Peachy

This belated entry is brought to you by my Comcastic internet service.

For Labor Day weekend I went to Colorado for Niffer-bur's wedding reception. It was the first time in four years that I'd found a good excuse to visit Colorado in the summer, and it wasn't just summer: It was peach season. Colorado's peaches seem to be a well-kept secret, but believe you me, they are delicious. It could just be because I experience them closer to the tree there, but I generally don't even bother buying peaches anywhere else, to spare myself the disappointment.

Delicious peaches don't grow just anywhere in Colorado, but fortunately they do grow close to my grandparents' place on the Western Slope (i.e. the third of the state that's west of the mountains). Of course, peaches weren't the only or even the best reason to visit my grandparents for a couple of days, but they were a significant side benefit.

By the way, Mr. and Mrs. Niffer-bur's reception was lovely, even though no peaches were involved. In addition to the groom's family and a few people I'd met in college but since forgotten, I was introduced to a style of swing dancing Mr. Niffer-bur and his friends invented as undergraduates. Good times.

Friday

I flew into Denver on Friday afternoon, and Niffer-bur picked me up from the airport and drove me to Deme's parents' house, where we'd be staying for fifth year reunion weekend. Deme and SGB were already there. We chatted for awhile and then went to our class reception.

As expected, I didn't recognize many people there. Appart from a handful of close friends, I somehow didn't get to know many people in college. We did run into a friend who'd lived on our floor freshman year, a Peruvian who's now a lawyer in Miami and going by a different first name. I knew I'd been gone for a long time when he asked me where I'm from originally and I said automatically, "I'm from Colorado," realizing a moment later that I was in Colorado Springs, talking to someone who'd lived there for three years, and could really be more specific.

Other signs I'd been gone awhile: I got out of breath from walking up a single flight of stairs, and though I didn't get drunk off the two glasses of wine I had at the class reception, I did wake up with a headache the next morning.

The other person I recognized at reunion was one of my housemates from junior year, now an artist and hairdresser in LA. Once a self-identified lesbian, she's still with the same boyfriend she was when we lived together. No, I did not ask whether she's still a lesbian.

In which the Virgin performs a miracle

On Friday night those of us who had never been to A Day in Rock City before were awarded Virgin candles from the Mexican store.

On Tuesday I was late to the airport. I'm somewhat notorious for being late to the airport; when leaving from DC I arrived 50 minutes before takeoff. But I had the impression that it took 45 minutes to get from Niffer-bur's to O'Hare on the El; in fact, it took an hour. A very long hour, involving many stops and much inching along. I hadn't had anything to eat that day, and given my love of breakfast, by the time I got to O'Hare I was quite irritable and worried. More than missing my flight, I was worried about not having time to grab a bite to eat before boarding.

I arrived about 40 minutes before takeoff and speed-walked through the airport to security, which I found wondrously line-free. Relievedly, I took off my shoes, put my bag on the conveyor belt, and heard those dreaded words: "bag check!"

I searched my conscience and, hoping for quick redemption, confessed my sins to the middle-aged TSA employee assigned to my bag: "I know, I forgot to take my liquids out."

"Which pocket are they in?"

I pointed to the front pocket, where he found my carefully-packed quart-sized zip-top bag of quasi-contrabands.

"It looked like you had a spray can or a bottle..." he said, replacing the baggie.

I thought, and realized what it must be. If he searched the packed main compartment of my bag, it would take forever. But I felt calm, resigned to my fate of missing my flight. "I have a candle," I said.

"You have a candle?" he said, handing my bag over. "Ok, thank you."

I took my bag slowly, unable to believe this stroke of luck. As I hoisted it onto my back and headed through the terminal, I glanced at the clock: still enough time to hit the bathroom and a fast-food joint. I was saved.

Komodo

When Niffer-bur and I got to the Chicago aquarium on Monday we found a line that went out the door, down the front steps, and halfway across the courtyard. A clue to the reason for the madness was the giant blow-up lizard whose mouth the line disappeared into: There was a temporary lizard exhibit going on, including a Komodo Dragon.

While I was impressed with the aquarium, I thought the Komodo was nothing to wait in line for 40 minutes for. It's kind of goofy-looking. Maybe I'd feel differently if I'd seen it flick its tongue or lumber around its enclosure or something.

A Day in Rock City: Swiss Canoe Races

Much as I didn't come to Illinois expecting to rollerblade bewigged and half-naked in the Rock City Day parade, I didn't go to the Swiss canoe races with the intention of competing: I was just going to sit on the bleachers and take pictures. But Niffer-bur's team that needed a fourth, and apparently I can't say no to potentially humiliating physical feats--at least not when I'm in the Midwest. So I joined 0ne of the two all-female teams (there were about seven teams overall).

When my team's name was called, I attempted to climb off the bleachers and fell... and fell... and fell. My feet were perhaps four feet off the ground when I started falling, but I managed to hit every possible bleacher component on the way down. When I finally stopped falling I sensed that all conversation in that section of the bleachers had stopped, and that all eyes were on me.

"I'm ok," I said to no one in particular. In fact the bruises on my right leg stretch from mid-calf to groin, and there's a bruise on my left thigh that's about five square inches. (This was particularly ironic, given that I hadn't fallen once during my roller blading escapades.) But I got up and got into my fireman's boots behind Niffer-bur.

Swiss canoing, I learned that day, doesn't actually involve any water. Rather, four pairs of fireman's boots are nailed to two parallel boards, and four team members attempt to move in a synchronized way to move forward, around a cone, and back to the finish line.

It's truly a cold day in hell when I triumph in any sporting event, so it was shocking when our team beat the only other all-female team to the finish line. Particularly since our team was composed of 75 percent Rock City Day virgins. When we crossed the finish line we stopped, cheered, and promptly fell over.