Well, what to write about now? I can't believe it took me seven months to finish "blogging" my China trip. Here's a highlights reel of what I missed blogging about while I was transcribing my travel journal entries (or, more properly, procrastinating on transcribing my journal entries):
I went to the Bay Area for a conference, visited some people, and went to a wedding. Obama got elected. I turned 29 and resolved to make a point of doing adventurous things in my last year as a 20-something. I dressed as an elf for Santarchy and threw myself a party. I went home for the holidays, spent some quality time with my grandmother's awesome cat, and decided to try to woo one of the tame backyard cats into living in the house, a project that proved more difficult than expected. I achieved Silver Preferred status on USAir, a privilege I have yet to take advantage of. Obama got inaugurated; I, G.R., and at least a million other people were there. K got accepted to a graduate program in global health and decided she wants to move to Virginia. A good friend from my Ithaca days moved to DC; several friends left. Many people I know got laid off; some got new jobs, and others decided that freelancing is the way to go. I started a vegetarian cooking club. Three co-workers had babies. My brother got engaged. I applied for many jobs, interviewed for a few, and was offered none. I got my first cavity. I started another summer Chinese class. Oh, and I decided to move to China.
That's right: just when you thought you might be able to read about something other than China in this space, I've decided that now is a good time to move to China. After nearly three years in DC I'm ready for a new adventure, and my experience in October showed me that if I'm highly unlikely to realize my longtime goal of becoming fluent in Mandarin if I stay here. No, I don't have a job there, and no, I don't want to move without one, so I'm thinking August is the earliest I'll be able to make this happen. But I'm about 95% sure at this point that I'm China-bound.
Oh, and if anyone knows someone in need of a sweet summer sublet in DC, send them my way.
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Shanghai
I'd had a lot of ideas, earlier in my trip, about what I might do in Shanghai: Shop (since I wouldn't have to worry too much about packing light at that point); get a massage, a haircut, a manicure and a pedicure; ride the world's tallest elevator. But by the time my bus actually approached Shanghai my ambitions had been pared down considerably: go to the doctor, and see the Bund.
We pulled into the bus station at about 1:30 am. The Canadians and the woman from Shanghai with the Marilyn Monroe voice firmly led me away from the unlicensed taxi drivers (as if I hadn't figured out by now not to take an unlicensed taxi!), and the English teachers disappeared. The woman from Shanghai ushered the Canadians into what she considered a reputable taxi, and then set to work finding the right cab for me among the cluster of licensed cabs. Spotting a Da (something) taxi at the edge of the bunch, she took my hand and led me to it. I had an idea that she probably understood English, but all I remember hearing her say in either language was "very good" (in English). I got in the taxi, thanked her, and gave the driver the piece of paper with the address of my hostel.
I recognized the broad, nearly-empty road out to the hostel: it was the one the bus had come in on. There was a raised highway overhead, and as on the way in, I noticed welding sparks falling off it. I was tired enough to find them wonderfully fascinating and atmospheric.
At an intersection the driver pulled over and asked someone at the corner where the hostel was. Then he came back to the car and told me (with liberal use of sign language) to get out and walk a short distance. I looked at him skeptically. It was the middle of the night, I was tired, I didn't know Shanghai, and I walked with a limp. I knew better by now than to cling to my American idea that taxis take you exactly where you're supposed to go, but cling I did. The driver reacted to my skeptical look by gesturing even more enthusiastically, as though I were a wayward airplane. Alright, then. I paid him and went off in the direction indicated. On the corner an ATM from a Chinese bank I'd had success with before. I tried it, and lo and behold, it worked! I had money, and I was finally in Shanghai, steps from a place to sleep. I might have had a spring in my step as I limped toward my hostel, which was in fact quite close.
Things only got better: The Shanghai City Central hostel was probably the best I'd stayed in in China. It was huge and new, and the staff was professional and spoke English well. For some reason I got a free upgrade to a suite (two twin beds and a couch downstairs, a double bed upstairs). It was just what I needed.
The next morning I enjoyed a free breakfast buffet (a first in China) in the hostel restaurant while watching CNN (yet another first). Then I asked one of the women at the front desk about an English-speaking doctor. She gave me a card for a local hospital and told me to take a taxi. This sounded simple, but catching a taxi from the hostel was, strangely, not. It was on a major street, so I tried stepping out to the raised strip between the bike lane and the car lanes and doing my Chinese hand-wave. All the empty taxis that drove by seemed to be in the middle lane, which didn't seem efficient, especially in rush-hour traffic. None showed any interest in picking me up. After a while I wandered down to the big intersection where I'd been dropped off the night before and tried from a corner. Then I tried from the median, which admittedly didn't seem to be a good place to get a cab, but in this lawless traffic, who knew? Finally an older man waiting to cross the street pointed out the spot where taxis were allowed to stop, and did. I got a Da (something) taxi almost instantly.
I couldn't understand a word the driver said, and guessed whether the right response to a particular question was to hand him the hospital's card, or say "I don't understand," or "I don't know." There was quite a bit of traffic, and it felt like a long trip, and I amused myself by trying to read Chinese. I realized I was headed to "Flower Mountain" hospital, which seemed almost inappropriately whimsical until I realized that Hua Shan (flower mountain) is actually a neighborhood. Then I read the ad on the back window of another Da (something) taxi: Wo chi, wo chi, wo chi chi chi (I eat, I eat, I eat, eat, eat). Was this an ad for a restaurant? Odd. Then I noticed the characters were above a phone number, 57 57 5777 (pronounced wu qi, wu qi, wu qi qi qi). I'd decoded a Chinese mnemonic!
I met another 20-something American woman in the hospital elevator (floor 8 for English speakers). She'd been living in Shanghai for a month, teaching English, and hadn't had much time out too explore outside the city so far. The story seemed familiar.
I didn't have to wait long to see the doctor, a small 50-ish man with a friendly face whose English was not quite fluent. I sat across from him at his desk while he carefully copied the information from the forms I'd filled out. He commented that my country had an election coming up, and asked who I thought would win. Then he asked how he could help me today.
My issue was a little strange to explain even to native English-speakers: "My shoe rubbed a hole in my heel, and now my ankle is huge." I tried, and then just showed him. He ushered me over to the hospital bench in the corner and even drew the curtain, which I thought was funny: Wouldn't want anyone walking in and seeing my bare foot! As soon as he saw it, all his sentences seemed to end in exclamation marks: "Oh, it is infected! It is very severe! You will need intravenous antibiotics!" The exclamation marks made him sound strangely cheerful, and I felt cheered. Clearly, I'd done the right thing in coming to the hospital, but now that I was here the doctor knew what to do. There'd been no talk of death or amputation. I put my sock and shoe back on and sat down in the chair at the desk.
The doctor decided which antibiotic I should take and went to make sure they had it in stock. I told him I'd be leaving the next day and was allergic to some antibiotics. He asked me which ones. I told him. I repeated it once or twice, enunciating as well as I could. Finally he had me write them down.
"amoxicillan" I began.
"More clear!" he ordered. Very well.
AMOXICILLAN
ERITHROMYCIN
SEPTRA
My mom had me memorize the list at a very young age, and it's burned on my memory like a Sesame Street ditty (thanks, mom!). The doctor disappeared again, and then returned to tell me that I should be fine with what he was prescribing. As for my impending trip, I'd get an IV now and one in the morning, and then I should get to a hospital as soon as I got back to the States to continue my once-daily infusions.
I had to wait near the nurses station for my IV, and saw the American again. We talked about our diagnoses, and about learning Chinese and why she'd come to Shanghai.
When I finally limped out of the hospital, I took a taxi to the Bund. It was an overcast day, but I had a good view of the TV tower and the skyscrapers across the river. I chose a restaurant in a nearby shopping district for lunch. The waitress told me to get catfish, and I complied, ordering a few other dishes as well. The dish that had been translated into English as "vegetarian chicken" turned out to be cubes of tofu atop a bed of sliced fermented eggs--not exactly what I'd had in mind. But while I found the fermented eggs just as inedible as the first one I'd tried, the flavor they leant the tofu wasn't bad at all. Overall I was fairly underwhelmed by the food, and decided to do something different for dinner.
At the moment, though, my sleep debt weighed on my heavily. I took the subway back to the hostel, noting that it was just as nice as the one in Beijing.
After my nap, I consulted Lonely Planet and found a recommended Indian restaurant in the old French Concession. I found it easily, a tiny anglophone haven above a quiet bar. At the table to my right, an American man and a Chinese woman alternated between Chinese and English. At the table to my left, two Indian-Malaysian men spoke English with two Chinese women. The owner came around and anointed the women with stick-on dots between our eyebrows. He debated the Malaysians about how long it had been since they'd visited--apparently they came to Shanghai regularly on business. He remembered the American too. The spiciness of my dish forced me to eat at a leisurely pace, and as I read a magazine and eavesdropped I started to form a romantic vision of what life would be like as an expat in Shanghai. After I left the restaurant, I wandered down a street lined with expat bars, which gave way to a more diverse array of businesses. I stopped in a small tea shop and bought a few things, then in a massage parlor. I meant to get just a back rub but ended up with the full treatment, which would have been fine if it hadn't involved pounding on my shins: I still had a huge bruise on one from my bike accident in Lijiang. Later I saw that while no new bruises had been created, color from the original one had diffused as far as my foot.
I caught a cab to the Bund, since it was my last chance to see it at night. I took some pictures, and then headed back to the hostel and bed.
The next morning I woke up early and tried to pack reasonably quickly. I wanted to take advantage of the breakfast buffet before heading to the hospital, and hoped to have a little bit of time in the city between my IV and the airport.
The doctor came by to talk to me while the medicine dripped into me. The swelling and pain had decreased significantly, so he prescribed some oral antibiotics for me and told me I'd only need to see a doctor in the States if my ankle started to get worse again. This was good news--I hadn't been looking forward to navigating the American medical system in California, where I don't have a doctor.
I left the hospital without a limp (though I was still wearing my dirty hiking shoes--the swelling wouldn't allow me to put on my pretty pair). I took the subway to the stop nearest the Bund, but walked the other direction along the pedestrian street. I didn't have much time. I came to a square where a stage had been set up, and a troupe of green-clad women were putting on a free dance performance. The style of dance didn't seem to require much athletic ability, but much smiling, synchronization, and umbrella-twirling. I watched for awhile, then went back to the hostel to pick up my things.
I took the maglev train to the airport, even though it required riding the subway to the other side of town. I alternately watched the digital speedometer climb to 431 km/hour and back down again, and watched the cars on the highway next to us quickly fall behind. The whole ride took five minutes or so.
We pulled into the bus station at about 1:30 am. The Canadians and the woman from Shanghai with the Marilyn Monroe voice firmly led me away from the unlicensed taxi drivers (as if I hadn't figured out by now not to take an unlicensed taxi!), and the English teachers disappeared. The woman from Shanghai ushered the Canadians into what she considered a reputable taxi, and then set to work finding the right cab for me among the cluster of licensed cabs. Spotting a Da (something) taxi at the edge of the bunch, she took my hand and led me to it. I had an idea that she probably understood English, but all I remember hearing her say in either language was "very good" (in English). I got in the taxi, thanked her, and gave the driver the piece of paper with the address of my hostel.
I recognized the broad, nearly-empty road out to the hostel: it was the one the bus had come in on. There was a raised highway overhead, and as on the way in, I noticed welding sparks falling off it. I was tired enough to find them wonderfully fascinating and atmospheric.
At an intersection the driver pulled over and asked someone at the corner where the hostel was. Then he came back to the car and told me (with liberal use of sign language) to get out and walk a short distance. I looked at him skeptically. It was the middle of the night, I was tired, I didn't know Shanghai, and I walked with a limp. I knew better by now than to cling to my American idea that taxis take you exactly where you're supposed to go, but cling I did. The driver reacted to my skeptical look by gesturing even more enthusiastically, as though I were a wayward airplane. Alright, then. I paid him and went off in the direction indicated. On the corner an ATM from a Chinese bank I'd had success with before. I tried it, and lo and behold, it worked! I had money, and I was finally in Shanghai, steps from a place to sleep. I might have had a spring in my step as I limped toward my hostel, which was in fact quite close.
Things only got better: The Shanghai City Central hostel was probably the best I'd stayed in in China. It was huge and new, and the staff was professional and spoke English well. For some reason I got a free upgrade to a suite (two twin beds and a couch downstairs, a double bed upstairs). It was just what I needed.
The next morning I enjoyed a free breakfast buffet (a first in China) in the hostel restaurant while watching CNN (yet another first). Then I asked one of the women at the front desk about an English-speaking doctor. She gave me a card for a local hospital and told me to take a taxi. This sounded simple, but catching a taxi from the hostel was, strangely, not. It was on a major street, so I tried stepping out to the raised strip between the bike lane and the car lanes and doing my Chinese hand-wave. All the empty taxis that drove by seemed to be in the middle lane, which didn't seem efficient, especially in rush-hour traffic. None showed any interest in picking me up. After a while I wandered down to the big intersection where I'd been dropped off the night before and tried from a corner. Then I tried from the median, which admittedly didn't seem to be a good place to get a cab, but in this lawless traffic, who knew? Finally an older man waiting to cross the street pointed out the spot where taxis were allowed to stop, and did. I got a Da (something) taxi almost instantly.
I couldn't understand a word the driver said, and guessed whether the right response to a particular question was to hand him the hospital's card, or say "I don't understand," or "I don't know." There was quite a bit of traffic, and it felt like a long trip, and I amused myself by trying to read Chinese. I realized I was headed to "Flower Mountain" hospital, which seemed almost inappropriately whimsical until I realized that Hua Shan (flower mountain) is actually a neighborhood. Then I read the ad on the back window of another Da (something) taxi: Wo chi, wo chi, wo chi chi chi (I eat, I eat, I eat, eat, eat). Was this an ad for a restaurant? Odd. Then I noticed the characters were above a phone number, 57 57 5777 (pronounced wu qi, wu qi, wu qi qi qi). I'd decoded a Chinese mnemonic!
I met another 20-something American woman in the hospital elevator (floor 8 for English speakers). She'd been living in Shanghai for a month, teaching English, and hadn't had much time out too explore outside the city so far. The story seemed familiar.
I didn't have to wait long to see the doctor, a small 50-ish man with a friendly face whose English was not quite fluent. I sat across from him at his desk while he carefully copied the information from the forms I'd filled out. He commented that my country had an election coming up, and asked who I thought would win. Then he asked how he could help me today.
My issue was a little strange to explain even to native English-speakers: "My shoe rubbed a hole in my heel, and now my ankle is huge." I tried, and then just showed him. He ushered me over to the hospital bench in the corner and even drew the curtain, which I thought was funny: Wouldn't want anyone walking in and seeing my bare foot! As soon as he saw it, all his sentences seemed to end in exclamation marks: "Oh, it is infected! It is very severe! You will need intravenous antibiotics!" The exclamation marks made him sound strangely cheerful, and I felt cheered. Clearly, I'd done the right thing in coming to the hospital, but now that I was here the doctor knew what to do. There'd been no talk of death or amputation. I put my sock and shoe back on and sat down in the chair at the desk.
The doctor decided which antibiotic I should take and went to make sure they had it in stock. I told him I'd be leaving the next day and was allergic to some antibiotics. He asked me which ones. I told him. I repeated it once or twice, enunciating as well as I could. Finally he had me write them down.
"amoxicillan" I began.
"More clear!" he ordered. Very well.
AMOXICILLAN
ERITHROMYCIN
SEPTRA
My mom had me memorize the list at a very young age, and it's burned on my memory like a Sesame Street ditty (thanks, mom!). The doctor disappeared again, and then returned to tell me that I should be fine with what he was prescribing. As for my impending trip, I'd get an IV now and one in the morning, and then I should get to a hospital as soon as I got back to the States to continue my once-daily infusions.
I had to wait near the nurses station for my IV, and saw the American again. We talked about our diagnoses, and about learning Chinese and why she'd come to Shanghai.
When I finally limped out of the hospital, I took a taxi to the Bund. It was an overcast day, but I had a good view of the TV tower and the skyscrapers across the river. I chose a restaurant in a nearby shopping district for lunch. The waitress told me to get catfish, and I complied, ordering a few other dishes as well. The dish that had been translated into English as "vegetarian chicken" turned out to be cubes of tofu atop a bed of sliced fermented eggs--not exactly what I'd had in mind. But while I found the fermented eggs just as inedible as the first one I'd tried, the flavor they leant the tofu wasn't bad at all. Overall I was fairly underwhelmed by the food, and decided to do something different for dinner.
At the moment, though, my sleep debt weighed on my heavily. I took the subway back to the hostel, noting that it was just as nice as the one in Beijing.
After my nap, I consulted Lonely Planet and found a recommended Indian restaurant in the old French Concession. I found it easily, a tiny anglophone haven above a quiet bar. At the table to my right, an American man and a Chinese woman alternated between Chinese and English. At the table to my left, two Indian-Malaysian men spoke English with two Chinese women. The owner came around and anointed the women with stick-on dots between our eyebrows. He debated the Malaysians about how long it had been since they'd visited--apparently they came to Shanghai regularly on business. He remembered the American too. The spiciness of my dish forced me to eat at a leisurely pace, and as I read a magazine and eavesdropped I started to form a romantic vision of what life would be like as an expat in Shanghai. After I left the restaurant, I wandered down a street lined with expat bars, which gave way to a more diverse array of businesses. I stopped in a small tea shop and bought a few things, then in a massage parlor. I meant to get just a back rub but ended up with the full treatment, which would have been fine if it hadn't involved pounding on my shins: I still had a huge bruise on one from my bike accident in Lijiang. Later I saw that while no new bruises had been created, color from the original one had diffused as far as my foot.
I caught a cab to the Bund, since it was my last chance to see it at night. I took some pictures, and then headed back to the hostel and bed.
The next morning I woke up early and tried to pack reasonably quickly. I wanted to take advantage of the breakfast buffet before heading to the hospital, and hoped to have a little bit of time in the city between my IV and the airport.
The doctor came by to talk to me while the medicine dripped into me. The swelling and pain had decreased significantly, so he prescribed some oral antibiotics for me and told me I'd only need to see a doctor in the States if my ankle started to get worse again. This was good news--I hadn't been looking forward to navigating the American medical system in California, where I don't have a doctor.
I left the hospital without a limp (though I was still wearing my dirty hiking shoes--the swelling wouldn't allow me to put on my pretty pair). I took the subway to the stop nearest the Bund, but walked the other direction along the pedestrian street. I didn't have much time. I came to a square where a stage had been set up, and a troupe of green-clad women were putting on a free dance performance. The style of dance didn't seem to require much athletic ability, but much smiling, synchronization, and umbrella-twirling. I watched for awhile, then went back to the hostel to pick up my things.
I took the maglev train to the airport, even though it required riding the subway to the other side of town. I alternately watched the digital speedometer climb to 431 km/hour and back down again, and watched the cars on the highway next to us quickly fall behind. The whole ride took five minutes or so.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Changes
It's been an eventful month, so I'll blame my complete lack of blogginess on feeling that my life is in such a state of flux. Also on relating interesting anecdotes to K when I get home instead of sitting down to blog about them. In an effort to make up for it, here's my month in review:
- K, upon contracting a bad sore throat, declared she was allergic to the futon and began sleeping on the floor. She swears it's not so bad.
- K and I found a new place, a rowhouse in a neighborhood few have heard of, and those that have believe to be sketchy. However, it's a rowhouse! That we can afford! In the city! And it's near a metro stop! The move is scheduled for Saturday.
- HSBFF came for a visit, and we spent Veterans Day weekend in NYC. It was cold. We ate a lot, and I introduced HSBFF to Malaysian food.
- I saw The Tragically Hip (which henceforth I'll refer to as the Hip, thus affecting an intimate knowledge of Canadian culture), Zappa Plays Zappa, The Taming of the Shrew, the Karelian Folk Music Ensemble, and They Might Be Giants. Also Bad Boys 2. Woo-sa!
- Agent V [this is what happens when you let people pick their own monikers] had K and I over for Thanksgiving, along with a few mutual friends and his parents. The stuffing and company were both excellent (really the only criteria that matter in judging a Thanksgiving, IMHO). I made two pies, trying my hand and making crust for the first time. For a recipe with so few ingredients, crust is surprisingly difficult. But the results weren't disastrous, just somewhat humbling.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Randomness and the nature of The Ninth Floor
This morning I went with N.Lu to see Al Gore speak outside the Museum of the American Indian, part of the Live Earth concert series today. Turned out we didn't actually see the man -- ok, I didn't, but N.Lu claims to have seen his back as he took the stage. Then we heard Garth Brooks an Trisha Yearwood sing "We Shall be Free." Then we met TOWWAS at the Folklife Festival.
I'd been the week before, but it was fun to go again. We saw some great performances from southern China, and N.Lu interrogated a Belfast scientist about his renewable energy plan involving sewage, willow trees, and sustainable heating. There was some time devoted to shopping, but I managed not to spend a thing all day except for metro fare.
To me, though, none of this seems to make for a very interesting blog entry. I've come to realize that, whether true or not, I tend to believe that pictures of surprising and random stuff are the gold standard of blog-able subjects. So here goes:
This was stuck into the ground next to a tree I saw on the way to N.Lu's place. I don't know why, or whether, the tree needed saving. The sign was still there when I came back this afternoon.
And the "most random item in a Smitsonian gift shop" award goes to:
It was published in 2002 -- when, perhaps, it seemed marginally more tasteful. In addition to quotes, it contains such jokes as, "Q: What do Michael Dukakis and Saddam Hussein have in common? A: Neither can believe they lost to Bush."
I'd been the week before, but it was fun to go again. We saw some great performances from southern China, and N.Lu interrogated a Belfast scientist about his renewable energy plan involving sewage, willow trees, and sustainable heating. There was some time devoted to shopping, but I managed not to spend a thing all day except for metro fare.
To me, though, none of this seems to make for a very interesting blog entry. I've come to realize that, whether true or not, I tend to believe that pictures of surprising and random stuff are the gold standard of blog-able subjects. So here goes:
This was stuck into the ground next to a tree I saw on the way to N.Lu's place. I don't know why, or whether, the tree needed saving. The sign was still there when I came back this afternoon.And the "most random item in a Smitsonian gift shop" award goes to:
It was published in 2002 -- when, perhaps, it seemed marginally more tasteful. In addition to quotes, it contains such jokes as, "Q: What do Michael Dukakis and Saddam Hussein have in common? A: Neither can believe they lost to Bush."
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
100%
I heard a McDonald's commercial a few nights ago that ended, "With 100% beef, nothing beats a Big Mac." I'm no expert on burgers, but isn't being 100% beef really the least you'd expect? Do the other fast food restaurants cut their beef with, say, horse? Soylent green? A "secret ingredient"?
As a side note, this is my eighth post to carry the "food" tag. I guess this is marginally better than blogging about my cat all the time, which is what I feared when I started this adventure. Still, perhaps I should try harder to develop my other interests... like drinking.
As a side note, this is my eighth post to carry the "food" tag. I guess this is marginally better than blogging about my cat all the time, which is what I feared when I started this adventure. Still, perhaps I should try harder to develop my other interests... like drinking.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Editrix
A big congratulations to M.M., who informs me he's been accepted to the University of Maryland's M.B.A. program. He was nice enough to give me some credit for editing his essays (but do admissions people really read these things? I have my doubts). It's great to know his work paid off, including my making him re-write two of his three essays. I find editing other peoples' stuff to be oddly fun, but sometimes I think I get a little carried away...
I've been busy this past month, and also uninspired, blog-wise. Let's have a moment of silence for some of the topics I thought about writing about, but just never got around to:
I've been busy this past month, and also uninspired, blog-wise. Let's have a moment of silence for some of the topics I thought about writing about, but just never got around to:
- How hard (and unpleasant) it is to adjust to a style of tae kwon do where you can hit people in the face, when you're used to a style where you can't
- How lightening struck so close to my building on Friday night that it set off the fire alarm, which turns out to emit an adorably quaint clanging sound
- How G.R. and I threw a surprisingly kick-ass dinner party on Saturday
Thursday, January 18, 2007
I Heart Hodgman
Having nothing to blog about lately, I'm going to fall back on a time-tested blogger trick: borrowing other people's content. Not just any content, though--John Hodgman/Jon Stewart content. Hodgman is not only hilarious, he's everywhere I want to be: NPR, The Daily Show, hocking Macs. Which leads me to that stolen content:
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Lesson
I've observed before that when I blog about needing/wanting something, it's often miraculously delivered to me: a DVD player, a corkscrew, a digital camera. But I wasn't thinking about that history when I blogged last week about how brown and depressing Pueblo and its environs were. Sure enough, whatever gods there be sent me a three-day snowstorm. Maybe you think that's no big deal because you think it snows all the time in Colorado, but Pueblo is no Buffalo: it gets 10 inches of precipitation a year, and when I was a teenager there I wore sandals for most of the winter. (Ok, so some people thought I was crazy, but I still have all my toes).While pretty, the snow left me stranded at my parents' house doing nothing while I would rather have been somewhere else doing nothing. One plus: I got to go snowshoeing. Allow me to recommend my debut Canon filmaking project, a clip of our dog trying to hitch a ride on the backs of my mom's snowshoes.
The lesson, in case you missed it, is that I need to be careful what I wish for on The Ninth Floor.
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