn't tell him quite the truth
You're a crisis
You're a icicle
You're a tongueless talker
You don't care what you say
You're a jaywalker and you just just walk away
And that's all you do

I'm watching it snow out of my office window. Although my office window doesn't generally look out on much besides the building itself, the snow is something to watch. I have always watched snow--particularly the first snows of the season. There is a calm to it--a certainty. Snow is quiet and quiets the world as it settles on the ground. I like the ringing silence of a snow storm. It is very uncertain if you actually hear the flakes as they hit your hair or face or bare arms.

It looks as if it will snow all day.

So I have this really long story about an old woman who didn't speak very much English on the plane ride home. I must tell it to you some time. It had quite the moral to it. Ask Kendrakoo.

Ok you talked me into it. When I arrived at the gate in Cincinnati, I wandered around a bit, bought the aforementioned espresso, and wandered on back to the gate to good old SLC. As is always true with airport gates these days, nearly every seat was full. Since I assumed I had three and a half hours of close personal contact with my fellow human beings, I opted to pace randomly about the gate. As in most airports, nearest the gate itself are the handicap seats. Now there are only about 8 or so handicap seats themselves, and the other 12 seats were for anyone who wanted. A few were occupied, but a kid all kitted out punk style was sitting right in the middle of the 12. It would seem that people didn't want to sit next to him. Being the contrary person I am, I went and sat right next to him. I wasn't really hoping to strike up a conversation, since I dislike such conversations in general, but just wanted to sit next to someone who seemed slightly more normal to me than my fellow travelers. As I recall he had the standard plaid pants and converse high tops, as well as the ubiquitous leather jacket with white-painted slogans on them. He was severely pierced (you know--nose--lips--eyebrows) and was very interested in his cell phone. After I sat down and felt more at home than with the various business travelers around me, I noticed the other end of the row was occupied by a family: father, mother, and son. The son was young--perhaps no more than 20. The father was in his 40s, but the mother looked frail and older. I could tell immediately that she was ill. Perhaps it was cancer. Her movements were deliberate and tired. She spoke in gasps. Breast cancer, I thought, sizing up the pain the family must be undergoing.

At that point an older woman--a large woman with dyed red hair wearing a blue parka--approached the handicap seats and sat down. She said something to the family and immediately the son interceded himself between her and his parents. I suppose he was protecting them from conversation that would tax his mother. The old woman said something, and I gathered she did not speak much English. She seemed to be asking them when she should board, because the son began to speak in very deliberate fashion that she should show her boarding pass and ID to the people at the gate. She then said "Salt Lake City. Very nice." The father jumped in then, telling her that they were going to Idaho, but she just repeated "Salt Lake City. Very nice," and looked at her boarding pass in her hand. After a few minutes of talking with them, she seemed to understand that she was supposed to stand in line, so she got up and walked to where people were gathering for their row call. The plane began to board and the family got on first, but the old woman didn't seem to notice for a few minutes. When she suddenly noticed they were gone, she sideways walked up to the gate. I could tell she was very uncertain about everything, since she let several other first class passengers pass in front of her, but finally gained the attention of the person who was at the gate.

"Hi, can I help you?" the attendant asked. There was a "I'm busy here" look in her eye. The old woman mumbled something then and all I heard was "Boarding pass. Boarding pass." The old woman showed the attendant her boarding pass, which was met with "Passport! Passport!" The old woman showed her passport, and dazedly walked into the jetway. Shortly after that, I boarded the plane, and fate would have it that she was in the seat in front of me. I thought of saying something to her then, but I had reading to do, and miles to go before I slept.

When it was time for the crew to feed us our snack (I have mentioned the efficacy of tomato juice and pretzels previously), the flight attendant reached her and said "would you like something to drink." The old woman motioned something. "Drink? Drink?" The woman must had nodded. The flight attendant then went through her inventory. I heard the old woman say "juice."

"Juice? Juice?" the flight attendant said opening the second drawer of the cart. "Orange. Apple. Tomato. Orange. Apple. Tomato." The old woman motioned and the flight attendant said "Apple? Apple?" and pulled it out of the slot. "Ice? Ice?" No ice. The flight attendant poured it out and moved on to me. It would seem that if someone doesn't understand English, all you have to do is repeat yourself.

The flight continued and, in spite of a moment of tension when the non-speaking old woman was asked if she wanted to buy headphones for the $5.00 movie, all was calm.

We landed in SLC and I mentally prepared myself for the stupid little tasks you have to perform when deplaning. Grab your backpack. Check to see you left nothing behind you would regret losing. Get the bag of goodies from the overhead compartment, making sure you are aware that items in the overhead compartments shift during flight. Don't hit your head.

All the way off the plane, the old woman was in front of me, looking as confused as ever, but following the rules, but just more slowly than others, as if she didn't know what in the hell she was doing here.

As I walked down the terminal, I noticed that the woman was right behind me--not following me, but just doing the airport thing of exiting. I haven't mentioned, of course, that I'd developed some strange emotional attachment to this woman during this whole experience, but I really began to feel for her. I felt I should help her--or at least talk to her. As I walked out of the terminal towards baggage claim, I kept looking back, and, indeed, there she was, looking like a lost dog.

As I approached the escalators down to baggage claim, I spotted 3 Russian folks. Thank God, I thought, that's her family. But there was no "there's grandma!" recognition from them. Shit. As I sank down the escalators I looked back one last time at the old woman. There was no recognition from her, either.

At the bottom of the escalator, as I walked to the baggage claim, I noticed that she was talking to the Russian trio (what's up with the trios in this recollection, anyway?) and they were motioning wildly in some amorphous direction.

I moved on. I had bags to collect. I had my ride to catch. I had. I had.

So I moved to the carousel and waited for bags to spew out. While there, I looked over, and there she was, lost as usual. Holding her hands in that worried way. I didn't budge.

Yes, kids, that is the Three Mile Island Nuclear Facility. I coerced Tif into going to see it, since I am weird that way and rather like to go see where disasters occur. Tif would have rather spent her time tasting fancy wines in Harrisburg, but she is a trooper and we set off to find the reactor that so dominated my childhood.

After a longish drive through curious east-coast towns with houses/heavy industry precariously close to each other (row houses seem to be the norm in the east in older neighborhoods), we quite literally stumbled upon our first site of the cooling towers. I made the rather excited comment at the time that it was like Close Encounters of the Third Kind when suddenly Devil's Tower is revealed in a long pull away shot. Basically it was "BWAHM" and there were the towers. I don't get excited about much, but this was far too cool and I happily snapped pictures. We were going to stop and snap a couple of better shots, but at the entrance there were various cops parked around and heavily armed security. Now it isn't that either of us look particularly Taliban, but sometimes it is best just to say "no" and keep driving. As we sped away, me snapping pictures, a white van sped up to pursue us. Don't worry, it was a white Ford Aerostar. I don't even think the feds are that poor yet.

About a half mile from the reactor, there was a farmer selling fresh produce from a road-side stand. Talk about optimism and irony. The irony of Three Mile Island, however, is completed by the fact that it is about 5 miles from the heart of Amish country. You remember the Amish--they've sworn off modernity for the sake of their religion. I guess as some sort of penance to Three Mile Island most Amish use electricity now. I've had enough irony for a month, I think.

So yes, indeed, I traveled safely.

Take 1: There were no major flying incidents and I even managed to have an open seat next to me for 3 legs of a 4 legged trip. How did I get so lucky? I have no idea. At first I felt that I was being slighted socially, but then when I realized that I could actually move my legs and the sides of my buttocks was not touching some other person's buttocks sides, I found simple joy. In our troubled times of overselling flights it is quite nice to luxuriate in the days of yesteryear.

Take 2: Pretzels are not enough for a trip across country, especially when you haven't eaten anything that morning. They still give you the can of the non-alcoholic beverage of your choice on small planes. On large planes they give you teeny cups and lots of ice. So these things are saving airlines millions and millions of dollars a year? I suppose they are. It really is scary how much bad food costs.

Take 3: Invariably I drink tomato juice while flying. I never drink tomato juice for the sake of it while on the ground. I like the taste of tomato juice, but I think I am bothered by the cost of it on the ground. What a cheap SOB I really am. Tomato juice and pretzels are a good combo.

Take 4: I think I've finally become completely relaxed about traveling. I meander through airports these days--not freaking out about lines or worrying about getting to my gate, or jumping right in line with all the other anxious travelers to make sure I am up there when my seat range is called. I dawdled so much yesterday that I nearly missed my connection.

Take 5: I've learned to eat very well while traveling, instead of relying on fast food. Tif and I found this great Indian place in Harrisburg that did my digestion no end of good and was about the best Indian I've had East of the Susquahanah. We also found this great Italian Deli. I am not eating much at airports since most of their food is so much colon packing constipating swill. It is also extremely expensive.

Take 6: Cincinati airport has a Starbucks, but just around the corner from it is a teeny little home-grown coffee shop. They had great espresso, and were considerably cheaper. Starbucks, as anywhere but Salt Lake City, was busier. It was awash with the confused traveler who find solace that the mochacino frape at this Starbucks is exactly like the mochacino frape at their Starbucks. Poor lost souls.

Take 7: When I arrived in Harrisburg, PA, and meandered my way to the baggage claim, I began to make not of several 19-20 year-old men in three piece black suits. I knew, of course, they were new Mormon missionaries just arriving. I am not sure of any other 19-20 year-olds who wear suits on airplanes. They did not have their name plates on (which I had always thought were issued to them at the missionary training school), but my suspicions were soon confirmed by the arrival of a large blue van with the mission president and his wife. Several other members of the local stake showed up too with flowers and gifts. It must be nice to have kind folks welcome you like that where ever you go. I thought about telling them I was from Salt Lake and making up big lies about which ward I was in and how Sister Jacobsen had gone in for a colonoscopy, but was prevented from doing so because the ride from the hotel arrived. There's a sister Jacobsen in every ward, you see.