The Ferry Diaries

Goodbye Ferry, Goodbye Seattle

2010-04-26T08:03:00.000-07:00

I believe I've ridden the ferry from Bainbridge Island over 1,000 times. Day in and day out, I embark and disembark 10 times per week, 10 hours of commute time. This gentle steel beast has glided through choppy, white-capped water, through a Sound as smooth as steel. It's been jostled by gales, bumped over waves. It's the place where I rediscovered my love for writing, and a place where I've devoured books and beer. Instead of viewing the ferry as part of an annoying commute, I viewed it as a place where I could relax both before and after work.

I will only ride the ferry another 10 times. This week will be my last few trips on the Wenatchee, or the Puyallup. It's been so long that I recognize people now - families with kids, a woman who wears the same boots and coat every day, men in neon biking gear. My fellow ferry commuters are like family, and I'll miss them. I'll miss the mirrored grays and blues of sky and sea.

But the time has come to move on. I'm going back to my hometown of Portland, Oregon, ready to rediscover its quirky neighborhoods, restaurants and bars. It's where my family lives, and many friends from high school and college. My boyfriend David got a great job there, and I'll take my time looking for employment. I'm going to focus on writing, cooking, relaxing. I've been working for 7 years straight, and I've got the itch to take a break. I'm looking forward to having space to think and exercise, to plan out meals and buy veggies from the organic produce stand. I'll miss newsradio and it's excitement, but I'll also enjoy the time off.

It's been an amazing run in Seattle and on KOMO Newsradio. I've worked as an editor, a desk journalist, an anchor and a reporter. I've interviewed celebrities, politicians, dignitaries, people doing good things in our community. I was in Key Arena when the roar for the campaigning Obama was so loud I could barely hear. I was in downtown Seattle when he won the election, when people closed Pine street with their glee and celebration. I've covered heartbreaking crime, acts of violence so devastating it took my breath away. I've meet some amazing friends and worked with talented people in Seattle who I'll never forget.

I'm changing the focus of my writing now. Instead of writing news every day, I'll write a blog about everything Portland. I grew up in Beaverton, and hardly ever explored the eccentric neighborhoods of the Rose City. Now I'll be living near Hawthorne street, and there will be plenty of fodder for blogging. I hope you'll join me on my new blog, called Portland 360.

http://www.khanes.wordpress.com/

Goodbye ferry, and goodbye Seattle. I know I'll be back! And if you're ever in town, please contact me for a drink or a walk or a bike ride. I'm very happy to be going home.

Whale Song

2010-02-04T15:01:00.000-08:00

We woke up with the sun this morning to go on a whale watching tour, after arriving home late the night before from seeing an incredible Hawaiian singer named Willie K. We saw him at an Irish bar called Mulligan's in Wailea, and he blew my mind with his voice, and his guitar and ukelele playing. He can sing anything from old Hawaiian music, to opera, plus he has a wicked sense of humor. I'd suggest anyone who goes to Maui to try to find a Willie K performance.

Our Ultimate Whale Watch cruise started at 7am, and 17 of us piled onto a large raft that would take us into the dark blue waters to search for whales. Passengers were groggy, but armed with the latest camera technology. I felt like I was at a press conference, hearing all those camera clicks. We took off fast, skimming the ocean, as soon as our guide saw a couple of spouts.

Then we saw a Mom and her baby, plus a male whale to watch out for them, their lower backs arching gracefully out of the water.

Mom and baby were playing, fin slapping the water. You can see two fins raised up if you look closely enough.

Then we saw a huge chunk of tail push out of the water, and slap the surface. The guide says that tail weighs 70 tons. It was over too quickly for a photo, but you can see the splash.

The whales travel in packs of two or three, and we were so close we could hear them breathe, big exhales that spurted mist high into the air.

We even saw one whale point its face above the surface, the guide says the whale was looking around, seeing what was above water.

One whale got so close to us, that it was only a 20 feet away, and I saw its back curving into the water. We thought for a second it might swim under us, but we didn't see it again.

They say when a whale dives, it leaves a slick on the surface of the water, a window to the depths of the ocean where the whale disappeared. Whalers used to think this was oil from the whale's skin.
The guide also put a hydrophone in the water, and we got to hear the whale song. It was a melodic tune, sung in recognizable refrains. The naturalist says all whales sing the same song, depending on the time of year, no matter where they are in the world. These are such amazing, gentle creatures, and I felt blessed got to see them up close. It's hard to believe there used to only be 1,000 of them left in the world because of whaling, now there are close to 30,000.
I'm so glad people love whales now, and are only armed with cameras, not guns or spears.

I can't wait to go whale watching again!

Hangin Loose...in the Hawaiian rain.

2010-02-03T09:03:00.000-08:00

Hawaii has been misbehavin' lately. I woke up on Tuesday to storm clouds, a gray ocean, then rain falling on Lahaina, painting the road black. Tourists slumped in chairs, muttering, "Is it gonna rain all day?" David and I took it in stride, being from Seattle, and drove all the way to Maui's upcountry to check out the farmland, tropical forests, and a little town called Mokowoa, or something like that. I'm too lazy to check it out. It was interesting, but nothing to write home about. On our way there, we stopped at a lookout, and I saw evidence of humpback whales - white puffs in the deep, gray ocean. We saw their backs curving out of the water as they took a breath, a truly wonderful experience. Tourists yelled and pointed, training their binoculars like a single eye on these magnificent creatures. That's one thing I have to do before I leave - whale watch.

David had a little work to do, so I left him at a Starbucks in Kihei and went to explore the beaches in South Maui. I passed the Grand Wailea, Four Seasons, and countless gated communities with pristine palm trees, and short, manicured grass. I'd guess South Maui is where the celebrities vacation, with its rugged hills and hidden, curving roads.

I kept driving past the resorts in Wailea, and the road became narrow, the foliage like desert. I saw cacti with big paddleboard arms, and wiry, black trees. I drove until I saw a sign for "Makena State Park," and turned right onto a dusty road that ended in a huge parking lot. I got out, put on my water shoes, and walked down a trail that was part sand/part rock. When I saw Big Beach, it took my breath away.

A beautiful crescent with thick, golden sand, and turquoise water.

I walked in the warm water, feeling my feet sink into the sand. Lifeguards sat at their posts, and warning signs talked of undertows an shallow, breaking waves. I could feel it, even as the water rushed around my calves. It was strong, and I could easily fall victim to its grasp.The beach was pretty empty, so I continued walking, talking photos with my small, waterproof camera. Mist hugged the distant hills.

The far end of Big Beach in Makena is punctuated by thick, sharp lava rocks, and I imagined the steaming lava hitting the water thousands of years ago.

For some reason, I was really amazed by this lava rock. It's texture, its shape, the way it dried exactly how it landed on the beach.

It was a beautiful beach, and a calming, peaceful experience. I saw islands in the distance, and the beach didn't have many people. I'd definately come back here with a cooler of beer and food, and just watch the waves roll in and out. I might even take a dip, if I was right in front of the lifeguard stand.

It's 730am in Hawaii on Wednesday, and I'm looking out my hotel room window at trees bending in the wind, the flag whipping wildly on my deck. The sky is blue, though, and the sunlight is already hitting boats moored in the ocean. Soon I'll go on a walk and try to find Baby Beach, which I hear is popular with tourists and locals. I don't mind the wind, but hope the rain goes away. For Good. By the way, my birthday flowers are looking mighty happy!

Hau'oli lā hānau!

2010-02-02T08:43:00.001-08:00

I couldn't ask for a better place to start my 29th year than on a deck in Lahaina, Maui, overlooking the ocean.I spent the morning relaxing, shopping, watching the cruise ship passengers through a telescope on my deck. Then David and I ate at the Plantation, and got snorkeling gear from a shop across the street. I'd heard about this beach north of us called Kapalua Beach, which is named as one of the Top 10 beaches in Maui. It's crescent shape, and still, smooth waters are perfect for swimming and snorkeling, which I soon found out for myself.

At first, the water felt cold, but our bodies adjusted quickly, and it was like being in a bathtub. I had no goosebumps, and marveled at the tropical fish, and pink coral that looked like brains. The heavy salt water held my body, and I felt myself rising and falling with the waves, one with the breath of the ocean. It was a relaxing, soothing experience. When we finished with our underwater sightseeing, we crawled back on the beach, tired but happy, and let the sun bake the salt into our skin.

The water dried quickly, the sun wasn't too hot, and palm trees swayed gently above, their long fronds like fingers carressing the breeze. I couldn't ask for a more relaxing place.

Then it was on to the Old Lahaina Luau that evening, which is rated as one of the best, most authentic luau's in Hawaii. We were greeted with a fresh lei and a mai tai, and led to our table with a perfect view of the stage.

The space was large, with palm trees, thatched huts, and the ocean just a few feet away.
Then it was time for dinner, and our server, a buff Hawaiian surfer wearing a yellow and orange sarang, led us to the buffet, where we had kalua pork, mahi mahi, teriyaki chicken, fresh mango and papaya, rice, bread, and all sorts of things I can't even describe. It was delicious, and the mahi mahi's flowed as the hula dancing presentation began!

This was a traditional luau that included the history of Hawaii. The men wore loincloths, and little else.

The dancing was incredible, with the women moving their hips so fast, and it time to the music. It was like belly dancing on crack. I don't know how they do it, but it was amazing to watch.
Then it was time for a couple's slow dance, with the sound of the waves, and a Hawaiian love song.
After the whole thing was through, I got a photo with the performers, a Hawaiian God and Goddess. Amazing dancers, these two!
It was the birthday of my dreams. How am I going to beat this when I turn 30 next year?

Another Day in Paradise

2010-01-31T19:07:00.000-08:00

I woke up at 530am to the sound of the ocean breathing. In and out, it sighed, a living being in the inky blackness of morning. A warm breeze flitted through my open windows, lifting the lace curtains in my vintage hotel room at The Lahaina Inn. The streets were quiet, the lights dim, all vestiges of late night partying wiped clean by salty, sweet air.

Maui is a gentle place, where tropical flowers pop red and orange, where palm trees dance, and where the sun awakens the ocean with pink brushstrokes of light. (Please pardon the iPhone photo)

Sailboats bob in the azure ocean, just beyond our balcony's white fence railing. The sunlight finds its way onto the warm, burgundy slats, and I sit rocking, enjoying the awakening city. The rumble of cars is scarce here, instead, I listen to birds sing as they hop in the branches, happy it's a new day.
We had breakfast at Betty's in Lahaina with views of the ocean, then drove up to Ka'anapali and went for a long walk along Maui's tourist trap. Hyatt, Marriott, Westin, you name it, all with sparkling outdoor pools and tiki bars. People sat on chaise lounges and romped on white sand, palm trees grew out of impossibly short grass. Not really my scene, but we had a good, long walk. Then we found the type of beach I love, where waves crash wildly against black lava rocks, and surfers are black dots in an ocean that mirrors the sky.

The waves were big and powerful, tumbling tubes of blue that lashed the rocks with long, frothy fingers.
(Yes, I know I'm about as white as it gets. Blame it on my European roots)
Oneloa Bay is much quieter up on the boardwalk, which stretches over 1.5 miles along these beaches near Kapalua. We're going to come back when we have our walking shoes, and explore all this little gems, bays carved by centuries of waves beating the lava rocks into submission.
It's Sunday evening, and the sun is setting, the ocean is silver outside my hotel window. Soft guitar music plays from Cheeseburger in Paradise, and I think at this moment I could very well be there, in paradise.

An unlikely friend

2009-11-25T08:09:00.000-08:00

If you had told me a couple years ago I'd be sitting in Pike Place Bar and Grill with an Italian physicist named Andrea Chincarini, who's working on a gravitational wave detector in Eastern Washington, I would have laughed. Where would I have encountered such a person? And how is it that without ever meeting face-to-face, we could get along so well? The miraculous invention of the Internet, that's how.

A year and a half ago, I started visiting a beautiful blog, called The Dusty Lens. I found it through my coworker Lisa's sister's blog in New York City, and was immediately enthralled by the stunning photography and poems. The word were so deep, the photos abstract and beautiful, that I began reading the entries whenever they were posted. This mysterious Italian poet/physicist/photographer called "AC" started reading and commenting on my blog as well. We linked to each other's blogs. Thus, through the mist of the Internet, we became distant friends, who knew each other well through words and images.

This blogger hasn't been posting as much lately, and I wondered if I'd ever read his stuff again. A couple weeks ago on Facebook, I saw that he'd be in Seattle, so I invited him to grab a drink, or coffee, or food. We met for sushi at Umi's Sake House, and talked about physics, the little that I do know. I found him to be gentle, down to earth, and interesting. We went for a beer with David and brother-in-law Prasad after that, and spent hours talking about how physics and art collide, how the science brain is the artist brain, how physics and poets think the same way: they are in a quest for the unknown, to find beauty in slices of life nobody else sees.

I had a beer with Andrea Chincarini again on Wednesday night, and we spoke of more casual things: life in Italy, what he and his wife do for fun, that he has 30 bottles of Italian wine in his apartment, which is just steps from the Mediterranean sea. They have dinner parties every weekend, and eat tiny fish whole. They live in this tiny town of Chiavari, and both work as physicists. Andrea studied Tai Chi in China for a month, and visited Australia for a month to work on more gravitational waves there. This person is so fascinating, so deep, that I was sad to see him go. It's hard to meet a new friend, and then they fly home halfway around the globe.

I am thankful for the Internet, in that it can bring friends together. Everyone claims it keeps people apart, and we only interact through the impersonal, glowing white screen. But sometimes, you get lucky, and meet someone in person who you would have never had the chance to interact with. I'm thankful that David and I will now have someone to visit in Italy, who can show us the hidden spots, the truly authentic restaurants, the way of life on the Italian Riviera. And our house will always be open to him. The Internet is magic.

Writing a Book is Harder than I thought

2009-11-16T08:07:00.000-08:00

All weekend long, the inspiration didn't hit. I sat staring at my computer screen, willing the creativity to flow through my brain, allowing me to write long, stunning passages of prose. Instead, the words were forced and erratic, cumbersome and nonsensical. I thought the story was going one direction, but the characters wouldn't budge. MOVE, I shouted at Arturo and Isabelle, DO SOMETHING. Instead, they laughed in my face, and stayed in place on paper. Sometimes, when the characters refuse to do what you want, you have to take a step back, and analyze where the story is going. I was making them move too fast. Isabelle told me to slow the heck down, no way was she ready to meet Arturo's parents. So I rethought where I was taking the story. When you hear fiction authors being interviewed after they write a book, they will often say the characters guide the story, that their fingers are just the vessel to allow these characters to speak. And when I get into the mindframe of my book, it happens like magic. My fingers fly, struggling to keep up with what the characters are saying. The scenery becomes as vivid as the real world around me, and I write with passion and intensity. Unfortunately, this didn't happen this weekend.

So far, I've written 44,171 words, and that's just a couple hundred more than I had last weekend. I woke up this morning, completely ready to write the scene that was playing in my head last night. The problem? I had 5 minutes to write, then had to catch the ferry to participate in my daily life of work, eating, surfing the Internet, etc. When my mind opens to the creative process, it's like a beam of light that shines straight through me, illuminating the way. I know exactly where I want to take the story, and exactly the way to describe it. One thing about being a writer is that each writer has a unique worldview, and unique way of putting words on paper. I want to tap into that uniqueness, instead of forcing the words to come.

At 155 pages, I believe my book is a little more than halfway done. That will complete a short fiction novel. I don't mind if its short, I just want the story to be complete. I want Isabelle and Arturo to find their way. I want to know how they plan on achieving their goals, what they will say to each other, what experiences they will have. Right now, my two main characters are suspended in time, waiting for their creator to give them life.

Bothered

2009-11-12T09:06:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, I saw Seattle Police Officer Timothy Brenton's family get out of a black SUV with tinted windows. I saw the family walk through a human gate of saluting law enforcement officers, a sea of blues and reds, into the empty hole of Key Arena. I saw Officer Brenton's son carrying the American flag, his daughter in a pretty dress, both tow-headed and solemn. I wondered if these two small children understood the gravity of their father's funeral, a man who died while serving the city of Seattle, a man executed while doing his job. Reporters around me struggled to hold in tears at Officer Brenton's memorial service, as the gigantic video display showed this man as a boy, as a married man, as a father. He was always smiling.

Last Friday the newsroom erupted in shouts, ringing phones and live interviews as police zeroed in on the suspect of this horrific crime. We went wall-to-wall with breaking news coverage, the excitement of it all a papable buzz. The man had turned his gun on detectives, and was shot in the head, rushed to Harborview. He's recovering now from his wounds, something the Officer he's accused of murdering will never do.

There's a Facebook page dedicated to Officer Timothy Brenton, and 20-thousand people are members. His wife, Lisa, posted pictures of that fatefall Halloween: the kids carving pumpkins, walking down a wooded trail. Underneath the photo is the caption: The Last Walk. I think of that family, loving each other, celebrating this Halloween day, and kissing their father and husband goodbye. None of them knew he'd go out on patrol, and get blasted with fire from an assault rifle, never to come home again.

Last night I dreamed of this woman, Lisa, this devastated wife. I went to her house for an interview, no recording devices allowed, and she told me how much she was hurting, how she was trying to rebuild her life. I think about her often and what she must be going through, a feeling I hope I never know.

Today I will attend a press conference at the King County Prosecutor's office, to find out what charges they will levy against this Christopher Monfort. He's accused of killing Officer Timothy Brenton, wounding Officer Britt Sweeney, and firebombing several police cars in downtown Seattle. The accused man's motives will never be understood for me, but hopefully through this charging, the family will find some peace.

Trains in Europe beat the crap out of trains in the US, most of the time.

2009-10-18T20:38:00.000-07:00

Trains are the veins and arteries of Europe. They crisscross cities, suburbs, and countryside. David and I didn't have to take a taxi, or ride a bus the entire time. We hopped on streetcars, subways, high speed, and low speed trains. I put so much trust in this immense, impressive train system that I made a stupid mistake. We were in Stuttgart, and wanted to take an overnight to Rome. I booked it, or so I thought, and David and I got onboard at 9pm that night.

The train was raucous and full; high school students crowded the halls. I imagined drunks, stoners, body odor and smelly feet. I imagined laughter into the depths of the night.

"Good thing we have a reservation," David said, as we warily eyed the packed cattle cars. "Sometimes if you don't, conductors will just throw you off the train at some remote city in the middle of Austria. I've seen passengeres beg to stay onboard."

"Good thing," I agreed.

I pushed and picked my way to our couchette to find a couple already sitting on our beds. We compared tickets, each had reservations for that car. Perplexed, David and I went to find a conductor.

"Someone's in our car," we told the slender, stony faced German. He pursed his lips, furrowed his eyebrows, and read the fine print. The print I should have read to begin with.

"Wrong date." He pointed, raised his eyebrows, and walked away. David and I spend the next hour and a half hunting down conductors. We found them in the hallways, near the bathrooms, in a cramped office in the front of a car. Each said the same thing in halting English.

"Train's full. Sorry. You're out of luck."

The aisles, even the car with bicycles were already full. People slept on the ground with their backpacks as pillows. David and I went to the back of the train and found a spot to sleep. On the ground. Near the restroom. Then we went and bought beer: life's elixir.

We stayed on that lonely floor for two hours as Germany, Austria, and Italy rushed by. I cracked the large window, and breathed in the cold mountain air. Tiny towns peppered the hillside, mountains were lumbering beasts in the silvery moonlight. I wondered how people here lived, if they could see the Alps during the daytime. David and I almost got off the train in the middle of Austria, but waited it out.

I was still peeking out that window when Italy rolled into view. David was laying on the ground, listening to his audiobook. I thought about all the grime and dust beneath our clean clothes.

"David," I whispered. "Welcome to Italy."

It was then that I saw the conductor, walking briskly down the hall toward us. Images flashed through my head: David and I sleeping on hard, cold cement. David and I wandering around for 6 hours until morning. Shoot, I thought, he's going to kick us off the train.

"I have a room for you," he said. It was the same stony-faced German, but this time, he was smiling.

I'd never heard such beautiful, pure, luxuriant words. We have a room for you.

We followed the German, dazed, into our tiny couchette. REAL BEDS! REAL SHEETS. It was past midnight, and David and I couldn't stop grinning as we folded our bodies onto the tiny bunks. It was the best sleep of my life, and I woke up in Rome refreshed and happy.

The moral to the story: read the fine print.

The loss of summer

2009-10-16T07:24:00.001-07:00

When the vivid greens and blues burn ito the firey oranges and reds of fall, I always feel a sense of loss. Gone are the long summer days sitting by the barbecue. Gone are the deep earthy smells of freshly cut lawns. Gone is the morning sunlight that makes shapes on the floor. I can feel a touch of sadness during this time, as the geese fly in formation, as trees turn inward to hibernate. I wish I could hibernate as well. A long winter of darkness looms on the horizon. Darkness will swallow days whole, and rain will pittar patter on my roof, turning the sky the same gray as Puget Sound.

I think fall this year is hitting me doubly hard because I just got back from vacation. The landscape seemed to morph while I was gone, reminding me of what's to come. I know this is just a phase, that soon I will relish wearing warm sweaters and watching rain draw lines down the ferry windows. I will enjoy the Christmas lights and hot butter rum. I will bundle up in the cold to celebrate New Years Eve.

But all that time, I will wait for the renewal of spring, my favorite season. I love when the trees awaken, curling their buds toward the light. I just have to remember that life, and the world, all have seasons, and rolling with these changes is necessary. I will mourn the loss of summer, then move onto the joys and beauty of fall.

When in Rome....

2009-10-11T08:31:00.001-07:00

Do like the Romans do. I spent the entire trip in Italy with this saying bouncing in my head. I didn't know what it meant, or where it came from, only that it seemed to make sense. Rome is unlike any other place in the world, and to survive it, you better do like the Romans do. You dart across traffic, you sit in Piazzas drinking wine, you walk down hidden alleyways to browse in antique stores. You push your way through hordes of tourists. Those poor Romans, dealing with all us tourists every year.

When I first imagined Rome, I pictured calm city streets, sprawling piazzas, fountains on every corner. I didn't imagine the motorcycles, the noise, the crowds. We started off early in the morning after sleeping on a night train from Munich. The first ruins I saw blew me away, every column a reminder of the ancient empire that dominated this region of the world.

I could have stared at them forever, imagining the bustling Romans going about their day, shopping in the Roman Forum, wandering the gardens and fountains, watching their leaders speak amid white stacked columns. This place was so charged with energy, that I could percieve it. Thousands of people lived and died here. I had a special enchantment with the trees, recognizing them from depictions I'd seen of the Roman empire.The most stunning to me was the Coliseum, perched in the distance from the Roman Forum and Palantine Hill.

We waited about 20 minutes to get inside, and then were blown away by its beauty and architecture. People used to fight brutally on this stage, with wild animals, and each other. There were complex elevator systems to lift animals as big as hippos up there. The Romans used to put criminals out with the wild animals so people could see them get ripped apart as punishment.

They installed a stage so tourists could imagine what it was like. 70-thousand people could fill this space. I tried to imagine the bleachers full of screaming and cheering Romans. Everyone had to a place to sit, depending on where they were in the social structure.

The artchitecture in Rome is phenomenal, and huge. We saw a white marble monument towering over the brown buildings, called the Monument to Vittorio Emanuele. While the French go more with romantic buildings, the Romans go with stature. This building was built in the 1800's, which makes it relatively new, compared to the ruins that were built thousands of years ago.

Next we went onto the Vatican, which was another large structure in Rome. You can see its dome from a distance, and it's incredible to visualize all the power stemming from this small cluster of buildings. Vatican City is run by it's own team and government separate from Italy.

You have to go through a security line to get into the Vatican. The women have to be very mindful of what they wear. No tank tops, no short skirts.

My favorite part of Rome was to be Piazza Navona. It's a slender Piazza lined with restaurants, with an obelisk in the center, and a marble fountain. When we went, it was full of art and flowers. We sat at a restaurant and drank wine, and ate.There must have been an Egyptian obelisk in every major Piazza in Rome, including at the Vatican. I think this is interesting, because it's not a Christian symbol. The obelisk at the Vatican was created 13-hundred years before Jesus was born. There was also an incredible obelisk in Piazza Popolo.

The Pantheon is also an amazing sight. This has been around over 2,000 years, and is what the Jefferson Monument in Washington, DC. So much of our architecture we know today was modeled after the Romans and the Greeks.

It was quite the rush seeing all these sights in just a day and a half, but David and I had to get out of there. The tourists crammed every major sight like it was a ride at Disneyland, and after awhile, I couldn't handle it. We took an hour and a half high speed train up to Florence, which was equally packed, but calmed down during the course of our trip. Italy was overall incredible, with delicious food, amazing architecture, and so much history. Plus I love listening to the Italian.

And I learned that When in Rome, Do as the Romans Do, is a hundreds year old saying. It referred to religion. I can't wait to go back.

Oktoberfest: Party like a German

2009-09-29T12:59:00.000-07:00

I've never partied with a happier and crazy group of people than the Germans at Oktoberfest in Stuttgart. We took the train about 15 minutes outside the city, to a massive festival. There were all types of rides, and I couldn't imagine how people could drink gigantic steins, and then go propel themselves in these vomit-machines. Each major brewery put together a giant tent, each with it's own personality. The first one was rather tame, with Germans dancing on tables to a rock group comprised of young men. I love how they yodeled during the chorus and played the accordian.

We then made our way to the hip tent of the evening, with a live band rocking American pop music. David and I ordered a stein to share, and watched the Germans becoming drunker and drunker. Young people and old people alike walked around in traditional garb. I couldn't believe the number of liederhosen parading by. You can't see in the photo, but one of the old men was wearing furry rabbit shoes. I saw tons of young men in hiking boots and tall socks, with mountain climbing shorts. David and I shared steins, thank goodness, because they were HUGE. I can't imagine drinking a whole one. We went to another tent playing American rock and roll favorites from the 70's, including Deep Purple and the Rolling Stones. We decided to partake with the Germans and dance on the table benches.

One of the best parts was the train ride home. Germans were crowded in like sardines, singing loudly. They were all smiling, and very drunk. They sang the entire 20 minute ride back to the main station, and David and I were humming by the time we got off the train. All and all, it was very fun, and the most massive beer fest and party I have ever seen. I can't imagine what it must be like in Munich, with tents that hold 10,000 people!! We went to wine country today and visited some of David's family friends. Soon we are going to Italy. It's all been a blast so far.

Beautiful Amsterdam

2009-09-28T02:22:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in a hotel room in Stuttgart, Germany, getting ready to go outside, so I'm going to throw up a few photos of Amsterdam. We wandered around for several hours yesterday, looking at the people and architecture. It's really a beautiful city, with off-kilter, pushed together buildings, and winding canals. I love watching the boats go by, and the swans.

Hopefully I'll be able to throw up some pictures of Oktoberfest, and maybe some video too. Wish me luck!

Amsterdam: It's all about the people

2009-09-26T06:56:00.000-07:00

We met an Australian man last night who told us something along these lines, "Amsterdam isn't the most beautiful city in Europe, but it's one of the richest culturally." We sat outside at an Irish bar in the Heinekenplein, which is a huge square lined with restaurants and bars. Our waitresses were Scottish, and we talked to this Australian, James, for three hours, until lights blinked in the darkness. He and his Scottish wife were married in a castle, complete with kilts and bagpipes. He drank Guinness, we drank Belgian beer. People rode by on bicycles, one guy with a joint between his teeth. James told us about his experiences living around the world, about how the Dutch and the Germans still don't get along, about how socially accepting it is in Amsterdam. We had a great time with James, and I'm sure we'd be friends with he and his wife if we lived in the same city.
I think one of the greatest joys of visiting a city is to interact with the people who live there. We haven't really taken any pictures of Amsterdam yet, or done anything touristy. I love that there are fruit stands everywhere, that bikes are more popular than cars, that men sit outside at coffee shops holding their babies and drinking espresso. I love that the coffee is frothy and rich. There is no watery Denny's drip coffee here.

Today we've spent time in the outskirts of Amsterdam, hanging out with David's old friend from Texas, who lives in an area that's predominantely foreign, and Moroccan. We had delicious Middle Eastern food for lunch, now we're hanging out with the apartment he shares with his Polish girlfriend (who's not here right now), and two turtles.

So far, I've really been having a blast. The weather has been wonderful, and so has the people watching. There is a very high porportion of very good looking people here. It's like walking through an issue of Vogue magazine in Dutch. Last night we ducked our heads into a salsa club, then went somewhere a little calmer for a beer. We'll probably hang out with Nick and his girlfriend tonight, then on to Germany tomorrow. Oktoberfest, here we come!

The ride to Europe is a long one

2009-09-25T00:53:00.001-07:00

Right now, I am sitting in my airplane seat, half awake and groggy.
It's about 10pm in Seattle and I just had morning breakfast service,
as it's 7am in Europe. A sunrise the color of blood oranges is
creeping across the horizon, and I see pinpricks of cities far below.
I wonder where I am in Europe , and feel as though I've finally found
civilization after a long ride over the black and mysterious Atlantic.
We're due to arrive in about an hour, and if my battery holds up I'll
publish this in the closest hotspot. The flight seemed short from
philedelphia at only 7 hours, and I caught a tiny bit of sleep after
dinner and watching the new star trek movie for the third time. It
seemed as though last time I came to Europe, it took 9 hours from
somewhere on the east coast. The clouds under me are mottled with
blue, and have the texture of a down comforter. I wish I could pull it
over my head and sleep. There are so many adventures to be had, that I
hope I can quell my excitement to take a quick nap before exploring. I
love being this high up as he sun greets the earth, and I greet a new
continent.

Sent from my iPhone.

2009-09-20T16:02:00.000-07:00

I just set up my iPhone for mobile blogging so I can take lots of
pictures of Oktoberfest. This short post is a test.

Sent from my iPhone.

Spontaneous is my middle name

2009-09-17T05:05:00.000-07:00

Most people spend months, or even years planning a trip to Europe. David and I make the decision to go next week. I love spontaneity, I think it makes life fun and crazy. I know it makes some people nervous, and I'm glad David shares my love of the unexpected.

Several days ago, David found out there would be a big AICC conference in Stuttgart, Germany. This is where people from the aviation industry gather to learn about the latest advances in e-learning, which is his specialty. He wrote to the organizer, and immediately got on the docket to present his work. Boeing, the flight division, will be there, which is a client David hopes to snag. Anyway, we looked at airfares, and found with a week notice they were around 700 or 800 bucks. David called a few friends, look at ticket prices, and two days ago booked is into Amsterdam, and out of Paris for 800 dollars roundtrip.

This is so exciting that I can hardly concentrate on anything else. We will be spending time in Amsterdam, Germany, and Paris, and I just found out yesterday that it will be OKTOBERFEST in both Stuttgart and Munich while we are there. Guess where I'll be while David is at his conference? I did some research, and the Stuttgart festival is the second biggest in the world. There are tents that hold 5,000 people. I think I'm going to have to set my blog up for "mobile blogging," and will be posting pics to Facebook on my iPhone when I have a WiFi connection.

I was just telling David last week that we needed a vacation together. He's been working on contract most of the summer, and we haven't really gone anywhere together since Mexico in Januray. I was feeling depressed last weekend cause I felt it was the LAST sunny day EVER, and David had to slam to get his project finished. I guess someone heard my plea, and threw a vacation down in my lap. A vacation to EUROPE. I can't complain.

Machiavelli's, and a Bad Blogger

2009-09-11T08:58:00.000-07:00

Last night my Mom sent me an email, "You haven't blogged in SO LONG." It's true, I haven't, and I've had an idea in mine for a WEEK. I feel hyper distracted lately, with my mind roaming to the book I'm trying to write. When I don't feel creative, I read books about the craft of novel writing. I'm also sucking in fiction like it's ice cream, and reading a book by Joseph Finder, who was a keynote speaker at the Writer's Conference. The more I read, the better writer I will be.

But now, I'll write the post that's been waiting to escape for the last week. Disclaimer: Please excuse my photos, as they were taken from a camera phone.

Machiavelli's is on the cusp of downtown Seattle and Capitol Hill, where urban gives way to hip. Preppies in sweaters from Abercrombie mingle with hipsters with low slung jeans and lip-rings on the street out front. The zing of tomato sauce, basil, and spicy Italian sausage seep from open windows, tantalizing the senses.

David and I are lucky to find a seat in the tiny, crowded bar. The hint of the setting sun turns the bay windows red, and the inside of the bar glows. Frank Sinatra's voice rises from old Bose speakers as the pregnant bartender pours wine, champagne, and martini's. A vintage cash register dares to be touched. I suddenly feel like I'm in New York, Little Italy maybe. I love the intimate setting, and can't wait to go up the stairs into the restaurant.

The tables are covered in red tableclothes, and are placed haphazardly inside the small dining room. I'm only a couple feet away from people to my right, and an open window offers a view inside the small kitchen. I borrowed the below image from their website so you can get a better feel of the place.

The waitress brings olive bread and oil for starters, and we order the tuna carpaccio for an appetizer. It was delicious: thin slices of tuna covered in marinara, capers, and parmesan cheese. For dinner, David orders spaghetti with meatballs, I get lasagna. Both entree are cheap, maybe 10 dollars. The photo from my iPhone doesn't do it justice, but I'm putting it up anyway.

I have to say this is my favorite restaurant in Seattle. It's affordable, unpretentious, and romantic. The food is incredible, with subtle flavors and depth. The sauces on our dishes were both red, but tasted different. I would highly recommend Macheavelli's on Capitol Hill, but be prepared to wait.

The Busy Bee

2009-08-31T08:04:00.000-07:00

The fog is.
The fog is....

That's all I seem to be able to write. Similes and metaphors dance just beyond reach of my groggy mind, like there's a wedge stuck between my working brain and my conciousness. The words are there, moving, twirling, but I can't seem to recognize them. It's a frustrating way to wake up, especially when I set the alarm at 5:45am just to get a little fiction writing done. The gears of my brain were slow and rusted, and I watched the fog's wispy fingers wrap the tops of evergreen trees as I sat at my desk drinking coffee. I found myself staring out the window more than I looked at the blank page in front of me. The scene is there, the words or not, so I must sit and wait for them. There's no use rushing when all that comes out of my fingers is crap.

I know I have to be patient, that my body and mind will adjust to writing at such an ungodly hour. If I had my choice, I'd sit down to write at 730 or 830am, not 545am, but this is how my life is organized right now. Fiction on the ferry is tough, after work I play tennis, then eat dinner and visit with David. The early morning hours are the only time I have, so I must learn to make good use of them.

I also want to get back with blogging again, but the last two weeks have been a whirlwind of visitors. I love having visitors and welcoming them into my home, and I just accepted the fact that I wouldn't be writing during that time. Friends and family are so important to me, that everything else goes by the wayside when they are here, and that's fine.

But now I feel the seasons are changing. The air is getting cooler, the trees are rustling with impatience, ready to sleep. Fog is blurring the space between the ferry and Seattle, like tiredness blurs creativity. However, I know the paradigm will shift, until once again magic spreads itself on the blank pages in front of me.

Kitty Hug

2009-08-24T09:38:00.000-07:00

Whenever I lay on the couch to watch a movie, my kitty comes to cuddle. She curls up in the ring of my arm, then rolls toward me so I can scratch her belly or chest. Her purring is so soothing, and I love holding her tight. I taught her this as a kitten, and she's loved it ever since.

Both David and I love this little kitty Lexi, so I just wanted to put a few pictures of her on my blog. She's one special girl.

Every morning when I get up, she jumps out of bed and waits for me in the hall. When I round the bend, she does this little leap (happy dance), gives an excited meow, and hops down the stairs. Shes' such a sweet welcoming presence in the morning.

What a good little friend.

Hah-ah-poos

2009-08-19T08:45:00.000-07:00

When I breathe deeply here, and let myself be, I feel the sacredness of Hah-ah-poos reverberate throughout my being. Ancient laughter and pain hang in the air here like clouds, and for an instant I can see the wild Duwamish river, raging with burning rapids and the silvery bodies of salmon. I see the Native Americans fishing from the banks, the dwellings, the dances around a glowing fire that shoots sparks into the sky. The imagery is so strong in my head here that I have to sit, and stare at the industry that now crams the river with reds and blues, colors that don't belong.

The water is tame now, it's fight has been gone for almost a century. But the hollow feelings remain in this sacred place at Pier 107, Duwamish land.

I have come here for a news story, and sit in my baking car for hours. A homeless camp now populates these banks, brightly colored tents are spread in the shade of the deciduous trees, where Indians once lived. It is somehow ironic that those in control are trying to push yet another group from this place. Not that long ago, a people who lived here for 1400 years was gathered and grouped on reservations, so white people could build power plants.

I am not sure why I feel so strongly here, but the sense of loss is overwhelming. I'm glad the Duwamish have kept this place full of trees and brambles and dirt. If I close my eyes, and breathe the rustling breeze deeply, I can imagine I'm there. I can hear the river, the eagles, and the silvery buildings of downtown Seattle disappear from view.

The words become me

2009-08-12T08:03:00.000-07:00

I haven't dug this deep into fiction since I was 14-16 years old, and wrote my first 100 page "book." I'd lock myself into the office with the doors closed and the lights down, sometimes listening to quiet music. I'd emerge myself in the story and become the main character, a young Native American girl living in the Great Plains as the white people encroached.

Now, I'm falling into my love story that takes place in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. I talk about my characters, Isabelle and Arturo, like they are real people. I live their conversations and their experiences. I find myself thinking about them all day long, and while I fall asleep. What adventuree, what misfortune will I put them through next time? How will they fall in love? What will they say to each other next? I'm having a hard time focusing on anything else.

Since the writer's conference I have written about 8,000 words, and am now close to 20,000. When a passage or scene works, I feel high. I emerge from the dark bedroom where I've locked myself, positively glowing. I feel like I've just been in San Miguel, on horseback, interacting with Arturo. On Sunday, I came out onto the deck to join David, where he was BBQ-ing dinner so I could write.

"So, if I have a crush on the man I am creating, does that mean I have a crush on myself?" I asked him, laughing.

"No, because he's probably your ideal man."

Interesting. The more I think about Arturo and traits I've given him, the more he reminds me of David. He is different though, with a different past, and passions. Different enough to be fiction.

I'm having the time of my life right now writing this book. I don't care if its published, I'm just enjoying the journey. When my 30-40 minutes of writing time runs out in the morning, I feel like I've just lost a piece of myself. I hope someday in my life I am fortunate enough to do this full time. Until then, many early mornings await.

Paranoia

2009-08-07T11:47:00.000-07:00

I had a very hard time falling asleep last night. I lay in bed, tense, waiting for the next strange noise. Normal creaking sounds became a man inching up the stairs. The muffled slam of car doors became gangsters surrounding our house. People working outside far away became someone trying to pry open and climb through our living room window. Even my cat was tense, her ears swiveling like antennae. I woke David up.

"I keep hearing noises, and I can't sleep," I told him.

"Point out the next noise."

So I did, and he explained it. I pointed out the next one. He explained it.

"This is why I can sleep, because I know what those noises are. You are just too close to the news." Soon he began to breathe deeply again, and I tried to relax.

It's true, I am too close to the news. The recent home invasion, rape, and murder of a woman in South Seattle, just one block away from my friend's house, has affected me deeply. He used to see these women smiling and laughing on evening walks. I almost cried when I read the court documents telling how this man picked a home at random, pried open the bathroom door, tortured two women. One fought back and died, the other escaped. I keep picturing their fear and desperation, and I put myself in their situation. How would I act if a man came into my bedroom with a knife? Would I fight back? Should I learn how to shoot a .22 and keep it in my bedstand?

I never used to have thoughts like this before I was in the news. I felt safe most of the time, and why shouldn't I - I live on Bainbridge Island next door to two cops. But as I lay there in bed, headlines dashed through my brain.

"Bainbridge Island rocked by random murders."

I can see the news reporters interviewing people, reading court documents, and its all too vivid. Maybe I need a vacation, or I need to take a deep breath, and remember, these random, frightening attacks are very rare. I just feel so sorry for that woman who died, and her partner who loved her. Maybe this story is all too real for me because I interviweed the murderer's mother, only a week or so prior. Monsters do exist.

A desk for a writer

2009-08-05T09:54:00.000-07:00

I have a beautiful, wooden desk in the living room of my house which I absolutely love, tucked into a corner with windows all around. I can sit and write at that desk, if David is gone or asleep. His office is in a loft directly above the living room, and each chair creak or click of his mouse takes me away from the story I'm creating. So, I told him I wanted a card table in another room, where I can just go hide, stare at a wall, and be within my thoughts and the minds of my characters.

Immediately, David started looking on Craiglist for a desk. He showed me pictures of antiques and rolltops, and I would always answer, "a card table is fine." I felt bad he was spending so much time searching for the perfect desk for me. Even I wasn't looking.

Then, while out searching garage sales one Saturday morning, he found a desk for only 10 bucks. The woman had bought it at an antique store on Capitol Hill back in the 1960's, so the desk must be really old. It has waterstains on its oak top, and the drawers often get stuck. I absolutely loved it just the way it was. Then David decided to fix it up.

So he dragged the desk out on the porch, bought a sanding kit, and started with the top. He sanded for an hour before I got home, and then sanded some more. I could start to see the beautiful grain of the oak (and no, that is not a bald spot, its a spot on the camera lens).

He then started on the drawers, sweating with exertion. Sanding is hard work, especially without power tools.
When he's done with the sanding, he will stain the desk so it looks brand new, and says he's doing all of this to enable my writing, because he believes in my talent and creativity.This is another reason why David just ROCKS. I couldn't feel more loved.

Whew!

2009-08-03T08:06:00.000-07:00

"Writers are strange people," said famous author Terry Brooks as spoke at a dessert reception at the SeaTac Hilton,"which means I'm standing in front of a roomfull of 500 really strange people." We all laughed and tittered in our chairs knowingly. Writers are strange people, and I've never felt so connected as I did at the Pacific Northwest Writers Conference.

The conversations were anything but normal. I sat next to an author Saturday night as we listened to speaker Jospeh Finder, a master of thrillers.

"Let's try to think of ways we can torture our main character," I said to her.

"Yeah! You have to think of the worst thing that can happen to your character, do it once, do it twice, and just when you think she's recovered, do it again! We play God."

"You guys are sick," another writer said, but smiled. She knew.

Another writer at the conference walked around carrying a giant demon skull. He's Royce Buckinhgham, the author of DemonKeeper, a movie that will soon be filmed in Seattle.

We'd make up characters on the fly, talk about how to write convincing dialogue, try to invent reasons why a pole was hanging down in the middle of a classroom window. Everywhere I went - in the elevator, in the seat beside me, drinking coffee, people would say:

"What are you working on?"

It was at this conference that I got inspired to write every day. I learned how to think about the storyline of my book, the characters, and reaching my goals. Sometimes I think the only reason why some people are published is the fact that they sit down to write every day. I think I could be published.

I have 15,000 words in my book, and I'm going to try to write 700 per day. I've reached my mark both yesterday and today, and surprisingly easily. Oops. Two adverbs. I'm going to throw myself over the deck. My goal is 75 to 80,000 words, and if I reach my writing goal every day, that should take me several months to finish a book. Then it's time for the rewrites. The months and months of rewrites.

Sorry if this post doesn't make a lot of sense. I'm a little bit entranced by my fictional world. Back to San Miguel!

Sunny, Sunny Summertime

2009-07-27T08:55:00.000-07:00

I am sitting on the upper deck of the ferry boat on my commute this morning; an oddity in Seattle. I'm relishing the fact that its 70 degrees at 9am, and will be warm when I get off work at 7pm. The sky is blue, the water still. Sometimes I think I'm the only person in Seattle who is

a) not surprised by hot temperatures in the SUMMER b) actually likes hot temperatures.

Every summer, we get a few days in the 90's, which I soak in like a lizard lying on a hot rock. The rest of the year, it's dreary and drizzly, and we complain. In winter, there is ice and snow, and we complain. In spring, it's foggy and gray, and we complain. In summer, it's hot, and we complain. I think that here in Seattle we are spoiled, because sometimes we do get those picture perfect days in the 70's. Once you taste heaven, it's hard to get used to anything else.

I love the hot summer days, because right now, I am picturing the snowstorms and ice last December. I remember my gingerbread house blanketed with snow, driving my newscar 5 miles per hour on city streets, reporting about cars sliding down Seattle hills at 5am while I coughed up a lung and snorted snot. I remember fat snowflakes finding their way between my scarf and my neck. I remember my hands turning to ice inside my gloves. Those are not my ideas of a good time, people.

I love that it's summer, and that I get to use a fan in my house. I love that it still gets cool at night, unlike Texas that is sweltering and muggy. I love the baby robins stashed in thick brush outside my window. No, I don't want to hear stories about how everyone is staying cool, how AC units are flying off store shelves, how people are suffering. It's just a few hot days of summer, and it will all be over soon.

I'd be more impressed if it was over 105.

The Gravity of San Miguel: Excerpt + Writer's Conference

2009-07-22T08:11:00.000-07:00

I made a rash decision on Monday, and now I am both thrilled, and scared to death. I signed away some of my life savings to attend the Pacific Northwest Writer's Conference from July 30th to August 1st. It was luck of the draw that I'm working the morning reporter shift that Thursday and Friday, so don't have to take any days off. I'll attend sessions, meet with an agent, interact with other writers and editors. I'll see authors speak at dinners and desserts. I hope to be inspired, and learn a little bit more about what it takes to both finish and publish a novel. I really think it will be an amazing experience, if I'm not too tired to soak it all in. I am deathly afraid though. What if they think my ideas suck? What if the world of publishing seems too daunting? I just have to suck it up, and get over it. In honor of my fear, I will post some more of my fiction on this blog for the world to see. Gotta start somewhere.

---------------------------------------
THE GRAVITY OF SAN MIGUEL - ANOTHER EXCERPT

Earthy cobblestones massaged my feet as I walked down Piedras Chinas toward the center of town. The little road was only wide enough for the taxi that had dropped me off 30 minutes prior, and I sat gaping out the window as we bounced down side streets that overlapped and looped like a maze. The buildings were short and bright colored stucco; walls holding me in.

My apartment was exactly like the pictures, and the owners had left a little book with their favorite things in San Miguel, and tips of the trade. They told me about a woman several streets down who serves fresh juice every morning. They described how to get my water, take out the trash, and use the telephone. The rooftop terrace was stunning; with a wooden table and views of the town’s center far below. The spires of the parroquia dwarfed all the buildings, reaching to scrape the sky with their pink tips. I couldn’t wait to see it up close.

The air was balmy and warm for an October evening, and I wore jeans, a T-shirt and a light coat. I passed lots of foreigners on my way down, all of whom smiled and nodded. An elderly Mexican man with a sombrero flicked a stick at a trail of burros saddled with wares. He smiled at me, and I noticed gaps in his teeth.

Everywhere I looked, doors opened into courtyards with fountains, little shops, restaurants, and bars. Each building was a secret: you never knew what you might find behind each ornate door. At night I suspected they’d lock up tight, leaving no evidence of their daytime lives, leaving passerby to only guess.

I could hear the music before I even rounded the bend: salsa music played entirely with marimbas. The beat drew me closer as the sun threw my shadow onto stucco and wood. The men were playing in a gazebo in the center of a park with trees trimmed like squares. People spun and swayed on a makeshift dance floor and crowded the benches. Children ran freely and whites mingled with Mexicans. I’d never seen the two races look so equal, and I watched with wonder. In California, I always saw Mexican men with low slung jeans, women with heavy eyeliner, and trucks that skimmed the ground. Here Mexicans were well-dressed and smiling, entire families hanging out for a peaceful evening.

It was then I saw the parroquia. My eyes had been so focused on the music and people I didn’t even see it looming into view on my left. It was what Steve called “magic hour”, when the sun was low to the horizon, illuminating colors with its orange glow. Tears once again pricked my eyes in the face of so much beauty. The church was intricate, with carved columns and bell towers. I’m not a religious person, but the sight of the parroquia was enough to make me want to kneel with grace, and pray.

I wandered back to find a place to sit to enjoy the music. Spanish tumbled around me, punctuated with laughter. I saw a young Mexican couple holding hands on a bench, stealing kisses, and suddenly missed Steve. He’d been here before. He’d walked along these narrow cobblestone streets. He’d found love within the walls of this romantic city in the middle of Mexico. I wondered if he was different then, if clothes didn’t matter, if money didn’t matter. I wondered what had made him change, and if I’d ever see him again. Funny how I could miss a person so much, who had driven me totally nuts in Seattle. I guess the familiar can create illusions, lock people in. I tried to push him from my mind, and enjoy the sublime moment I was living. I wanted someone to miss and care for, someone to enjoy this with, but I knew it had to be the right person, not just the “right now” person.

Half an hour later, I walked back to my apartment, feeling a little sad and lonely. The cast iron streetlights glowed yellow, illuminating tiny cobblestone mountains. I felt like I could be wandering the streets of Paris, or Rome, both trips I had done many times before, with and without men. It was hard to believe I was in the middle if a third world country overtaken by drug lords, kidnappings, and be-headings. I breathed in the mountain air and felt at peace for several moments as I walked up the steep hill to my new apartment.

Orcas Island - A piece of Heaven

2009-07-20T10:03:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: Please forgive any typos in this post. Friday night as I was checking the doors of my newscar, the piece of glass on the back door flipped up and slammed my ring finger on my right hand. The tip of my finger is completely purple. This is disrupting my typing, which for all of you who know me well realize this is incredibly frustrating, cuase i can't type 100 words per minute with a bum finger. That glass really took me by surprise. I'll be suing Ford now, j/k.

Orcas Island is incredible. It's probably twice as big as Bainbridge Island, but contains so much variety. There are small towns, open prairies, mountain lakes, a 2500 foot peak, camping, hiking trails, kayaking, horseback riding, and its all within close proximity.

We barely made the ferry to Keystone, then rode the motorcycle up Whidbey Island, through Deception Pass, and made the Anacortes ferry exactly when they started boarding the bikes. We love to cut it close for the adrenaline rush.

The day was perfect. We sat outside and watched the islands go by. I can't believe this magical place is only a few hours drive from my house. People come from all over the world to see the San Juan Islands. We camped at a place called West Beach Resort, which isn't good if you want privacy. They really pack them in, but we were lucky to be near trees and not out in the field across the street where tents were 10 feet apart.

You can rent yurts at the resort, and there is a general store, boat rentals, and a beautiful boardwalk.

We headed to Eastsound to explore, which reminds me of Cannon Beach, Oregon. and found a waterfront restaurant to have crab cakes and appetizers. After our snack we drove up a windy 5 mile road to the top of Mount Constitution. Usually you have to hike for hours to get a view like this.

David's sister and brother in law, Grace and Prasad.
Twin Lakes.

The sun and breeze felt heavenly. This place is truly spectacular, with views of Mount Baker, Canada, and the Islands.

We then went up to the lookout tower, which is even higher.

It was one of the best views I've ever seen. By that time, the day was running out, and we headed back to the campsite to make dinner and hang out. I love this coffee pot we put on the fire the next morning, which is a percolater.

And a bald eagle visited.

We spent Sunday at Mountain Lake in Moran State Park.

We took turns boating and hiking, and it was a blast. The day went by all too quickly, and once again, David and I were on the motorbike home. We stopped at Deception Pass at sunset, which was spectacular.

The Keystone ferry was full until 11pm, so David and I tried to take an alternate route that took 5 hours, but it was an adventure. We took the ferry from Clinto to Mukilteo, drove to Edmonds, took the ferry to Kingston, then drove home. We finally got home at 1am!! It was a freezing, but exciting motorcycle ride, and I can't wait to go to Orcas again. Next time for a week.

Motorbiking the Islands

2009-07-17T12:02:00.001-07:00

Thoughts of my upcoming 3-day weekend are making it very difficult for me to work today. The sun is shining, the Bite of Seattle is outside my window, and a live salsa band is playing at Benaroya Hall tonight. I want to run around the International Fountion and celebrate life in the beautiful Pacific Northwest.

Early tomorrow morning David and I will leave on the motorcyle to Orcas Island. I found a "back way", which will be much more pleasant than going up I-5 to Anacortes. We'll ride the bike 45 minutes to Port Townsend, take the ferry to Whidbey Island, ride another hour to Anacortes where we'll go over Deception Pass. I've heard the ferry ride to the San Juan Islands is spectactular, and I think I'll die if I see some Orca Whales.

We are camping Saturday night with David's sister and brother-in-law, and may stay in a bed-and-breakfast on Sunday. I want to go hiking, boating, and to the top of Mount Constitution. I've never been to the San Juans before, have you? Do you have any tips for me? I plan on taking plenty of pictures, but I don't know when I'll be near a computer. Wish me luck! I'm the robocopreporter on the motorbike!

Kerk and Spok Forever

2009-07-15T21:42:00.000-07:00

The cardboard box sitting on my front porch looks normal from the outside, but on the inside, it's a treasure trove of my past. There are spiral notebooks filled with slanty, uneven writing, T-shirts I wore when I was 6 years old, paintings and drawings I made as a child. I found one journal from 1988, a blue spiral notebook filled with the strange ramblings of a 7 year old. My ramblings at that tender age were about Star Trek. Not Barbies. Not My-little-Ponies. Star Trek.

"Kerk got a new Enter Prize. When they took off the computer said, Worp 1, Worp 2, Worp 3, Worp 4. Jim winked at I don't know who but that was my favorite part because I didn't know he could wink."

"Then there was a red alert and this strang thing came abourd and struck a lady and made a modle of her. Than they went to Vegar and there was a big mechine that was lanched more than 300 years ago. Than one of Jim's crew wanted something as bad as Captine Cerk wanted the enterprize."

Yes, I was writing these things as a 7 year old, and apparently, that was how I comprehended the first major motion Star Trek picture. David and I read my writing and laughed out loud at the crazy spelling, and the fact that I was a Trekkie before I entered 2nd grade. That explains a lot about who I am, and I realized, that I really haven't changed much.

I think the only thing that's really changed is that fact that I've grown up, and sometimes it's hard to pluck imagination out of thin air like I did when I was a child. Now I'm thinking about bills and cooking and exercising and commuting. I stress out about deadlines and stories and interviews. I used to love to make up stories about mouse families that had a raccoon for a daughter and a "bere" for a son. Now I write stories about murders and Chase financial.

In the box I found books on writing and selling your first novel that I'd read back in middle school, and creative writing essays with big blue "A"s. This box of goodies has been a true reminder of who I really am: a writer. I have to keep plugging toward that goal, no matter how hard it becomes, no matter how broke I get. Whatever it takes, I have to stay true to myself.

Scoot Scoot Scootin' Around

2009-07-14T07:59:00.000-07:00

David and I have found the holy grail of riding the ferry: a motorcycle (scooter). We are renting a Honda Silverwing from his sister in Bellingham so he can easily get to work at Boeing. Not only does a motorcycle cost less than half of taking a car on the boat, you also get to the front of the line. This morning was frantic, like normal.

"Which helmet should I wear?" I said, putting on a black helmet that looked like half of a ping pong ball. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking. We are used to driving like a bat out of hell to get on the ferry with the car, since the lot fills up so quickly.

"This doesn't fit!!" I shook my head around as the hellmet wobbled loosely.

"Then put on the full face one."

I slammed it over my hair and makeup, stuffing my glasses and greasy breakfast sandwich in my purse. We were off!

The wind buffeted David and I as we sped down the rural highways, me gripping him tightly. I love the way the motorcycle (scooter) leans to the side around the curves. It's exhilirating. I imagined us racing down the coastal highways of the San Juan Islands, which is exactly what we're planning on doing this weekend.

The ferry lot was full, as usual, but we were able to bypass all the cars, "merge" into the traffic, and immediately got on the boat. No waiting involved. This was like a dream come true. We're used to missing the ferry if we get there at the last minute, with the motorcycle, you are always first. It feels like the first class of ferry riding.

David owned a motorcycle for 10 years, so is very good at riding. This motorcycle (scooter) is an automatic, and a piece of cake. David has said many times that it's not for the overly masculine man. It's no Harley, or crotchrocket, but it fits us just fine. I want to learn how to ride it someday.

My favorite place in the world

2009-07-10T08:53:00.000-07:00

David first introduced me to Jazz Alley in 2006 when we saw Steve Tyrell. The singer was back again last night, so we bought tickets in a hurry. It's a shame we forgot our camera, since we were both dressed up for once. This is a rare occurence these days, ever since David became unemployed. We had a reason to celebrate last night, though, because David has gotten a 6 to 8-week contract working for Boeing. In Everett. Yes, Everett. From Bainbridge Island. The commute is going to be horrendous, via car, ferry and train, but its okay for a short period of time.

The sun was bright last night as we stepped into the dark abyss of Jazz Alley. It's hidden on a side street near 6th and Lenora, and stairs lead you down into a dark and romantic setting. People sit smiling and chatting around small round tables, or packed into booths. A balcony skims the ceiling. Every seat in the house has a great view of the stage, a very intimate setting for a terrific artist.

For the second time in as many weeks, I felt like I was back in the 1950's. Steve Tyrell is a crooner, with a deep, husky voice. He sang standards, hits from the 70's, and talked affectionally about his FRIEND Rod Stewart. We heard "The Way you Look Tonight," as we sipped a delicious bottle of red wine. I had penne with marinara and sausage, David had lamb curry. Dessert was flourless chocolate cake with berry dressing and vanilla ice cream. Heaven.

Whenever I visit a place like this, I feel nostalgic, as though I remember and miss the 1940's and 1950's. My dream is to open a similar place, with dancing. Imagine a classy venue with a wooden dance floor, a curve of round tables, waiters in tuxedos,red wine and martinis. Even though nowhere like that exists in Seattle, I'm so glad Jazz Alley does.

On how mosquito bites are proof of beauty

2009-07-08T07:14:00.000-07:00

I almost didn't want to go to work on Monday. I was exhausted, and covered with red bumps. They peppered my elbows, stung a couple spots on my legs. But the worst is my face. It looks like I'm having some adolescent breakout, with little bumps all over my forehead, and cheeks. I feel compelled to tell everyone I meet (since I meet a lot in my job) that I got bitten by a horde of mosquitos. But I keep quiet, hoping they won't notice, knowing they will. But I do say, it was all SO WORTH IT.

My Dad and I set out to climb Obervation Peak in the South Cascades, which is a 7 mile hike with a 1600 foot incline. Really, not bad. I last did this hike when I was 10 years old, and remember the cotton candy-topped beargrass reaching my shoulders as it swayed in the mountain breeze. After a couple windy miles through old growth, at our first viewpoint, I saw it growing between lichen covered rocks. Beargrass.

At that moment, I felt intensly happy. The sun warmed my skin, the wind rustled the leaves. The view before me was breathtaking, and this was only the first.

As we walked through the stands of trees, my Dad stopped and said something that sticks with me days later.

"It's so nice to know this is here, when we're sitting in our cubicles at work."

There's something about nature, and being up in high places, that makes me feel closer to God, or the Oneness, or the Great Spirit, whatever you want to call it. The blue sky is an expanse above me, I breath with the trees, the flowers. The babbling creek taps out a rhythm, and I finally feel part of something, something that lacks when I walk on cement ground, and see buildings rise around me like a forest on crack, encased in stone. We hiked ever upwards, through more beargrass, to a summit called Observation Peak.

I took in the panorama with wide eyes. Mount Hood. Mount Jefferson. Mount Adams. Mount Rainier. The craggy peak of Mount St. Helens. I imagined the blast shredding the side of the mountain, the ash gushing upwards in a gigantic plume, the mudslides. The power and force of nature should never be underestimated.That's Mt Rainier in the background behind me and my Dad.

I think we're at about 5,000 feet in these photos, and it's magificent. It's a great spot to eat lunch. The mosquitos agreed as they swarmed and ate me alive. My Dad said he has 6 mosquito bites. I have 30.

I was wondering why I'd been so run down lately. Unmotivated, a little sad, like my energy was slowly leeching away. Being on Bainbridge Island in trees helps a bit, but the unbridled wilderness really replenished my soul.

After this viewpoint we scrambled out to Sisters Rock, on an overgrown trail. I felt like a billy goat as I stood on another craggy peak.

The mosquitos landed on my cheeks, my forehead, and inside my ears. They were starving, having just hatched from puddles beneath the melting snow, which was still visible on the trails.

This week, I've been dreaming about hiking. Picturing the trees, the views, the mountains and flowers. This hike reminded me of how much I need the outdoors, that I should go outside whenever I can. I'm only a 1.5 to 2 hour drive from some beautiful places in the Olympics.

I've learned to embrace my mosquito bites, and I'm no longer embarrassesd. I can't believe I almost called in sick because of vanity, when these marks are only proof that beauty exists. It's always out there, I can see it when I close my eyes.

"Fort Fisher" aka "The Bunker" aka "Old School Style"

2009-07-04T18:40:00.001-07:00

I'm a day late and a dollar short in posting about our amazing experience at Fort Fisher at Queen Anne hill, and feel like this is "old news." I'm fighting the news reporter inside me who would scoff at posting a story a day late, and I'm posting it anyway, because I'm sure many people are curious about my unforgettable experience in the transmitter building.

A fire overnight in an electrical vault fried a bunch of servers in Fisher Plaza, and cut the power supply for a myriad of radio and television stations. KOMO Newsradio and KOMO TV had to get creative to broadcast. For radio, that meant holing up in a World War Two style bunker building, where the anchors used a tiny board reminiscence of my college days, hand-held mics, and paper copy. When I got there KOMO's Charlie Harger and Nancy Barrick were broadcasting to thousands of people, like this:

I had a sudden urge to to find some carts, use a boom box sized marantz, or even start cutting tape. I felt underdressed in jeans and a tank-top as I was transported back to 1957. I should be wearing pumps and a hat, and holding a tumbler of Jack Daniels with clinking ice cubes. Never mind, a woman wouldn't have been a journalist in 1957. But KOMO reporter Jon Repp would have, as he squats elegantly near his laptop. Personally, I think he needs a fedora and a Cuban cigar to finish the look.

My role as a news reporter was quickly changed, as I became the person responsible for coordinating and putting audio on the air. I downloaded ABC updates and reporter wraps on one computer, and tranferred them to another. I spent my entire day several inches from the floor, on a beat-up, dirty footstool. Welcome to the "glamorous job" of being in "the media"!

We worked tirelessly to be on the air. Some would say, "why?" Why not just put the best of Schram and Carlson and forget about it? Star 101.5, the top rated radio station in Seattle, was so lucky. The entire radio broadcast was done by Ipod, and an electrical box sitting on the floor.
I think as journalists, we feel an ownership over the content of KOMO Newsradio. We know our mission is to inform and entertain the thousands of people who are listening to us. So we busted our butts to bring news, traffic, sports and weather, even though the anchors were working without computers. Below is KOMO anchor Herb Weisbaum with the 5pm rundown, which is scrawled on a wrinkled piece of paper.

I can't begin to explain how fun this experience was, and how it brought the team together. We are all professionals, and made do with what we had at hand. It also reminded us that great radio isn't about the fancy electronics, computer programs, breaking news and the AP wire. It's about being human, and doing our best for our listeners.

(KOMO anchors Lisa Brooks and Herb Weisbaum)

Ever member of the team stepped up. KOMO's Travis Mayfield did reports live in the field all day long, editor Jeremy Grater scheduled live interviews on a black phone from the 1980's, Mark Aucutt hand wrote the sports reports, Art Sanders came in hours early to hand-write leads on crinkled, lined paper.

Journalists are unique in a way that we are able to improvise. We laughed, chatted and had a great time. None of us felt overly stressed (most of the time) or got on each other's nerves. I can't begin to describe how much fun I had doing "old school radio" at the Bunker on Queen Anne.

Thanks everyone, for being so great. I'm so proud to be part of this team, wherever the broadcast takes us.

Fun with Troopers

2009-07-01T07:07:00.001-07:00

One thing I love about my job is when I get to experience other people's lives. Yesterday, I felt what it was like being a Washington State Trooper on I-5, looking for speeders and other dangerous drivers. I think a lot of people have a certain stereotypes about cops, picturing them as masculine and mean, just in the business for the rush of bossing people around. With Trooper Keith Leary, I learned they were anything but.

We started by parking on an onramp above I-5.

"We don't hide or set traps. I'm here, visible to anyone who cares to look." However, people would have to be staring in their rear-view mirrors to see us. He brought out the big guns, well, laser gun that squealed every time he aimed it at a passing car.

"I think we got one here," he said as he trained the Star Trek like device on a license plate. Beeeeep. Beeeeep. Beeeeeep. "Yup! 74, let's go!" He tossed the laser gun beside me and stepped on it, floored it, I'm talking petal to the metal. I could feel the G-forces as the V-8 engines roared and revved. Cars flew by in a blur as we zipped down the carpool lane.

"110 miles per hour," Leary said leisurely as he kept the car in his sights. I, on the other hand, was gripping the door handle as my knuckles turned white. We were flying, and damned if I wasn't holding on.

"Don't worry, I'm a driving instructor." That's not going to stop another car from cutting us off and sending us flipping into oncoming traffic, I thought.

"I trust you completely," I said, not letting go, "I've just never been this fast on a freeway before.....which......is a good thing."

He sped right behind the blue Prius, flashed his lights, and blipped the siren with a flick of his fingers. The car pulled over. Trooper Leary put on his hat. By the way, Washington State Troopers have been voted best dressed in the country. Their hats rock. I thought it would be weird if I asked for a picture.

"This is our radio that goes directly to dispatch," he showed me, "If anything happens, push that button."
He went and talked to the Beverly Hills, California driver, who admitted he knew he was speeding, but was doing it anyway. Leary told me the driver wasn't very receptive, and he wrote him a ticket well over $150. My thought was, the dude can probably afford it.

We pulled over several more cars, including a SUV towing a trailer that was wobbling like crazy. It looked like it could split off at any second, so Trooper Leary talked to the man, gave him a warning, and told him to pull off the freeway. With every person we stopped, I could tell the Trooper really cared about safety, and wanted people to think before they act.

"79 miles per hour," he said, pointing at a minivan we promptly sped after. "She's going that fast, and I can see children in the car. What are people thinking when they drive like that!"

He talked to everyone with a smile and a relaxed demeanor, and tried his hardest to get his point across that it's dangerous to speed. He told me that over the 4th of July weekend there will be 30 troopers on the road, so they can pull over DUI's and try to prevent fatalities. These guys are doing their jobs, and they are doing it to save lives.

Later, as I was interviewing the Trooper about another topic, he did something that saved my life, or better, my sanity. A gigantic daddy longlegs spider suddenly appeared at the dashboard in front of me, and speechless, I pointed as it crawled across the buttons.

"What is it?" he said.

"A spider. Please. Put it outside. Now."

I almost didn't want to tell him for fear he'd kill the little bugger, but I couldn't pretend to stay calm any more. He grabbed the dangly thing by one leg, and threw it out the window. I relaxed, and we continued the interview.

"If you get startled by a spider that can also cause you to drive aggressively and swerve in and out of traffic." He said this with a completely straight face, as I chuckled in the background.

It's just another reason why Trooper Leary rocks. Next time we're taking the airplane.

The Canlis Experience

2009-06-30T07:59:00.000-07:00

(The first thing I have to say is this: THANK YOU JULIEN FOR TAKING SUCH AMAZING, AWESOME, BUTT-KICKING PICTURES)

It was supposed to be a simple night of bar food at the nicest restaurant in town: Canlis. It's made of stone and glass, and is perched high on a hill above Lake Union. I met up with my foodie friend and writer, Julien, and former coworker MaryBeth, in the bar. Sunlight sparkled through the glass, and I could see the snow-capped peaks of the Cascades. A young piano man's fingers danced across the keys as the foreign bartender shook fancy cocktails. We were going to order the lamb sliders and truffle fries off the bar menu, until the chef himself came out.

"Hey Julien, how are you?" He's only 31-years old, and shy. There is no ounce of ego in this man, who I later found out to be a genius. "What would you like today? How about my tasting menu? Small or large bites?"

We chose small, while the bartender brought out our drinks. For me, he recommended a fancy margarita crusted with black sea salt. He brought over a concoction that foamed and bubbled, and turned colors as a I stirred it.

He regaled us with a story about a woman in Greek mythology, who ate pomegranate seeds to keep herself young, or something like that. Every drink had a story. Not only was this man a libation artist, he was a storyteller with a beautiful accent. Long after I'd slurped this margarita down, I told him to make me something with bourbon, and he came up with a smoking ice castle.

The food came next. The incredible, heart-breakingly beautiful food. Every bite was like heaven, the service impeccable. We started with a droplet of rubarb soup, then watermelon ceviche.

Waiters bustled around us like worker bees to their hive. Smiles, soft voices, quick hands that whisked away napkins and wiped the table down. At one point four waiters surrounded us as they regaled us with the ingredients to these masterpieces. First, yellowfish tuna with a gelatin sauce.
Then, salmon with fingerling potatoes.
Black cod wrapped in squash blossom.

Lamb loin with fried squash, and pepperoni.
The flavors blended so beautifully I thought I was in heaven. Even the owner himself, Mark Canlis, came over to introduce himself to my famous food writing friend. He has a lot to be proud of. Just when I thought the tasting menu was over, the waiters put another delectible treat in front of us. Sumac meringue crumbles and fresh strawberries topped with strawberry sorbet. This was the precurser to dessert.
THE PRECURSOR! It was a slice of heaven, tangy, yet sweet, smooth and soft, crumbly and moist. The best summer dessert. Then came the big cajones. It looked like a little purple bunny rabbit with wings, frolicking in the Garden of Eden.

In reality, it was sweet corn panacotta with blueberry sorbet, corn kernels and blueberry slices. (Thanks Julien, for writing all this down.)

It was an amazing experience, albeit spendy. I think MaryBeth put it the best.

"It's a party in my mouth, for my tastebuds."

Yes, it was. Thank God for fine dining.

(Again, Julien is an incredible food photographer!)

The Gravity of San Miguel: Excerpt Two

2009-06-29T08:22:00.000-07:00

I hardly ever have time to write, but sometimes I manage to clear the clutter from my brain and attempt to write in fiction. Below is a little bit more from something I'm writing called, "The Gravity of San Miguel."

Twenty minutes later we boarded the bus to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. An attendant handed out ham sandwiches and a drink, and I found my seat. I was surprised at how nice it was; I’d never been on a bus in the United States this luxurious. There were only 24 seats on board the entire coach, each reclined almost fully. There was a drink holder for my Diet Coke, air conditioning, televisions, a large window with curtains, and the bathroom area was cordoned off with a glass wall to keep the smell out. A couple of white people also got on board, and a woman with gray streaks in her hair caught my eye and smiled. I could get used to this type of traveling, I thought as I turned on my I-pod.
It seemed to take forever to get out of Mexico City. We drove past ramshackle neighborhoods with tiny houses stretching up the rolling hills. I stared at Mexicans on street corners, operating fruit stands, selling churros. One lady washed laundry in her front yard in a big plastic tub, while kids with long, black hair frolicked nearby. I smiled when I saw a girl in bright pink shorts, and wondered what her life was like. Even though many areas looked poor, the homes were still brightly colored, like they were trying to infuse happiness into struggling people.
When we reached the open Mexican countryside, it was like we were in Texas. Cacti dotted the rolling brown hills, and I could imagine John Wayne racing toward us on horseback, whooping and hollering with his gun raised. I saw lonely houses with burros tied to sticks, sprawling farms, and Mexican families waiting at bus stops. When I saw the sign for “Querertaro”, I knew we were close. I’d see my new home in a little over an hour.
The bus wheezed to a stop at what looked like a toll booth. Guards wearing green fatigues and holding machine guns patrolled up and down the street. They looked stern, and frowned at our bus. Suddenly I felt very frightened. I imagined bullets riddling the side of the ETN coach, ducking for cover, getting kidnapped. My heart pounded in my chest, but the other white people on board didn’t seem the least bit nervous. It looked like they were comfortable in Mexico, like they’d done this before. Of course, my fears were unfounded, and we were soon on the road again.

* * *

There are some instances in our lives when time seems to stand still. The moment washes over us and freezes, enveloping us in suspended animation. Every sense is optimized as we melt into our surroundings; even the tiny vellus hairs on our skin speak in rapid-fire code to our brains. It's the type of moment we'd live in forever, if we could choose. I had this experience the first time I ever laid eyes on San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.
As the bus rose over the last hill to the city, it felt as though we were flying. It was slow-motion, the way my heart rose in my chest; then pounded hard against my ribcage. The stucco buildings came into view against the piercing blue sky, and tears that tasted like ocean crested in a tidal wave and streamed down my cheeks. The hills cocooned the homes that rolled in a red carpet to the magnificent pink parraoquia. Emotion was delicious inside me, scraping away the self-doubt and worry. For the first time in my life, I felt as though I was in the right place. Suddenly, inexplicably, I was home.
“Beautiful, isn’t it.” The American woman I'd seen before turned in her seat, her wide smile crinkling her eyes.
“Yes, I had no idea how much so,” I said, feeling sheepish as I brushed tears away.
“Are you visiting, going to live?” she asked.
“I’m moving here from Seattle. I had to get away from the rat race for a little while, figure out what I want to do with my life.”
“Congratulations,” she said, “I’ve lived here for 6 years now. I haven’t been able to leave. My husband lives in Chigaco, I live here, and we commute back and forth to see each other. It’s hard, but, I love San Miguel too much to leave.”
“Wow, I’m not sure if I want to stay that long, but I’m excited to take a break from ordinary life.”
“Nothing in San Miguel is ordinary,” she told me, “It’s like there’s a pull here, a magnet, a gravity. You may never escape.” She smiled again, but I could tell she wasn’t joking.
“I’m Isabelle,” I told her.
“Kathy,” she said, “So nice to meet you.”
I jotted down her number and settled back in my seat. Our bus bumped and swayed over the narrow roads and down to the bus station. I couldn’t wait to get to my apartment, put down my bags, and explore my new home.

The day the music (pop) died.

2009-06-26T08:51:00.000-07:00

Reporters have the tendency to joke - either when they don't believe something is true, or when it just too momentous to grasp. I was walking to the kitchen when the editor called out,

"Michael Jackson's been arrested again."

I rolled my eyes.

"Cardiac," he said.

It took me awhile to get it, and then I chuckled a tiny bit, and walked away. I was sure it was some sort of fluke or sick joke, that my coworkers were just messing with me. The King of Pop was allright, and was pulling a stunt, if anything. He's done weirder things before. And who can trust TMZ?

Suddenly it was all over major websites - LA Times, ABC, CNN - Michael Jackson has been rushed to the hospital in cardiac arrest.

TMZ was first to report his death. I sat at my desk, shellshocked, unbelieving. The other news organizations didn't catch up for a good 20 minutes, and I could picture journalists all rushing the phones, frantic, not wanting to print something they'd later have to retract. Newsrooms all over the country were buzzing in synchrinocity. Times like these are when I relish being a reporter, even through a sad event.

I was amazed at how Twitter exploded. I felt part of a grieving community as people from across the country mirrored my emotions, and posted links to their favorite Michael songs. The sadness I felt surprised me - I've felt for a long time that MJ is just a wack job, a strange man who had too many plastic surgeries. But I couldn't deny what his music did for our country, for our world. He was a musical genius, a stunning performer and dancer. Chidlren all over will be imitating "Thriller" and "Bad" for years and decades to come.

I don't think I've ever lived through such a momentous loss. I got chills when I read that the Associated Press sent out a Flash Bulletin, the highest possible, used for incidents like the John F. Kennedy death. This was one of those incidents that will change the identity of who we are as country. The King of Pop is gone, but his music will live on forever. I can't get "Rock with You" out of my head. RIP, MJ.

Teaching is not my forte

2009-06-25T08:46:00.000-07:00

I almost fell over with an aneurysm when the editor came up to me yesterday afternoon with an intern in tow.

"This is ____. Can she sit with you for awhile while you show her what you do?"

Does. Not. Compute. My brain twitched like a malfunctioning android as I struggled to find my composure, finally managing a weak smile.

"Sure," I croaked, and I quickly clicked away from the website where I was reading about William Shatner...aka Captain Kirk...aka TJ Hooker...aka.....has-been-hottie. He'd just written an autobiography that I was reading on my Kindle, and I wanted to figure out if he was doing a book tour in Seattle, and if I could somehow interview him. That would be my ultimate interviewing dream.

It's a good thing he doesn't look like that anymore, or I might have dressed up like a green alien and gave him a big smacker.

Put that ray-gun away, Captain Kirk, that's innapropriate!! I digress. Back to my story.

The intern, who's incredibly sweet, sat next to me with unabounded curiosity written all over her face. She looked at my expectantly, like "Teach me! Teach me!"

I panicked, stuttered, and pointed at the screen.

"Here is what I did today. Ummmm....this story, that story, and that story." My finger tapped the wraps, debriefs, and writes. I had no idea how to explain what I'd done. Eventually, with her questions, I was better able to explain what I had done, why I used phone tape, how reporters operate, how I edited soundbites.

I've always been a terrible teacher, and have never particularly enjoyed teaching. I just want people to watch what I do and pick it up, without my having to explain anything.

"Kristin, how do I move my hips like that in salsa?"

"Like this!" I show them, thinking that should be enough.

"Well, do you twist a certain way? Just HOW do you DO it?"

This is when David swoops in, the natural teacher, and explains it perfectly. Timing, steps, movement, frame, spins, rhythm. I look at him in wonder, curious how he can compartmentalize these things into speech. He's a natural teacher, and he loves it. I wish to see him in that type of profession one day. I love to write, I know how to put images to words, but teaching? No way. Just give me Captain Kirk.

My stage life on the tennis court

2009-06-23T18:27:00.000-07:00

My tennis instructor said something rather odd to me during my first lesson at the Bainbridge Athletic Club. He was lobbing balls across the net, as I struggled at the base line on my new technique: turn, circle with the racket, swing on through, rotate hips. I was breathing so hard I thought I'd have a coronary, as two men grunted on a court two down.

"Everyone who plays tennis has a little bit of lesbian in them!" His blond hair brushed over his forehead as he hit yet another deathtrap right at me. Set, swing, follow through. Try not to die. Breath.

"What did you say?" I said between panting breaths.

"I said, everyone who plays tennis has a little bit of thespian in them!" Oh! Thespian. That really cleared things up. This is tennis, not acting, Peter.

"What do you mean?"

"People behave on the court in ways they'd never dare to behave in their normal lives."

He grinned as he motioned to the men two courts down. One of them ran up to the net screaming like a caveman, his racket poised like a club. The other one growled as he hit his prey, shorts rippling against his bony legs.

It's true. People act as though the tennis court is a hunting ground, a breeding ground, or a bathroom. I'd be lying if I didn't tell you I've heard some peculiar noises coming from the ladies in cute tennis skirts as they slug a fast one. We're all grown-ups, though, and pretend we didn't hear a thing. It's all just a bunch of fluff, or whatever you want to call it.

Some women make sounds on the court like they are in childbirth. Loud grunts, high pitched squeeks, breathy oohs and aahs. One teenaged boy sounded like he was caught in a mouse trap as he pummeled the yellow ball. EEk! EEEk! He squealed over and over again, not realizing that he was emasculating himself with every perfect swing.

Sometimes, when there is no one else playing, David and I will practice our gutteral grunts.

"Aghghghghgh!!!"

"Oooooooh"

"EEEEEEEEE"

We yell robustly as the ball flies over the net, never giving in to those impish squeals and shrieks. If tennis is turning me into a thespian, I may as well act like a cavewoman.

Masochism is an Ugly Trait

2009-06-19T07:09:00.000-07:00

Today I decided to combine two of the things I hate most: Waking Up Early, and The Dentist. During a brainless moment several weeks ago, I scheduled the one hour appointment at 8am , when I don't have to be to work until 10am. I dragged my sorry butt out of bed at 6am this morning to the sound of rain, and feeling feverish. My head felt like it was stuffed with thousand cotton balls, my hands clammy, and my eyes were weighted down with regret. Why did you do this to yourself! It was the mantra that kept me going this morning, like a little man pounding and shouting inside the walls of my head. I'd gotten home late last night after picking David up at the airport and eating dinner in the lovely and romantic city of Tukwila, and didn't fall asleep until midnight or so. Let the torture (masochism) begin.

In about 40 minutes, I will be reclined in the dental hygienists chair, trying not to hyperventilate as the giant needle comes at my gums. They will be numbed for the Deep Cleaning, which is a good thing after my antics during the last visit. I jumped and squirmed as the Hygienist poked and prodded, and finally, she admitted what we all know is Truth:

"I'm sorry, I'm torturing you, aren't I."

Yes, you evil little woman with the perfect, straight, amazing teeth - YOU'RE KILLING ME. I just nodded and tried to grin around the scalpel and electrodes in my mouth. The results of my first dental appointment after 3 years were NOT GOOD.

"You will need to come back for four separate deep cleanings," she told me, "We'll numb you so you don't feel a thing." Yeah, except for the feeling of the needle deep in my gums. The pressure as you dig for treasure along the walls of my teeth. The aching jaw as you fit your entire hands inside my mouth.

I know this is all my fault, but I hate the dentist. I'm trying to get over that fear by getting my teeth deep cleaned, and then going in for subsequent cleanings every 3 months. I know when my gums are free of bacteria and plaque, they will not hurt as much during cleanings. David was in the same boat, and got his deep cleanings already. He thought it felt like a gum massage, and actually enjoyed it. I know it's only because he got to drink a beer afterwards as a "reward."

I will be going to the mobile meat processing unit in Puyallup for a news story, and won't be able to hold my barf in as it dribbles down the numbed side of my face. Seeing where cows will soon be killed isn't my idea of a great time, rather unnappetizing. I'd much rather have a beer, and soak the pain of sore gums away. Then I will become a vegetarian.

Wish me luck today, everyone, wish me luck.

One of my favorite places on Earth

2009-06-17T15:21:00.000-07:00

We went to Laguna Beach in Orange County, California to celebrate my sister's 21st birthday. Our favorite restaurant there is called Las Brisas, and it's high on a hill about the curvature of the white, sandy beach far below.Emily got a kick out of being carded, and ordered her very first drink. Ever. After starting off the afternoon with drinks and delicious food on the patio, we headed to look at Laguna Beach.

It was gorgeous, except for the huge clumps of smelly seaweed littering the beach. Kinda like Bainbridge Island looks when the tide is down, or there's a sewage spill.
But that didn't stop us from wandering down to the hot white sand, taking off our shoes, and sticking our Oregon toes into the warm California water. It was cold, but I'm used to my feet turning red and falling off when I touch the water in the Northwest.

I love being near the coast - the rumbling of the waves is a sedative. I could lie on the shore and listen all day long.

This is one of my most favorite beaches in Southern California. It's an artsy town full of boutiques, ice cream shops, and restaurants. It's away from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles.

We had a great time with the sand in our toes, and the sun in our hair, and burning the crap out of our shoulders.

Goodbye Laguna. I'll miss you until next time.

The amazing Grandpa

2009-06-15T21:45:00.000-07:00

It's been difficult posting on my vacation, becuase I usually have my trusty ferry ride to formulate thoughts and write things that make sense. This trip so far has been a whirlwind of family activities. I'd like to share a little bit about my soon to be 92-year old Grandpa, who has inspired and amazed me ever since I was a child. Earlier this year, he had a stroke, and had to stay in a nursing home for a few weeks. Some people leave not being able to talk, or walk even, but he's still chugging along on his daily routine. I've never seen a happier elderly man.Every morning, he goes outside and rakes his leaves into little piles, waters the plants, and trims the hedges.

Even though his memory isn't as good as it used to be, he still smiles, constantly.

After puttering around the yard, he goes to the park, and takes a one mile walk. Keep in mind, we are talking about a man who is almost 92. Below is him strolling near my brother.

This walk always includes push-ups.

I've learned from Grandpa that the key to longevity is to always stay moving. He taught me this when he was in his 70's and would still climb the Grand Canyon, or Mount Baldy. His pace used to be so fast I couldn't even catch up.

He's not as fast as he used to be, but he wouldn't miss a walk for the world. Every morning we go over for breakfast, I see little piles of leaves, and know he's on the right track.

Little Bro, Little Sis

2009-06-13T08:33:00.000-07:00

Last night my little brother graduated from high school, and on Tuesday my little sister will turn 21. It's amazing how quickly time seems to fly, for I felt like I was just graduating from high school, turning 21, graduating from college. Those significant milestones from my past are still etched into my brain as though they were yesterday. Amazing how time seems to stand still, yet flies right by, once you start doing the same thing over and over again, day in and day out (job).

These little tykes are 7 and 10 years younger than me. I remember when they were born, and I seemed so much older. I changed their diapers, I fed them baby food, I taught my sister words like "fart" and "poop" in a fort in our living room. Yes, I corrupted them, that's for sure. I remember my brothers fascination with balls ever since he was a baby, and now he's a varsity baseball player. He always used to tell me, "someday when I'm rich I'll buy you a fancy sports car." I'm holding you to that, little bro.

Even though we have different Dads, I've never thought of these two as anything less than my full brother and full sister. Those half labels never made much difference to me, as we were raised under the same roof, and I saw them almost every day of our lives. I love that they are getting older now, that we are finally starting to be on the same playing field. 19, 21, and 28 are much closer in age than 2, 4, and 12. There's just a world of difference when you are children with such a big age difference.

Anyway, I'm so proud of both of them, and excited to see the family in California this week! You guys Rock!

The incremental chef.

2009-06-10T14:24:00.000-07:00

One of my first forays (disasters) with cooking happened in Sunriver, Oregon, when I was babysitting my little brother and sister. They are 7 and 10 years younger, so I'd be responsible for cooking (destroying) dinner.

"Here's the Mac and Cheese," said my mother, planting a box of the processed food firmly on the kitchen counter.

It will be easy, I thought, all I have to do is mix the water and noodles, right? WRONG.

The oozy, goozy, creepy concoction that materialized in the pan reminded me of something you'd find in a hospital bedpan. It was slimy and yellow, chunky and chewy. I think the kids forced it down anyway, I was too scarred by my cooking gaffe to even notice.

I gave up on cooking after that for many, many years, until living in my very own apartment in college forced me to try. I remember calling my mother with a myriad of dumb questions:

"How do I microwave frozen vegetables?" (I first tried it without water, and the veggies came out wimpy and shriveled)

"What temperature do I cook chicken in a pan?" (Flashing back to memories of uncooked chicken strips a customer brought back when I worked in the zoo food court)

"How do I cook fish?"

Eventually, the onslaught of questions paid off, and now I love to cook. I love making soups, salmon, and spinach salads with cranberries and walnuts. I love making Shepherd's Pie, enchiladas, and casserole. I love browsing through recipes and creating new concoctions. Someday I'd love to cook on taste alone, and invent new recipes of my own.

I wish I had time to cook every day....maybe someday that time will come.

In which we are binars

2009-06-08T19:16:00.000-07:00

There is one clue that will tell you whether you are a nerd, a dork, a Trekkie and everything in between: when you understand what Binars are, and take it as a compliment when used to describe your relationship.

Last Sunday David and I celebrated my stepmom's 50th birthday with a Sternwheeler cruise up the Columbia River Gorge, and afterward stopped to see some beautiful waterfalls. We both have a very quirky sense of humor, and were practicing karate moves to celebrate the force of the Horsetail waterfall. We often do the same odd things without saying anything out loud.

"They're like Binars," my stepmom said, chuckling to my Dad.

I completely agree. Binars were in an episode of Star Trek the Next Generation, and were two people (aliens) that communicated nonverbally, and mostly with binary numbers and computers. They spoke at a frequency nobody else understood. David and I definately march to the beat of a different drummer, but that drummer plays for both of us.

That is a normal picture of us on the Sternwheeler, and below is another normal picture of us at Multnomah Falls.

Then, David decided his head looked too big relative to mine (Cabezon!), so we took a picture to put it all in perspective.

And a great time was had by all.By the way, I think I should use this as the picture on my press pass, or license, or passport.

Or....maybe not. Next I will become a Klingon.

Fast Food is the Death of Me

2009-06-03T19:25:00.000-07:00

A hungry tummy often overrules thoughts of reason while working as a reporter out in the field. Today I ran around frantically until 3pm, when I decided I better do something about my growling stomach. My hands had started to shake, and my brain craved an injection of energy. The only glucose nearby? McDonalds. Big mistake. A big mac of a bad time. I'm still regretting going through that drive-through and ordering a Filet-o-Fish (gag me!), and a small fry (bending over the toilet retching!). Ugh, ick, disgusting. I feel like a giant vat of discarded vegetable oil, hours after the last fries were blasted into cancer sticks. Listless, useless, my body craves salmon and broccoli.

I remember and time and place when fast food was exciting. I never understood why my parents groaned as we drove through the drive-thru at McDonads or Taco Bell or Kentucky Fried Chicken. I loved the Filet-o-fish with no cheese, the chicken nuggets with honey, and we'll talk about Taco Bell in a moment. I loved munching on my goodies as we headed on our road trips, hours dragging on end. The monoteny was broken by those delicious juices oozing out of that gray fish. Delish!

Fast-forward to high school. The inside of my white Nissan Maxima often resembled a fast-food cemetary. White Taco Bell bags stood like tombstones in the back seat and on the floor, the rotting entrails of bean burritos inside. People wouldn't ride with me because of the stench. I had a terrible habit of eating something from that death hole every day after high school. Maybe it was my own way of rebelling. Forget drugs and alcohol! Kristin ate TACO BELL!

Fast-forward another 10 years. I can hardly stand the sight and smell of fast food. I usually take great care in packing lunch and eating a healthy dinner. I hate how fast-food is the norm for many people, who can't afford to cook their own meals. I wish they had other options, like cheap fresh veggies and fish. I feel like that processed Filet-o-Fish expanded inside my belly, creating an alien of a fast food pregnancy. I can't handle it. I'm full and hungry at the same time. I'm about to explode.

As if crossing the crime scene tape makes me a criminal

2009-06-01T18:49:00.000-07:00

There are several things I'm afraid of as a news reporter: young men (we've already gone over that) , funerals and crime scenes. I had an experience in Portland that scarred me when I was a cub reporter, and now when I see crime tape, I want to wrap myself into a huge yellow bundle and hide, hoping cops won't see me as I peek between the lines.

I had to cover a standoff in Southeast Portland many years ago, since standoffs are typical fodder for a slow news day, or for a news station that only cares about crime. I circled the scene looking for the media staging area, which is a safe place to park our news trucks, and where we talk with the PIO (public information officer.) Reporters hover like puppy dogs in these designated lots, where we stand begging for tidbits. We'd eye cops in uniform huddling and whispering in hushed tones, and salivate for a variety of reasons.

Anyway, this time, I couldn't find the media staging area, so I kept driving, around and around and around. Apparently, a dude had barricaded himself inside an apartment with a gun, and police had several streets blocked off around the crime scene. I drove into a parking lot, and then found a small alley, and began driving slowly toward the commotion. I thought I'd spot the PIO, and could ask a few questions for my liveshot.

And I found the cops, all right. I knew something was wrong when I saw SWAT officers hiding behind cars right next to me, and on balconies in front of me. I suddently felt danger as a big burly man walked viciously to my car.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!!" He shouted, several feet away.

"I'm,,...uh....trying to find the PIO." I stuttered and my heart pounded. I just knew this guy was going to arrest me from impeding an investigation.

"Get out of here...NOW. And don't EVER come into a crime scene. Do you understand me?!!!"

He was seething, staring at this dumb blond reporter like I was the bubble gum he'd wipe off the bottom of his cop boot. Like I was a spit ball pounded deep into the crevices of sidewalks. Or a piece of corn that already passed. Yes, it was that bad.

I backed up as fast as I could without causing another reason for my arrest and sped out of there. I was scared beyond belief. I could have been shot! I could have been tackled! I could have gone to jail!

These are the thoughts that assault me every time I go to a crime scene. Today, I dangled around the edges of a crime scene in Everett until I got up the guts to walk past the orange cones, past two cop cars, and right up to the trooper on the offramp of Highway 2. I'd like to pretend its because I'm brave, it's because I've gotten over my crime scene fear. But it was really because I saw a guy from a television station, setting up his camera. It was the media staging area. I'd finally found it.

Zombies and assault rifles and cops - oh my!!

2009-05-30T08:48:00.000-07:00

Last night I was sent out to cover a Zombie Crawl in the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle. I thought it would be uneventful, and a little odd. I was going to do a couple of live hits on the radio, take a video for the website, and call it a day. To be quite honest, I wasn't looking forward to seeing blood and guts and rotting skin. It all sounded too gross and strange for me.

I was lingering outside Metro Clothing waiting for the Zombies to show up, when I saw a man on the other side of the street who scared the living daylights out of me. He was wearing all black, a gas mask, and carrying what looked to be an assault rifle. My brain told me it was fake, but my instincts didn't take any chances. Images of news stories about public shootings flashed in my head as I watched him cross the street in front of a parking enforcement cop. It was toward my side of the street. I quickly turned around and started walking. Fast. I imagined sprays of shots hitting passerby. I scanned for hiding places. My heart pounded as I saw cop cars screech around the corners. My reporter insticts took over and I stopped walking to see the action.

One cop stopped in the middle of the road and asked people standing on the street where "the man in the swat uniform went." One guy pointed at Metro Clothing. The SPD officer got out of his car, then pulled out an assault rifle. Cha-ching. He cocked it and started walking quickly toward the store, as other police with guns drawn, and members of the Seattle gang unit ran inside Metro Clothing. Blue and red lights flashed on Broadway. I expected to hear shots ring out. I grabbed the video camera and turned it on, the picture shaking from adrenaline. I was the only news reporter at the scene, and by golly, I was going to capture this takedown.

I had the camera trained on the guy as they pulled him out of the store in handcuffs. They took him to a patrol car in the middle of the street, and removed the gun, and a grenade. At this point the man was smiling as he talked to the officers, and I even saw one of the cops crack a smile. I had no idea what on earth was going on. I did live hits on the radio, describing the scene to the best of my ability. This was turning out to be the weirdest story I'd ever covered.

I later found out this guy was a zombie, who was coming for the Zombie Crawl. He was dressed as a character from Resident Evil, who hunts zombies. His outfit looked a little too realistic, which he found out the hard way. It was definately a rush covering this story, and I'm glad it didn't turn out differently. The story is now on the front page of our website. You can read the story, and watch the video, by clicking on the link below:

http://www.komonews.com/news/local/46506782.html

What a very weird Friday evening. It was a zombie of a good time.

A great love for the Northwest

2009-05-29T09:45:00.000-07:00

All teenagers become disallusioned with life at some point. They become moody, sullen, wanting to be anywhere but.....here. When I was 16 or 17 years old I decided that I absolutely, positively did not want to life in the Pacific Northwest. This thought lingered through college, as I became increasingly bored with small town life in Eugene, Oregon. I wanted to live somewhere exciting and fast-paced, where gray skies were banished, and everything would be bright and pure. Southern California seemed like an exciting place to live, with its Hollywood nightlife and white sandy beaches.

Yes, I went through my phase where I wanted to experience life somewhere else, and luckily, that phase is long gone.

I love the Pacific Northwest. Sunny spring and summer days are a slice of heaven. I woke up this morning and played tennis with David outside in the sun, in a canyon of towering conifers.

"Is that an eagle?" David says, pointing to a bird circling high above.

"Not sure," I replied, getting back to my tennis game.

Where else could I say that? If I was living in LA I'd be pointing at surfers and boob jobs instead of eagles and deer.

Right now I'm commuting to work on a Washington State Ferrie. Blue water ripples as far as I can see, meeting blue sky scratched by the outline of trees. The chug of the motor beneath me is so peaceful, and I feel so blessed to live in such a beautiful place.

I now know that if I ever move away from the Pacific Northwest, I will always come home. The is the most pristine and divine place in the entire United States.

A touching interview

2009-05-26T07:56:00.000-07:00

I've had a hard time keeping up the blog lately - between a family visit (which was a blast!), to different work schedules, to complete lack of brain power on Memorial Day from waking up before 5am. I did do an interview that really touched me yesterday, and several of you have already read it. I want to post it again on this blog so others can read it as well. I had to hold back tears several times while interviewing this man. Here is the article that appeared on http://www.komonews.com/.

Story Published: May 25, 2009 at 12:26 PM PDT
Story Updated: May 25, 2009 at 12:27 PM PDT

By Kristin Hanes
LYNNWOOD, Wash. -- Michael Reagan sits at his basement drawing table 12 to 15 hours per day, sketching in pencil. So far, he's drawn 1,730 soldiers and Marines who've died in the past five years.

Every face has a memory.

"This is Sam Huff," Reagan says, pointing at a smiling soldier. "Her last words, from what I understand, [after she was hit by an IED], were, 'Tell my parents I love them.' "

Four billboards with collages of his artwork are leaning against the walls. Reagan takes high-resolution digital photographs before sending the portraits on to the families. There's a son kissing his mother. Two comrades grinning. A man holding his baby daughter.

"They never saw each other," he says, referring to the man and his infant. "After [the soldier's] mother received this portrait back, she said to me, 'You know, way after you and I are gone, my granddaughter is going to be pointing at that portrait saying 'that's my dad.'"

Reagan studies for hours to bring these portraits to life. He watches videos, reads diaries and poems, and stares at dozens of photographs. He listens to stories, learns why a soldier might have a chipped tooth, or how one person's eyes are different sizes. His goal is to bring closure to these families -- something tangible to those who have lost something so dear.

"I've had moms call me," he says, "and they say when they look at the picture, they hear their sons saying, 'I'm okay, Mom.'"

The Vietnam combat veteran draws two or more portraits every day for the Fallen Heroes Project. Reagan's been a portrait artist for over 30 years, best known for drawing athletes and famous actors. But this project, these faces, hit close to home.

"It gets very emotional," Reagan says. "When I'm drawing the portrait, I believe there's an essence of the soldier in this room. I just think about him, you know, and as soon as I get his eyes done, then he'll start looking back at me, and he and I will have a spiritual conversation."

Every single portrait is free for the grieving families. Reagan says this is his lifetime commitment, and he wants to draw every single person who's died for this country.

"When I have a mom or a wife or a dad call me on the phone crying because they've just received their portrait, because a piece of their son has come home... how much is that worth?" he says.

Reagan has 100 more portraits to draw before June, when they'll be given to the families. His next goal is to draw every fallen hero from Canada, Australia and Great Britain who died in the War on Terror.

I hope this morning is not predictive of the day to come

2009-05-21T08:04:00.000-07:00

My schedule has changed so much in the last couple of weeks at work I don't know who I am anymore, or what I'm supposed to be doing. I've gone from AM reporter, to midday reporter, to PM reporter, to PM editor, to midday reporter, to PM reporter, then next Monday AM reporter again. In that order. My body clock is confused. Heck, I'm confused, and it all culminated in a frantic morning.

When I sleep in for 3 days straight and get home after 8pm, my body starts assimilating to that schedule. So, last night when I really needed to go to bed early, there was no way I was falling asleep. So I laid there. And laid there. And this morning, when my alarm was supposed to go off at 645am, it didn't. The light woke me up. At 7:20. I had to be out the door at 7:35. David and I looked like two big balls of arms and legs as we ran frantically around the house. I took a 2 minute shower, brushed my teeth with Olympic speed, threw my clothes around, threw my hair dryer and makup in a bag. David made me coffee to go and put all my things in the car.

We were out the door, in the car, when I said:

"I forgot my glasses!" So up David ran into the house, up the stairs, and I remembered I forgot something else. I slammed the door right into him as he was coming out of the house, grabbed my bag, and off we went!

I managed to make my ferry with a few minutes to spare, which could be considered early. I joined the masses in the bathroom, where women stand in a row at a face-level mirror and put on makeup and blow dry their hair. I did that, quickly, with enough time to write this poorly-written blog.

Frantic, I am. What am I supposed to be doing today? Can I please just go home.

Where no one has gone before

2009-05-19T09:42:00.000-07:00

Right now, I am proud to be a Trekkie, thanks to the new Star Trek movie. I remember in middle school, high school, college, I'd be so hesitant to admit that I loved Star Trek, that it really was the only show I watched in my youth. People would look at me with eyebrows raised, thinking, Really? That has to be the geekiest show ever invented! Who wants to hear about warp drive, the starboard necel, star clusters, Vulcans, Klingons, Romulans? Who wants to be lectured about the bigger issues in life? Why on EARTH would you watch that? So, I stopped admitting I watched it, until I found an equally dorky sorority sister at the University of Oregon. We confided that we both loved Star Trek: The Next Generation. Deborah is the same woman I went to see the movie with on Sunday.

I've been struggling to write a review, or even put into words what this movie meant to me. It made me both very happy, and very sad. Even thinking about it now makes me feel a little choked up. The actors chosen to represent the original crew were spot on, but I missed William Shatner, DeForest Kelly, James Doohan, George Takai. Nobody can ever replace them. Two of these actors are dead, and I can't tell you how awesome it was to have Leonard Nimoy in the movie. Especially when he told Kirk, "I am and always will be....your friend." That line brought tears to my eyes, and there were several other lines or innuendos that only true Trekkies got. I could hear pockets of laughter throughout Cinerama. I thought the man who played McCoy was absolutely incredible.

Star Trek means so much to so many people, but this movie is truly the "Next Generation." Friends of mine who never dreamed of watching Star Trek are telling me things like this:

"That looks so good! I really want to see it."

"Wow, those are great looking actors, and the special effects look amazing. I'm seeing it this week."

This has caught me totally by surprise, and I'm so thrilled and proud that something I've loved for so long is reaching new groups of people. Sure, the movie to me looked like "Star Trek on Crack." I've never seen such stunning special effects in a Star Trek movie, and it's truly out of this world. I'm going back to the theater very soon to see this with David, who is a HUGE fan of the Original Series. I want to know how many innuendos he picks up on, what he thinks of the new actors.

I feel a little bit nostalgic that I will never see the Original Crew, or the Next Generation Crew, share the stage again in a Star Trek movie. I will never see Data, or Warf, or Captain Picard. I hope that William Shatner is invited to be in the next movie; I'll always have a special place in my heart for the very first Kirk. But I am glad to have this new crew, this new group of actors, to bring Star Trek alive again. I can't wait for the next movie.....after I see this one 5 more times in the theater.

I hear voices sometimes.

2009-05-18T19:25:00.000-07:00

There is one negative consequence of being in radio: my ears are super tuned in to voices. I just had to move to another part of the ferry to get away from a loud, obnoxious voice spouting words in a pitch that made my skin crawl. It sounded like here voice box was in her nose, and she was a combination of a munchkin, and Shrek. I'm sure the woman is very nice, and I feel like a bad person saying this, but her voice was like needles on a chalkboard. I tried to sit there and ignore it, and read my David Baldacci novel, but every word coming from that ferry bench was like a stab wound in my ears. So now, I'm in the galley. Thank goodness the ferry flirt is not sitting by me this time.

The one perk about working in a newsroom is that everyone has a wonderful voice. People understand inflection, tonality, the rise and fall of sentences. They understand how to tell a story or convey an idea fluidly. Listening to radio people speak is beautiful, and I admit, I get spoiled by this, and notice when voices grind and screech, or when people speak haltingly, or end a sentence in a question mark.

I also am very sensitive to accents, and lisps. I can detect a hint of a Spanish accent in David's parents 'words, even though no one else can. I become spellbound by a good voice,..aka Patrick Stewart, or even some actors we have in studio. The voice is a conduit of so much meaning, so much emotion, which must be why I love radio so much.

I'm really thankful that all of the people close to me have nice voices. All my friends, family, etc. It is so vital for my warped eardrums.

The Ferry Flirt...aka....I would rather have jumped off the boat than have a drink with you

2009-05-15T19:52:00.000-07:00

Tonight was the first time I've ever been "hit on" while riding the ferry. I chose to sit in the galley area, where people tend to congregate over beer and chat about their day. I sat there reading my Kindle, and eating McDonalds french fries. One time, in the galley, a man asked about my Kindle, and I didn't mind one bit. He seemed genuinly curious.....and happily married, unlike the tool who talked to me tonight, who couldn't stop staring at me and slurring his words. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little just thinking about it. I often wonder why it's so difficult for some men to read signals that blare as bright as neon signs.

I noticed a tall, skinny man move two seats down from me and thought, "Oh, he must have felt sick riding backward." But,....NO. An awkward, annoying conversation was about to disrupt my peaceful ferry ride hom.

"What are you reading?" His eyes seemed to roll back in his scrawny head as he struggled to see straight through the boozy haze. He was dirty blond, skinny, with a protruding Adam's apple. It looked like he hadn't shaved in days.

"Baldacci." I muttered, and continued to read. I knew he didn't give a rip about my book, he just wanted to know if I would get a drink after the ferry ride. I made brief eye contact as I answered, cause I didn't want to be completely rude. Big mistake. The man probably saw my eyes and grabbed on like they were a passing lifeboat, bobbing in Puget Sound.

Silence passed. I saw him shift. I concentrated hard on the electronic ink in front of me.

"Is that a Kimble?"

"No, it's a Kindle." Tried desperately to ignore the man. More silence. I suddently felt jealous of the overweight woman in front of me, in I-pod bliss.

"What do you do?"

"Well, ohhhh..... uh....I'm a writer." Sometimes I hate admitting I'm a news reporter, because it opens up the conversation to a series of questions. What's that like? That must be fun? Are you actually ON AIR? Like, on the RADIO? Wow! So I could actually HEAR YOU if I tuned in? This time, an uncomfortable silence grew between us. This is the time you get up, and walk away, " I thought. I was sending all the appropriate signals, sending out ultra "go away" vibrations, while being as polite as I possibly could.

Nope.

"So...uh....what do you write for."

"A news station." His woozy eyes implored me. "KOMO, that is," I told him reluctantly.

"Do you write commercials?"

I rolled my eyes.

"No. News. Local." (now please, please go. away. now.)

"When I want to listen to news, I turn to KOMO!" It almost sounded like an ad, except for his slurred, drowsy speech. He downed his microbrew, and leaned over to stare some more. I imagined other commuters sitting near us, feeling my pain.

I had a hard time reading because he was there, brewing up his next question. My eyes scanned the same sentences over and over again, willing him to just leave. I'm hardly ever hit on anymore, and that's how I like it. I'm usually pretty good sending out the "I have a boyfriend vibe", but I guess this dude didn't pick up on it cause of the beer richocheting through his skinny veins, turning them brown and hoppy.

Finally, he rose on lanky stork legs and strode purposely away from me. For an instant, I thought I saw him sway.

I kept my eyes peeled for the man as I walked off the ferry and back to my car. I pictured him following me home, or saying how rude I was, or asking what I was doing later. I'm so glad I escaped, and I hope I never see him, or get hit on, ever again.

A beer for a blog

2009-05-14T18:23:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, one needs a beer to blog. Just a little liquid "brain lubricant." I'm sitting on the ferry in the bustling "galley", as professionals around me grab beer and book, beer and pretzel, beer and computer, beer and a friend. Then there's me: beer and blog.

It's been a long week, a crazy week of changing schedules and habits. I woke up at 4am both Monday and Tuesday, then spent the night at my friend Abby's house in North Bend on Wednesday. All this means two things: braindead for blogging, and no ferry for blogging. I don't know what I would do without this picturesque ride across Puget Sound to keep up my writing, and time to think.

I want to show you something, and I want you to look very closely at the below picture.

Do you see the observation deck? It's the largest ring on the top of the Space Needle. Look above that. Do you see the flagpole jutting into the sky, with a little prick of light at the top? I was standing RIGHT NEXT to that flagpole this week, and I was so frightened I almost had an accident in my pants, and then realized - hey, this is pretty darn cool. Just WHO gets to go to the TIPPY TOP of the Space Needle?

No, I wouldn't stand next to the outside railing for this photo, and made the KOMO television reporter who took this picture stand on the other side of the inside railing. I look cold, nervous, and the buildings are well......really, really small. That is because I am several STORIES above the observation deck. I know, I climbed three flights of steep stairs (ladders) to get here, which I'll show you later. AHHHH just looking at these photos freaks me out, or makes me want to base jump.

The center of this platform held the flagpole, and I stuck to the middle the entire time, with my hand on the inner railing, or against the middle tower. The flagpole was within my grasp, almost.

I took a lot of pictures of Puget Sound, and Bainbridge Island, because there was the widest distance between myself, and the outer railing. I wish I had gotten more of Queen Anne, or the lakes, but that side only had 10 feet, and I never set foot over there.

I guess I just wanted to see what my home looked like from very far up, and very far away. Can you see it? That tiny sliver of land mass 7 miles away. I love Bainbridge Island. In the below picture, you can see my dear friend, the ferry boat, and West Seattle in the distance. These aren't the best pictures ever because I was freaked out, and freezing.

What goes up, must come down, and I had to descent the three flights of stais (ladders) backwards, with my purse swinging haphazardly at my side. Other people seemed to have a better time of it:

I was there for the flag-raising of the "tourism matters" campaign. I just feel so lucky being a reporter; I get to do incredible things like this.

The neighborhood "copper stopper"

2009-05-11T16:32:00.001-07:00

Living right next door to not one, but TWO police officers is both a blessing and a curse. I prefer the blessing part, since having them there makes me infinately more comfortable when David is out of town. I've imagined many a scenario, each ending with my running to the cop's house. Oh! There's a man crawling up my stairs, and I slide down the second floor balcony and run to the cop's house! My house is on fire, and I run to the cop's house! I see a peeping tom, and I run to the cop's house! In my mind's eye, I imagine these cops jumping out of their bedroom in full uniform, pulling Uzi's out of their cop car trunks, and hunting down the assailants. Every time I escape unscathed and they get metals of honor.

None of this ever happens, and this is where the curse part begins. I have yet to get Washington license plates (yes, I know, I know, shame on me. Everyone now say it in chorus. BAD KRISTIN) I bought my car right before moving here, and the Oregon plates expire in 2010. I heard a nasty rumor that I'd have to pay SALES TAX on my Oregon car if I changed the plates too quickly. So I waited, and waited, and waited, now to the point of embarrasment. Every time I drive by the cops house, I cringe, expecting them to quit whatever they are doing to hunt me down. Like they have nothing better to do than to find and arrest minor lawbreakers during their off hours. Instead they smile and nod, and yell out a hearty "hello!"

We live on a long, steep gravel driveway, so taking out the garbage is a pain. One day, David stuck the can in the back seat, and was driving up to the curb without his seatbelt on. When he saw the man cop in his front yard, David scrambled to pull the seatbelt across his lap. The cop just laughed, and waved, and said "hello!" Like "you dummy, I'm NOT WORKING, cops sometimes are OFF DUTY."

Maybe my fantasies about this male-female cop team are completely off base. Maybe if I ran to their house in my pajamas with heart pounding after I'd been robbed, peeped, fired, you name it - maybe they would just smile and say, "hello!"

I love my copper stopper neighbors. Thanks for never pulling me over for my Oregon plates.

Star Trek According to Wil Wheaton

2009-05-06T09:25:00.001-07:00

I guess he thought it was good. If Wesley Crusher thinks Star Trek rocks, then it ROCKS by golly! I just can't wait.

Check out his blog post here: http://wilwheaton.typepad.com/wwdnbackup/

Beer and a Blanket

2009-05-05T12:14:00.000-07:00

The only thing better than a pig in a blanket, is either a Mexican (american) in a blanket, or a beer and a blanket. Especially a Mexican (american) with a goofy grin in a blanket. Yes, this picture shows another reason why Bainbridge Island ROCKS.

I met up with David and my Dad Friday night at the Public House, which is a brewpub on the island, and one of my favorite restaurants. It was a beautiful day on the back deck that overlooks a marina, the ferry terminal, and the Seattle skyline. The only problem was that it was cold and windy, a little too much for comfort.

"Blankets, anyone?" The waitress asked as she ambled over to take our order.

"Yes, please, three!"

As I put the blanket over my legs, I looked around at the rest of the patio. Patrons had blankets around their shoulders and on their laps. It was like the "Brew Pub Uniform." We were all blue in one way or another. Then I looked at David, and laughed out loud. How could he drink his beer with that blanket wrapped tightly around him? When there's a will, there's a way.

It got me to thinking - this would be even better with a Snuggie. Then everyone on the porch would look like Jedi Knights drinking beer and wine. It would be awesome. Simply awesome.

"Another beer, I would like."

"Cold is, the wind."

"Hamburger and fries, I would like."

"A beautiful view, those ferries make."

We could all talk like Jedis too.

Ready.....Set....SWINE FLU!

2009-05-04T08:07:00.000-07:00

Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu.
Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu.

I'm getting myself mentally prepared to jump into work feet first. I know I will probably land in a pile of swine flu, and repeat myself every half an hour. I might as well go out in the pig pen and just roll around. I have said that phrase so much in the last week, I don't know which came first: the swine, or the flu.

I know that most "normal people" (non-media) I speak with are tired of hearing about the swine flu. What they don't understand is that sometimes journalists get equally tired of talking about it, seeing it on Twitter pages, interviewing people about it, reading emails about it. When news gets big, it often gets into a repetitive cycle, a little like a broken record. We had this conversation at lot at work - how much is too much? I think that KOMO 1000 actually did a great job of covering the outbreak, with fact, not hysteria. Some of the stories I heard on my radio station calmed my fears, and now I'm just tired of hearing about the whole thing.

I already think the media is backing off the swine flu a little bit. I watched 60 Minutes last night, and was so thrilled they didn't even mention those dreaded words. The last week felt like a swine flu marathon, and the weekend was a much needed break. My Dad was in town, we had a BBQ, we ate at a relaxing pub on Bainbridge Island, we went on a walk to the park. We also used hand sanitizer more than normal.

I've gotten the swine flu out of my system, and I'm hoping the media has as well. I'm ready to start reporting about interesting things - like the astronaut getting ready to blast off in just a few days, he's the pilot, and he's from our state. Now that's something to talk about.

Dinosaurs did not die of the swine flu

2009-04-30T08:01:00.000-07:00

Swine flu did not kill the dinosaurs, a meteor did. And I'm so sick of hearing the words "swine flu swine flu swine flu" like the media, government and public are stuck on one track of a broken record. If I hear that word one more time I'm going to puke. Better cover your mouth, you might get swine flu by osmosis.

I saw Walking with Dinosaurs last night, and the show at Key Arena was absolutely incredible. Gigantic, lifelike dinosaurs stomped around the stage, and I was able to envision their world, how they moved, how they interacted with each other. I thought about extinction, how animals that roamed the earth for millions of years were wiped out with a single meteor 65 million years ago. How us modern humans have only been here for 40,000 years. As I was thinking all these deep thoughts about life on Earth, David said:

"Seeing those dinosaurs makes me want to leap onto the arena wearing nothing but a loincloth, and stab those giant animals with a spear."

HELLO. Computer geek. Spear. Caveman. Does not compute. Well, maybe a little.

There must be an innate desire in every human left over from the caveman days. When men see big game, their "hunter" instincts come back. When women see berries, we want to pick them, right? I know that in this day and age, everyone likes to deny gender differences, but I do think they exist. I've never had the urge to hunt anything, but I do have the urge to "gather", aka, "grocery shop." Of course, there are exceptions to the rule, but I do think you can find attributes of our ancestors in modern humans. I love exploring caves, for instance.

Anyway, Walking with Dinosaurs was a treat. Where else can you see a 40-foot brachiasaurus, or a T-Rex that moves and looks like the real thing? I saw a stegasauraus lumbering across the stage, and velociraptors sprinting around their prey. I love imaging a time that's long gone, creatures that no human has ever seen. It makes me wonder, will we be like that to someone millions of years in the future?

The Apple Core

2009-04-27T07:57:00.000-07:00

I ate a red apple before playing tennis Friday night to raise my blood sugar and give me enough energy to hit the ball.

"I should have thrown it into the bushes for the animals," I told David as we pulled into the Bainbridge Island Athletic Club parking lot.

"That's what I did earlier with my apple," he told me as we drove past the woods. It was too late for me, I wasn't about to throw an apple core into someone's front yard. It brought back terrible memories of when I threw a banana peel in the woods to compost several years ago. A lady pulled up angrily next to me at a red light.

"That's littering. You're lucky I didn't call the cops right now and get you fined 300 dollars!" She frowned at me, her expression filled with disgust.

"It's a BANANA PEEL!" I told her, and turned the corner. It's not like I was throwing styrofoam, or disposable diapers to rot between the trees.

Fast forward to this morning at the ferry terminal. The apple core is still on the floor of the car, brown and stale.

"Why didn't you throw that away?" David asked me.

"I'm saving it for the animals."

"Okay," he said, like my neurosis makes all the sense in the world. I know that when I get home from work, it will still be there, and I will have the satisfaction of giving some squirrel a rotten treat. Yes, this is another reason why David and I are perfect together. We value the importance of an apple core.

The closest I'll ever get to hugging Obama

2009-04-24T18:42:00.000-07:00

It's not often that politicians hug reporters. Usually they look at us with a wary eye, maybe a nervous smile if we're lucky. They often talk without saying a thing, just turning words around and around until we're dizzy and confused. Tonight, I had a different experience as I headed to the Westin in downtown Seattle to King County Executive Ron Sims' going-away party.

Now, I've heard that Sims can be a "hugger", but I've never experienced the magic before first-hand.

"Mr, Sims? I'm Kristin Hanes with KOMO radio --- " But before I could finish, he smiled his goofy smile, braces and all, and grabbed me into a big bear hug. I awkwardly squeezed his shoulders.

"Congratulations, now..umm...can I ask you a few questions?" He continued to grin, then his eyes misted as he talked about Seattle, and his wonderful colleagues, and going to work in Washington DC.

"When the President of the United States leans forward and says 'will you work for me?' I don't know how you say no." His eyes twinkled as he turned to hug yet another group of unsuspecting people.

I can now say I've been hugged by someone in the Obama administration. So, if he rubs shoulders with the President, does that also mean that I have too? It's a little bit strange to have a politician open his arms to you, but for an instant, that boundary between interviewee and interviewer was erased. We were just two people, celebrating a new life, a new administration.

Good luck, Mr. Sims. I'm sure many in Seattle with miss you. (soon to be Deputy Director of the US Department of Housing and Urban Development.)

A lesson for "media relations" folks

2009-04-24T08:22:00.000-07:00

It's surprising to me how many "media relations" people have no clue how to serve the media. It started out with a terribly written press release, where the main details were muddled into long words and complex thoughts. I have 5 seconds to read this, I need it to be clear and concise, cutting to the meat of the story in one line. After I used my precious brain power to decipher the intricate codes of the release, I decided it was a good story and headed to the press conference.

I almost ran the other way when I realized there were more media relations people than press people. I guess I didn't get the memo that shouted - BORING. They were dressed in suits, skirts; then I heard the word dreaded most by broadcast journalists: power point. God help me, I thought to myself as I served some coffee, and looked for any other free items I could pillage.

The first mistake of the press conference was having FIVE SPEAKERS. Ok people, I need only a few 10 second soundbites to create my package of 30 second stories. The speakers talked for 40 minutes. I sat there and examined my cuticles, trying my hardest not to appear catatonic. Then came the power point, and it became an effort to stifle my irritation. I couldn't help yawning, and doodling on the fancy shmancy press packet. He threw out gigantic numbers and details that would only interest a mathmetician. I was so bored I almost started feeling sorry for this speaker, who was probably used to speaking to his colleagues. "The media" is a tough crowd.

I hate being bored. I have things to do. I'm on deadline. I need to grab what I can get within 15 minutes, and then onto the next story. This took an hour, then I found the two people who could give me the story, and did two 3 minute interviews. That is ALL I NEEDED. It turned out to be a good story, but it's too bad I had to go through torture to get it. That's all that's needed to convince a journalist never to cover events put on by these "media relations" people again.

Luckily, I got over my anger and wrote the press lady a nice email. I told her that press conference was way too long for broadcast media. It may have served the print folks, but media relations is all about relating to ME, giving ME what I need. They need to learn how to do please all forms of media, and I hope my email will help this media relations person understand that.

I used to be cool

2009-04-23T09:08:00.000-07:00

If I could wear the exact same thing to work every day, I probably would. It would be a long-sleeved black shirt, my COH jeans (the only jeans I ever wear now), and my Cole Haan black boots. Every day. Rain or shine. I already repeat the same few pairs of pants and shirts every week. I have totally lost my "cool factor."

The "cool factor" used to come out and say hello much more often in my early 20's. I'd enjoy wearing vintage outfits, dresses, gloves, high-heeled shoes, flamboyant hats. I'd even dress up at work. One time my heels were so high one of the other reporters (in flip flops and khaki shorts) made fun of me:

"How will you ever catch a bad guy in those?"

Luckily, someone came to my defense.

"How often do reporters run after bad guys anyway. We're not cops."

But point taken. I hardly ever wear high heels nowadays to work. I often find myself tromping through mud, or standing out in the drizzle during "breaking news."

I'd wear the same outfit to work if I could, because shopping in Seattle is a serious pain. I hate navigating the congested streets, and parking in a $6 per hour lot where no one validates. In Portland, I'd easily park in a $1 SmartPark, and most stores would pay the ticket price. Plus, I always had my Mom and sister to go with me and urge me on. Here, it's too complicated to set up a "shopping date" with friends and take the ferry to Seattle. Luckily I have a boyfriend who could give a care if I was a "fashion princess."

The only time the "cool factor" comes out now is if I'm going on a date with David. I love to dress up, if it's the right occasion. Going out to eat. Seeing a show in the theater. Going salsa or swing dancing. I'll never lose my passion for fashion - but now I enjoy seeing it on other people instead of myself.

Technology's Infancy

2009-04-22T08:06:00.000-07:00

I was reading Popular Science the other day as David was getting his hair cut, and had a realization: we are technology's infants. Several hundred years from now, humans will study us in elementary school like we learned about heiroglyphs and covered wagons. They'll laugh at how primitive we were with our gigantic laptop computers and gas guzzling automobiles. Maybe they'll find "artifacts" - the gigantic McDonald's "M", maybe an Iphone with a cracked face. There is so much that awaits humankind, if we make it through our early struggles of famine, war, competition.

Researchers are already developing new ways to travel, from airplanes shaped like gigantic triangles that hold hundreds of people, to personal vehicles that can both drive and fly. By 2050, they want to develop a spacecraft type airplane that can transport 50 people from Australia to New York in 90 minutes, by going into orbit at 14,000 miles per hour. I read about trains that would run on magnets alone at hundreds of miles per hour. I think about how old I'll be in 2050 - will I ever be able to experience the wonder of staring at Earth from space? I think space travel will become routine over the years, and we'll continue to explore further and further out in our solar system.

Sometimes I feel a tinge of sadness that I won't be able to see human's development with technology, and civilization itself. In the multi-billion year life of the Earth, we are only a blip in her history, and we've already managed to do more damage than any other species. I do hope the human race survives its infancy, and achieves it's full potential. I think this is why I love sci-fi so much - I can pretend I'm part of the future, that I can somehow get a vision of what it will be like.

Dreamin'

2009-04-20T19:58:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here at my desk made of smooth, dark wood, and staring out the window as dusk falls between the trees. Potted red tulips tinged with yellow are wilting, their stamens dusted with pollen, ready for bees that will never come. I'm sitting here imagining that I'm a writer, or a blogger with a thousand readers. What would it be like to know that so many minds are waiting to consume my words? What would it be like to write another chapter, an intimate dialogue, a poignant scene?

I've often heard that the lives of writers are dreary and lonely, that they plod away at their computers hour after hour, without any other human interaction but the fictional characters in their heads. It's a life I've always longed for, but don't quite know how to accomplish. I hear stories of the high school teacher who woke up at 5am for 5 years in a row to finish his first novel, or Stephen King, who worked 2 days jobs, got dozens of rejection letters, but stayed up all night writing. I want to be a writer, but I don't have that type of drive after a long day taxing my brain as a news reporter, and 2 hours of commuting.

There is one time of day that my mind is truly open to creativity, and writing. 7am, when I'm well-rested, my brain's fresh and new, and there's a steaming coffee cup nearby. But I only have 10 minutes to write in my journal at this time of day, then I'm rushing to work to make another dollar. There isn't time within the day to pursue what I really want, to write, something I feel with an ache so profound inside me.

I used to stay up late nights as a teenager in high school to write, and wrote a 100 page novella. I loved the way characters danced in my mind's eye, how I got to know them, how I felt their emotions. They came to life on pages that moved as fast as my fingers could write. I sent out several query letters to agents, but of course, all I recieved in return were rejection letters.

These rejections don't phase me, however. I just need time, and a good plot. Until I have those two things, I'm not sure how I will accompish writing a book and becoming an author. For now, I can sink into the melodramatic wonder of Star Trek: The Next Generation, until I'm able to create a strange new world of my own.

The Olympic Hike

2009-04-19T17:55:00.001-07:00

A little over an hour away from me lies a playground. There are thick forests, snow-capped peaks, rushing rivers, the sparkling Hood Canal. I've lived on Bainbridge Island over a year now, and I've hardly explored the Olympic Peninsula. Well, now I've bought my $30 annual pass to National Forests in both Oregon and Washington, which means I'm going to spend many a weekend hiking this spring and summer. Many trails aren't accessible until June or July, so today we drove down toward Quilcene, until we stumbled upon the Mount Walker viewpoint. It was only supposed to be a "stretch our legs" walk, but it turned into a heart-pounding climb. My first clue was a 2,000 foot elevation gain in 2 miles. That's STEEP. We didn't even make it halfway, but it was worth the effort, and the glimpses of the Olympic Mountains through the trees.

I love being in the forest; it's like walking inside a living, breathing organism. The pungent smell of moss and decaying dirt mixes with fresh sap and ferns. I love the way the trail is soft beneath my feet, and that I see bursts of white and purple flowers along the way. I love that I can hear my breath and heartbeat, and am far away from the lure of computers and Star Trek and Nintendo Wii.

After this hour or so walk in the woods, we got back in the car and headed south on 101. We ate lunch near a sparkling river, then found a spot along the Hood Canal to set up our chairs and listen to some music, and soak up the sun.

David and I both returned from this afternoon outing feeling incredibly relaxed. He even fell asleep in the car on the way home. It's so rejuvenating being out with nature. It is my goal to explore all over the Olympic Peninsula this summer, and to post pictures a thousand times grander than these. There is one trail where you can see mines, and a downed B-17. Another heads up in the mountains, where there are stunning views of the Hood Canal, and even Seattle. I can't wait. An entire summer awaits!

Aceing the ACT

2009-04-17T07:40:00.000-07:00

I am still reveling in the amazing performance I saw last night, at an equally amazing venue. David and I walked into the ACT Theater in downtown Seattle not knowing what to expect. I thought it would be yet another huge theater, where we'd see the outlines of the actors, nothing more. I thought it might even be boring. A play without music and dancing? How can I sit through that? I was thoroughly surprised, and delighted by Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

The ACT Theater is the most intimate place I've ever been to watch a play. The stage is small, and seats rise around it in a circle. We sat several rows up, but were just several yards from the actors. I could see every expression, innuendo, the violence and drama and passion intoxicatingly real. As Mr. Hyde's rage exploded, I could see sprays of spit. I was frightened of this terrible man with the knife. His counterpart, Dr. Jekyll, was equally disturbing in his madness and denial. The raw emotion in this play gave me shivers. I'd say it was the best acting I've ever see in theater, and it has to be, when you are sitting so close. Like HDTV, but for live theater.

There aren't many props or set changes in the ACT, but the lighting, sound effects, even fog are enough to create the mood. I found myself visualizing the surroundings, and becoming fully immersed in the story, like I was there. I didn't need the fancy decorations, the backgrounds, the music. It was like reading a book, my imagination created the environment.

I loved our theater experience last night. It is something that connects me to humanity; we've been gathering like this to watch each other perform for centuries. I could almost picture this as a stage in London in the 1800's. All that carried the performance was the acting. I am still enthralled by my experience, and am expecting Mr. Hyde to come any minute out of the shadows.

The Hive

2009-04-15T07:57:00.000-07:00

People with briefcases and backpacks swarm around the coffee stand at the ferry terminal today, like it's some sort of beehive for the busy. The bees inside make the honey at a feverish pace, arms moving so fast it looks like they each have 6. Worker bees drop off green pollen just as quickly in return for the building blocks of life: coffee.

By the time I order, the woman behind the counter is already making two Americanos.

"Do you want your same tall Americano today," she chirps to a woman standing several feet behind me.

"How was your weekend?" I hear another worker say to a regular. I am mesmerized they can slam together such perfect coffee drinks, while maintaining familiarity with their clients. This place is faster than Starbucks, and tastier too. Four baristas are crammed together as commuters line up to four separate windows. Two are for drip coffee only. The organization of the place is incredible, and I get my Triple Grande Americano with room for cream, and my change, in about 1 minute. Plenty of time to walk on the ferry and find a good seat.

This is yet another thing I love about Bainbridge Island. Everyone knows each other. Even at an incredibly busy coffee shop, there is that sense of community that everyone craves, and that I've talked about here before.

Earlier today I was wondering what it would be like not to have to commute over 2 hours every day. I'd have that much more time at home. It would be lovely, but I would miss the ferry, and Bainbridge Island, so much. It's all a game of give and take, but for now, I'm glad to be part of the hive.

Never too old for Easter

2009-04-14T08:03:00.000-07:00

It was rainy and cold on Easter in Portland, but that didn't deter the Easter Bunny from hiding 45 eggs packed with candy outside my Mom's house. We set out eagerly before brunch, embarking on the greatest treasure hunt of our lives. We were armed and ready, three grown kids with Easter baskets. The colorful eggs were all over the place, across moats of plants and barkdust. It was a daring journey as a I stretched to pluck a green egg from the fence!

Even St. Francis held the key to happiness.
Hippity Hoppity Easter's on it's way!

We ended up with a treasure trove of eggs - thanks Easter bunny! I'm still not sure what rabbits and eggs have to do with Easter. Rabbits don't even HAVE eggs, usually. Hmm. I don't need to figure it out, I just need to eat my rainbow of candy. I'm going to have a sugar high for weeks.

Family traditions like this are fun. I can't imagine Easter without an egg hunt. I wonder if we'll still be doing this when we're all in our 40's and 50's, or maybe someday, the fun will go to our kids, and we'll be the grown up Easter bunnies.

Ohhhhh Baby!

2009-04-13T07:52:00.000-07:00

This fall will mark 10 years since I met my Kappa Kappa Gamma sister, and very good friend, Annabelle Bonifacio. Since then she's gotten married, become Mrs. Seemab Hussaini, and given birth to a tiny baby who is almost one month old. World, meet Khadija Bonifacio Hussaini, a beautiful and precious little girl. I hope they don't mind that I post this stunning photograph for all my friends to see, but it's just breaktaking. Whoever took this picture is an expert in capturing the unconditional love parents feel, and the beauty of a newborn. Annabelle and Seemab still live in Southern California, so I haven't been able to meet or hold Khadija yet. Hopefully that will change this summer when they move north to Portland, where Annabelle is originally from.

I've never met this baby, but she already feels like a niece to me. It's incredible when a friend you've known your entire adult life has a child. I waited for months to see what she'd look like, since she has such beautiful parents. I couldn't imagine this little angel!

Now my other good friend, Abigail Bernd, is pregnant and due to give birth in August or September. I can't wait to meet her little one! Then I will be an auntie times two!

The Technology Trap

2009-04-10T07:39:00.000-07:00

Most mornings, I grab my coffee, and go sit at a red chaise at the front of my house. This is my spot, to relax and enjoy a few moments of peace before getting sucked into the technology trap. I write in my journal, I read, I look at the sky and the trees and the rustic rise and fall of my lawn. I love these moments to be near the even flow energy of my plants, and just allow myself to unplug a little bit.

By the end of the work day, my right arm and hand muscles are sore from the constant clicking. I have an obsessive need to check Twitter, Facebook, and Email. And Twitter is instant gratification since message pop up constantly. This was supposed to be a quiet morning, but I find myself clicking over to Twitter even as I write this blog. What are my favorite celebrities up to? Brent Spiner is getting made up as Data this weekend for his friends son! hahahaha. Yes, I'm easily distracted.

I feel like I'm being trained like a guinea pig to run circles on the information superhighway. Everything is so fast-paced, that it makes it harder for us to sit down with a book, or write with an actual pen in an actual journal with real paper. Why do that when I can post a blog, and interact with people I don't even know? Again, instant gratification.

But I am having so much fun with technology right now. At work, I'm embracing multimedia. I love taking pictures and writing stories for the web. It challenges my brain in other ways, and reminds me of the newspaper classes that sparked my love of journalism. It's so fun to think beyond the "30 second" radio story box.

So, while technology is good for us, I think it's also good to unplug, to listen to the birds, to breath in fresh air, to interact with each other. Okay, now I'm going to check Twitter.

Corporate Clones

2009-04-08T07:37:00.000-07:00

I learned yesterday that corporate culture has a smell. It's expensive perfume, coffee, and pretentiousness all mixed into one. I wanted to gag as one person after the other came in, fouling the room's air with their personal scent. My nose tickled, and I rubbed it to keep from sneezing. The man sitting next to me at this corporate "presentation" wore a Rolex watch, the woman beside him with a 5 or 6 carat diamond ring. Everything about the people in that room shouted "I'm rich and you're not, therefore, I must be better than you." People mingled and lingered, posturing like peacocks looking for a mate. I realized at this "event" that I am SO. NOT. INTO. THIS.

I work at a corporation, but it's nothing like what I witness covering that "news story" yesterday. People at my office wear jeans and sweatshirts to work, and most have little ego. They are down to earth and love to joke. The preening is kept to a minimum, and they are kind enough not to wear cologne. There's nothing worse than being stuck in a radio booth with a heavy chemical scent.

I'm not opposed to people who have money, I'm opposed to people who feel that money makes them better than everyone else. I remember sitting at a bar in downtown Seattle once, these three guys telling me they worked at Microsoft and drove BMW's. Hmmm. Try again, boys.

All in all, I'm so glad I don't work in that "corporate culture". I don't think I could handle the pressure to dress up every day and wear Dolce and Gabbana shoes. I love that I can wear my North Face coat every day of my life, even though it has white cat hair stuck all over it. I love that I can wear my glasses without feeling self-concious. I love that I wear the same black boots every day, because they are comfortable. I love that my coworkers are the opposite of pretentious.

Pop Fiction versus Literature

2009-04-06T07:58:00.000-07:00

There are two drastically different books on my Kindle right now: "Black Widow" by Randy Wayne Wright, and "East of Eden" by John Steinbeck. I find myself switching between the two depending on my mood - like drinking fine wine versus Pabst Blue Ribbon. Sometimes I want to immerse myself in the detail and complex flavors of Steinbeck, sometimes I just want to get drunk. That is how I differentiate literature and fiction.

I often read pop fiction. I love intense thrillers, chick lit, mysteries,..from John Grisham to Dan Brown to Mary Higgins Clark. I don't ready these books for the stunning writing style, I read them to quickly, very quickly, get immersed in another world. The fast-paced action scenes and dialogue become addictive, and I find it hard to read a book that doesn't immediately delve into the plot. This is what I find with John Steinbeck. The words are delicious, the sentences like morsels of a decadent dessert. Descriptions of one valley can go on for pages. I have to have patience to read literature, and I think it's because I am so immersed with the fast food version of books.

When did this happen? When did books become something to race through, without savoring the beauty of writing? We say it's beneficial to read, but is really when there aren't any new words to learn, ideas to relish, thoughts to decipher? I read a lot as a child, and I credit my vocabulary to the books I consumed. But these days, I find there are more words I don't know in Time magazine than in an average pop fiction book. What do you think? Is it good to read no matter what it is, or should we try to delve into literature, something challening, once in awhile?

Wheaton - He's just a Geek

2009-04-03T18:38:00.000-07:00

My stomach was doing flip flops as I walked toward the Hyatt in downtown Seattle this morning, on my way to interview the famous Wil Wheaton. My mind couldn't stop arguing with itself.

"You are going to meet the Wesley Crusher."

"It's no big deal. He's just a person. A nice guy. A Geek."

"No, he's been to outer space. He's explored strange new world. His role was to seek out new life and new civilizations. He's been in the same room with Captain Picard."

"He's an author. A chilled out guy. He has facial hair for God's sakes. There's no way this is Wesley Crusher."

I waited for him to come out into the lobby, thinking everyone who walked by was him. Would I recognize him with all that stubble? What if I accidentally called him Wesley? Then I saw him, and my world stood still, and I was thrust into the parallel universe of stardom. Just kidding. I saw him, and he was normal. He's only a little taller than me, skinny, with a friendly smile. A geek. Just the type of person to make me feel at ease, to tell my Star Trek dork stories. I could still see a hint of Wesley Crusher behind his beard - it was in his eyes, and his speech mannerisms. I just couldn't believe he looked OLDER. He was supposed to stay the same. But that would be disturbing, wouldn't it? I don't want to have a crush on a 17 year old anymore.

We hung out at the Starbucks Hyatt for about 40 minutes, and every minute he seemed more real to me. We talked about coffee, tea, life in Los Angeles, that his wife is from Portland. I learned that he loves the Clover Press Ethiopian Blend, and drinks it black. I saw that he wears Converse shoes. We spouted off about sci fi, "the geek subculture", Star Trek, and his love of writing books. He told me when others picture The Next Generation, they can visualize the ship, but he remembers the set, what happened that day, his interactions with the other actors.

We talked about the new Star Trek movie due out in May, and how he thinks it's going to rock, not be a watered down version like the three new Star Wars movies. He told me the writers get it, the directors get it, the actors get it. Star Trek is coming back!

It was a wonderful experience, interviewing one of my favorite actors. I love that he's a geek, down to earth, outspoken. I wish I could be friends with him and his wife, and I'll always remember my 40 minutes with Wesley Crusher.

To listen to the entire interview, go to the KOMO website at this address:

http://www.komonews.com/news/local/42448032.html

Make it So!

2009-04-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

I have an interview tomorrow, with the one and only Wil Wheaton, aka, "Wesley Crusher" from Star Trek the Next Generation.

I think I almost had a heart attack yesterday when he wrote to my work email directly, and actually used my name! I wasn't going through a PR person, or any complex beaurocrocy. Instead, we emailed for a little bit and decided to meet at the Starbucks inside the Hyatt. I can already see his sense of humor, he wrote "We'll meet in the lobby, then go to the Starbucks in the hotel, and I'm sure there are 7 more inside it." He'll be in town for the Emerald City Comicon, but I plan to pick his brain about Star Trek, and what he's been doing since his brief foray with fame. I know he won't look at all like the fresh-faced 17-year old Wesley Crusher anymore, he's now 36, married with children, and an accomplished author and blogger.

It's funny, I've held him on a pedestal since I was 10 or 11 years old, when I so desperately wanted to act on the show with him. I even wrote into the Star Trek producers, and they wrote me back, saying I had to be part of the Screen Actors Guild. My dreams of meeting "Wesley Crusher" were tarnished.

Now, I'm going to have my chance to pick his brain, and the more I write him emails, the more he seems more "human", and less "magical." Tomorrow, I'm going to ask him for a picture, I know it will make everyone smile who knew me when I was 11 years old, with a childhood crush.

I'm an oddball

2009-04-01T08:06:00.000-07:00

I have a fascination with quirks. I think our individual quirks and oddities are what make us individuals. I realize that I am a strange person through talking to my friends, or David, and they say, "You do WHAT?" It always cracks me up. Here are 10 quirks or mine, and I'm sure there are thousands more:

1) I hate florescent lights
2) Wrinkly bathtub fingers give me the creeps
3) Lack of sleep makes my skin clammy
4) Hard rock music hurts my stomach
5) I shred my cuticles
6) I don't like heating up my food at work when others are in the kitchen
7) My driving makes people carsick
8) I hate the dentist, and haven't been in 3 years.
9) Commercials drive me mad, so I avoid television
10) Certain fabrics make my skin crawl

And here are some quirks that drive me BONKERS:

1) People popping their gum
2) The squishy sound of bananas in someones mouth
3) Someone crunching carrots or popcorn
4) Incessant tapping noises
5) Speech mannerisms where every sentence ends in a question

So, there you go. I told you I was a weirdo. What are some of your quirks? What drives you nuts?

Ouchie Ouch!

2009-03-31T07:59:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on the ferry right now and have to hold my head at a precise angle as to not feel a tearing pain in the middle of my back. I can't lean forward, or tilt too far to the right or the left. I'm starting to feel depressed, and want this pain to go away. I can't believe some people live with pain like this every single day, for years on end.

It happened yesterday playing tennis. I was already feeling a little sore in my left shoulder (I think from sleeping poorly), and I hyper-extended while running to get a difficult shot. I could almost hear the streeeeeetch of that poor muscle. Now I'm guessing I strained it; it's not that "good" sore feeling from working out too hard. It's a pinching, biting pain.

I love playing tennis, but had to settle for bumping balls over the net for David to practice his stroke. That didn't hurt, because I wasn't putting any energy into it, and at least I was on the court. I have tennis courts reserved tomorrow and Thursday, and I'm so afraid I'll have to cancel. I want to play! I hate missing tennis!

I am feeling angry at my shoulder, and keep sending it negative thoughts. I should probably change that, and send healing energy to my muscle. My shoulder didn't force me to play yesterday, and didn't force me to rush for that shot. OUCH.

A Swingin' Good Time

2009-03-29T09:52:00.000-07:00

Swing songs were the soundtrack to my dreams last night, after an amazing evening in Bremerton watching David play with his new band - "Rude and Unprofessional." I don't know how they got a crazy name like that, but they were anything but. They were classy, energetic, a small band with a "big band" feel.When we first got to the Charleston Ballroom for a soundcheck, other band members seemed amazed that I was there.

"It's going to be a looooong night," one woman said to me.

"How much did he pay you for you to come here?" said the upright bass player.

I guess they didn't understand that a woman in her 20's gets a major kick out of big band and swing music, and that her sweetie couldn't pay her enough to stay home. I wouldn't miss seeing David play for the world.

And neither would David's sister Grace and her husband, Prasad. They came all the way from Redmond to see him play, and tore up the dance floor. I'm so glad they were there.

Luckily, I got asked to dance several times, and I just had a blast. Something about dancing to swing music in a big puffy skirt makes me feel so alive, and thrilled. That's when one of David's band members turned to him and said,

"I didn't know why she'd want to come until I saw her dance." Yup, that about sums it up.

One of the best parts of the entire night was when the band was done playing, and they put on some salsa. I finally got to dance with David, and even the instructors were watching us. I love dancing salsa, because I actually know some moves and can shake my hips.

All in all, it was such a wonderful time. I heard from a band member's wife that they are going to be playing at the Charleston Ballroom once per month, and I'm so excited. What a fun Saturday night!

All men need a mother

2009-03-27T18:40:00.000-07:00

David just got back from a week and a half long trip in the fattest city in the United States: San Antonio, Texas. He ate tacos for breakfast, barbecue for dinner, and beer for a snack. He hung out with his sisters in the muggy heat, and managed to squeeze in a few power walks and rounds of tennis. But clearly, not the structure I help provide for him here in the green, healthy state of Washington, where we eat fish, drink red wine (in moderation), and play tennis 5 times per week.

"Go home, and eat lentils." Those were my instructions to David as he embarked on the ferry toward Bainbridge Island this afternoon. A couple days ago I created a thick, brown lentil stew with carrots, celery, potatoes, tomatoes, and kale. It's a delicious vegetarian's dream. I knew David's nutrient starved body would benefit.

"I'll do whatever you say for the rest of my life," he replied.

That got me to thinking: Do all men need a mother? Or at least someone to watch out for their needs?

David (who hates to be controlled, like me. Darn Aquarians.) seems perfectly content to let me control his health. He should be, I grew up in Oregon with a healthnut mother, eating fruit smoothies, brown rice and salmon (Thanks Mom!). He was raised in Texas where he ate hamburger helper and cereal. In our time together, I've managed to mold his preferences for food. I don't force things on him, I lead by example. Now he loves fish (salmon and halibut), and vegetables (yams and portabella mushrooms), and chicken. His stomach hurts after fast food. He eats smaller portions, and scarfs down salads like they're Big Macs. He feels so great, that he eats whatever I prepare, with a huge smile and plenty of praise.

I think that inside, all men want someone who is watching out for their well-being, no matter how much they holler and protest. But who am I kidding? I also want someone who watches out for me. I love when David gets up 2 hours before me to turn on the heaters, warm up the bathroom, make me breakfast, start the coffee, scrape the ice off my car, prepare my tea at night.

I've often heard that relationships work when it's 50-50. But I think it works even better when BOTH people give 100 percent. All I have to say is, I'm so, so, so SO SO excited he's home.

I'm so glad I went back

2009-03-26T18:03:00.001-07:00

I cheated on my hairdresser when he moved to a new location. I couldn't help it. He abandoned me, leaving to better his own life. How dare he! I used to get off work take the bus 5 minutes to the salon on 1st street, then hop the bus to my ferry. After he moved, I'd have to drive through traffic to Greenlake, which is just oh so far. I thought it would be a huge hassle with my ferry schedule, so I went looking for another stylist. I saw a short woman who talked too much, her words biting like darts after a long day at work. I saw a large boisterous man who looked Middle Eastern, but told me he was a Mexican named David who constantly got stopped at the airport because people confuse him with the Taliban. I saw a tall, feminine man who took an hour and a half to cut my hair and left it looking the same. Oh how I missed my hairdresser.

I went months without seeing the pleasant man who'd do magic with my hair, who knew when to talk and when to be quiet. Oh how I'm glad I went back. This is my second time, and I haven't regretted it one bit. Today he was particulary giving, and massaged my shoulders and head for longer than normal. He didn't talk much, which is fine because I'm feeling tired and drained. I love the salon, it's bright colors and vintage appeal. I feel like I've walked into the 50's when I see the girl at the front desk with a flowered dress and pumps.

Picking a good hairdresser is like picking a good boyfriend, or best friend. You need someone who will anticipate your needs, who knows what you like, who can read your moods. I'll never cheat on him again.

So if you ever need a good cut, in a relaxing atmosphere, head to the Beehive Salon near Greenlake and ask for Mitchell. You won't be disappointed.

My house is haunted

2009-03-24T07:56:00.000-07:00

Yes, I say this somewhat facetiously, but I wonder - is there such thing as ghosts? The other day I spent the night at David's sister Grace and brother-in-law Prasad's house in Redmond. I was sitting at the table talking to Prasad, when he asked me an interesting question:

"Are you more afraid of the supernatural, or the real?"

"I'm much more afraid of a man breaking into my house with a gun than a ghost lingering in my room."

This isn't to say that I am not afraid of the idea of a ghost, and sometimes I believe my house is haunted. This usually happens when David is out of town, so I'm sure it's my imagination running wild.

Last night, I woke up suddenly from a dream. In my dream, some voice was whispering, you have to wake up now, you need to wake up now. I groggily opened both eyes and stared into the blackness of my room. I thought I heard movement on the carpet, and I froze in bed, not moving a muscle. I was sure it was kitty, until I sat straight up and felt a furry bundle on the bed, fast asleep. I couldn't shake the sensation that someone had been moving around near me, and I stared hard and fast at all the dark parts of my room, until I felt comfortable enough to drift back asleep.

Another instance I was sleeping in the downstairs bedroom - David was snoring up a storm - when I felt like there were several ghosts in my room. I felt the distinct sensation that it was several Native American men, standing in a circle and talking. I wasn't necessarily afraid of these men, I felt a kind and peaceful presence. But yes, I was freaked out. Again I froze in a very groggy state, listening, sensing. Eventually I got up the courage to run upstairs as fast as possible.

Other times I'll be in the living room, and I feel prepared to see the ghost of a little girl. I felt she'd been in the secret room for some strange reason, and I always picture her wearing a puffy white dress with a long bow. I've had these sensations when I'm wide awake. I know the original foundation is very old, decades old, so I can't rule out the possibility that someone died there.

Are these instances just my imagination running away with me? Too many scary movies? Too many thoughts about ghosts? The rational part of my brain says yes, of course that's what it is. It's your mind playing tricks on you; this always happens when you are in a dream-like state and when you're freaked out cause David is out of town. But the other half of my brain wonders - what if this is for real? What if I could sense, not see, dead people?

The love of a cat

2009-03-19T08:14:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl I loved cats. Whenever I went to my Dad and stepmom's house for the weekend, I'd hope against hope their cat would cuddle up under my covers with me at night. I loved when he jumped onto my bed with light paws, then purred up a storm as I pet and cuddled him. I even had a stuffed animal cat, that purred when I hugged it. I was in love.

It's no different now that I'm an adult, and have my kitty Lexi, who normally goes by "kitty". She's an angel when David is away for the week; it's just nice having another living being in my house. She sits on my lap, she rolls onto her back to expose her large, furry belly. She looks up at me with those big blue eyes, and meows. And I've found I can't sleep without her.

The first night David was gone, I laid in bed for two hours before I could fall asleep. Not only did I not have him beside me, but kitty was nowhere to be found. I tossed and turned, and finally she jumped up onto my bed, a purring ball of joy. She always settles up near my chest, where I hug her like she's a stuffed animal. Sometimes we lay like that all night long, and sometimes she turns on her back so I can have my hand on her belly.

Every morning when I wake up, I see kitty near me. She rolls on her back and stretches her two front paws toward me, sometimes touching my face. She meows and jumps out of bed, and walks down the stairs at my side. I'm so thankful for my little animal companion.

The Death of a Salesman

2009-03-17T09:19:00.000-07:00

The ferry line was dark and cold today as the man selling newspapers walked up and down the aisles of cars.

"Seattle Times! P-I!" It's what he yells every day, his voice melodic and loud above the rumble of the engines. A bright orange bag full of plastic-covered newspapers slaps against his back as he walks.

"Seattle Times! P-I!" Maybe it's because they realized it would soon all be over, maybe they wanted a piece of history, but I watched as one car after another rolled down its window to buy the last print edition of the Seattle P-I. I've never bought a newspaper in the ferry line before; today was my first, and will probably be my last.

"Seattle Times! P-I!" It was also the last time the salesman would be saying those words.

As I breathed in the ink-stained pages I felt tears prick my eyes. The headline shouted, lonely and sad, "You've meant the world to us." I flipped through the thin pages, now tears rolling down my face, as the finality of it all set in. Newspapers are dying, and part of me is dying with them.

I've been reading newspapers since I was a little girl, and received dailies up until a couple years ago, when the Internet just became more convenient. I remember sitting on my couch with a cup of coffee every day as the smooth paper rustled under my fingertips. I fell in love with journalism through newspapers, and wrote for my high school paper, even a couple articles for the Oregon Daily Emerald. The possibilities for stories were endless, the opinion section powerful, the right of a free press something to be cherished.

Today I feel like we've lost a part of what makes journalism great, and in the decades to come, our children, and our children's children, will realize what's missing.

Couple Dating

2009-03-16T07:59:00.000-07:00

Meeting new friends as a couple is a little bit like dating. Instead of meeting people one on one, you're meeting people two on two. You make small talk, you try to find similar interests, you size up the clothing and hairstyles.

Last night our power went out, so we went to the neighborhood pub in downtown Winslow. We sat at the bar, since every other islander also thought a beer and a burger would be a good idea on a cold, windy night.

"It would be so nice if we could meet some more couple friends," said David, turned to look at me.

"Yeah, it really would." All of the couples we hang out with are my friends, or David's family, and we thought it would be nice to make new couple friends, as a couple. I told David we'd have to join some groups, maybe hiking, dancing, etc. I told him it would be difficult, if not weird, to meet another couple in a bar.

But then, a man next to us got up to use the restroom, leaving his girlfriend at the bar. David and I started chatting with her, since she seemed nice. Her boyfriend came back, and he was also cool, so all four of us sat for another beer at the bar, and talked for an hour or so. They both seemed genuine, and shared some of our interests. They seemed like the type of couple we'd enjoy having as friends.

They asked for my business card, saying they'd love to come back to the island for a barbecue.

"We'll call you," they said as they walked out the door.

"That would be nice," we replied.

Making new friends is like dating. You don't want to come off too strong, you don't want to call the next day, you want to make sure your personalities mesh. I do hope this couple calls. It's just funny that right as we were talking about meeting new people, friends seemed to drop out of the sky, or off the boat.

So tell me, how do you meet new friends?

Go ahead, Twitterize Me

2009-03-13T08:51:00.001-07:00

I thought I'd be one of those people who'd never use twitter. Useless chatter, I always thought. Useless technology. Well, look at me now. I'm addicted.

I love twitter because it allows me to see brief headlines in the lives of friends and politicians, my favorite bloggers, the news, the theater, the bus schedule, anything I sign up for. It's such an easy way to disseminate information in a quick, speedy manner.

It's interesting that we need all this technology to stay in touch, as we move further and further away from human interaction. The human race is social, we need to feel connected to each other. Before, we lived in villages, now we live in online worlds. Sometimse I wonder if we'll ever move back toward getting to know our neighbors. I don't know any of my neighbors.

I feel as though I have plenty of real human interaction, that Facebook, MySpace, and Twitter aren't really taking the place of that. But I do feel a little apprehensive that one day, we'll all just sit in our own bubbles, twittering away our lives.

Gravity of San Miguel: Excerpt

2009-03-11T08:17:00.001-07:00

I've been working on a fiction piece for awhile now about a woman who decides to leave her comfortable life to go live in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Below is an excerpt:

The anxiety started in the pit of my stomach, where it fermented and boiled, then traveled to every extremity, every cell of my body. It took over my nervous system like a strange disease that left me shaking and sweaty. I felt the sweat curdle in my armpits, staining my white blouse yellow. The shirt seemed like a good idea this morning, when I was feeling vibrant and sure. It was loose, flowing, sexy yet subtle, and reminded me of tanned expatriates wearing chic, embroidered Mexican clothing. I realized too late that white is no good for a person scared crapless; only those who have nothing to hide.

The Aeromexico plane arced like a rainbow over the city of Seattle, painting the Olympic Mountains with memories. They were hunched guardians with capes made of snow, their heads rising slowly above the puffy white clouds. I thought they could protect me from my fear of change, but they changed too, eroding through time. Change wasn’t as easy to see, that way, when it took a millennium for one boulder to fall. I pressed against the window as we banked deeply to the right, heading south, to my new home. I saw waterways far below, the hills rising green to cocoon Lego housing developments and Lincoln Log marinas. Nothing looked real from this high up, even my own life was a dream. The ache turned my insides to stone as I tried not to think about what I’d be leaving, who would be lost.

I’d cringed when I last saw Steve’s face. His brows knitted worry along his forehead, his mouth turned down in disapproval. His frown teased the wrinkles out of his skin as it lost one more battle of its war with age.

“I can’t believe you’re giving it all up, your work, your life, me.”

“Oh, Steve.” I’d reached for him then, not because I felt he needed it, but because I did. “I’m going to miss you so much.” I breathed in his Giorgio cologne, his cheek scratchy against mine. He smelled salty; a whisper of dried tears that he never wanted me to see.

“I don’t understand it, Isabelle. I would have never mentioned San Miguel de Allende if I knew it was going to take you away from me. I want the best for you, but I feel like you are just running. Maybe if you turned to look back you could face it here, head on, in Seattle, with me.” His voice cracked and he bit down hard to stop the quivering of his lips.

It was then that I cried, tears drawing lines down my cheeks as our history swelled and burst the lining of my heart. Our bodies melted against each other as we held on tightly, each afraid the other would let go first.

“We’ve talked about this before, Steve,” I whispered against his ear, “This is something I need to do for myself. I can’t explain why, just yet, I just know, somehow, that it needs to happen.” I know Steve hated ambiguous answers, and I felt him tighten against me. It was the best I could do under these circumstances; even I didn’t quite know why I felt the overwhelming urge to be in Mexico. To find myself? To get away from a life that wasn’t mine?

“Fine then,” he said, suddenly pushing away from me, like putting distance between himself and pain would make it disappear. He didn’t realize yet that it follows you, wispy and illusive, circling your life until there’s nothing left.

It was then that I turned to go; knowing that a thousand more words between us would do nothing to fill the void in our hearts.

Our Layoff Story

2009-03-10T08:06:00.000-07:00

Some people have A Baby Story, others A Wedding Story, we have A Layoff Story. I group it along with happy things like babies and weddings because this is a positive thing in our lives. I know that when most of you read the word "layoff", you bite your nails and hyperventilate, thinking "Oh my god I could be next." When David and I hear the word "layoff", we think "freedom." It definately helps that we are DINK's (duel-income no-kids), or maybe I should say DINKNM (duel-income no-kids no-mortgage.) We are home free.

David has suspected a layoff for weeks now. The economy is obviously slumping, and the non-profit he worked for didn't score any new contracts. Not a lot of people want to invest in e-learning when they're not making any money. We told our property manager that a layoff could be imminent back in February. "We could lower your rent," they generously offered. This is another reason neither of us are worried about a layoff.

I know our viewpoint is very rare in this tough economy, but I think its important to spin something potentially negative into something positive. All we hear is about how layoffs wreck lives, how people lose their homes, how everything in life is ruined and ugly. This is a time for David to focus on building his own business and his website. It's a time for him to play tennis and practice his trombone, since he just joined a swing band and a large brass band. It's a time for relaxation and personal development, and of course, cooking me delicious dinners. I think all of us need a break from work once in awhile, to get out of the rat race and focus on what is truly important to our lives and to our future. Getting laid off is like taking a deep breath before jumping back into the pool. Sometimes I wish I was the one in that boat.

Another reason neither of us are worried is that we know work for David is on the horizon. He already has a couple of leads, and of course has to keep applying for jobs to get unemployment benefits. But I encourage him, "Enjoy this time, use this time for yourself, because before you know it, you'll be back at it, working 40 hours per week again." I know that at another point in our lives, David will return the favor for me.

I have a crush

2009-03-09T08:14:00.000-07:00

When I saw No Country for Old Men last year, I remember my friend Abby leaning over the whisper in my ear.

"I know you can't believe it now, but Javier Bardem is actually really good looking. I saw him in a comedy."

"No way," I responded.

He played a serial killer in No Country, and absolutely scared the living dickens out of me. I'd never seen him before, and thought he encapsulated evil. Whenever I saw him on the screen, my palms would sweat and I felt incredibly nervous.

Then, last night I saw him in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. He played a creative, intellectual, seductive artist living in Spain. Was this the same man? How could it be?

I couldn't keep my eyes off him in this movie. I loved the romanesque nose, the steamy, brown almond eyes, his voice, the unique, interesting face. I loved the character. Even David said, "Wow, that guy's a stud." This is after both of us were seriously disturbed after No Country.

I had a dream last night that had alternate endings for Vicky Cristina Barcelona. This isn't a giveaway, don't worry. In my dream, people were hunting him with big guns, even though he was a cute artist. They were trying to shoot him in his own home, and he was shooting people back. Who IS this guy? I just can't wrap my head around it since he played such different parts in these two movies.

To me, this is what makes an incredible actor. He deserved the academy award he received for No Country for Old Men. He is so versatile that it leaves me stunned. I am going to now run out and rent all the Spanish movies he's ever done.

It also goes to show that what really makes someone good-looking or bad-looking is their personality. He was truly awful in Old Country, and very lovable in Vicky Cristina. I think I have a crush. A big one. This man is truly amazing.

School is a tater tot

2009-03-06T08:55:00.000-08:00

The other day I covered a job fair at a community college in Des Moines. Immediately, the scent of delicious, succulent tators tots assaulted my senses. That one smell alone brought me back. Back to the days of elementary school when I'd be lucky enough to get a hot lunch with tator tots and salty ketchup. To the days of writing in cursive, the thick cut of scissors through construction paper, pink eraser dust. I loved the way lead scraped on lined paper. The smell of those crispy potatoes reminded me of how much I loved school, and miss it.

I never thought I liked school when I was actually in it. I'd dread going to classes, raising my hand, writing tedious long papers about subjects I didn't care about. In college I skipped astronomy almost every day and still got an "A". I just wanted to learn on my own time, not in a crowded lecture hall with 300 students. The classes I thoroughly enjoyed in college were Spanish, and electronic media, but even then I wanted it all to be done, so I could be a "big girl" and go out into the world.

Now that its been 6 years since I graduated college, I realize how truly inspiring it was. I loved walking in the cold across campus through towering oaks and willow trees, my backpack pulling my shoulders. I liked the sharp, inquisitive minds of young students all around me. I really enjoyed being exposed to new things, being on the radio for the first time, editing my first television package. Everything was fresh, and exciting.

In the past 6 years, when someone asked "Do you ever think of getting your Masters?" I always answered with a heartfelt and resounding, "NO WAY!." But now, I'm not so sure. Maybe it would be fun to once again learn something new. Perhaps psychology, my other profession of choice. Then I think of a tuition tab in the thousands of dollars, the tedious reading, being forced to write pages and pages of papers.

Maybe I'd be better off checking out a few psych books from the library, and some tater tots from Trader Joe's. I can bring back that newness of learning, it's up to me.

Food Wars

2009-03-05T08:03:00.000-08:00

This is exactly how I felt leaving work yesterday. We had one of our famous "food days" at work, which means cram your face with everything you can get your hands on, as fast as you can, then just keep eating the rest of the afternoon. I planned to eat lightly at "food day", and then eat my healthy, vegetarian Morrocan Chickpea Soup I had put in the refrigerator. But, like usualy, I lost all restraint when I saw the spread in the newsroom.

I ate a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, cheese and crackers, little chicken meatballs, greasy chips, macaroni salad, and 5 or 6 cookies, brownies and oreos. I rank diet soda. At the end of my gorge-fest, I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach, or suddenly pregnant. My belly felt like a volleyball, pushing against my ever so constricting jeans. I know I should have worn sweatpants for "food day," and should have taken the afternoon off for a junk induced coma.

I've noticed recently that I just can't handle junk food. My body repels it like poison, and makes me really regret listening to my tastebuds. I tend to eat really healthy foods most days, with plenty of fruits and vegetables, low-fat dairy, and healthy protein. I love to cook, and take careful time preparing lunches almost every day. I don't put much salt in my food. My body is addicted, and eating anything salty or fatty wreaks havoc on my system.

Running on the treadmill after eating all this junk felt like torture last night. I did it for 25 minutes, and my legs felt like lead, or trees growing out of the exercise machine. I had a hard time getting breath, since my belly was so bloated.

I hope I've learned my lesson. This happens every time I eat junk food, or even eat out in a restaurant. The problem is, I just can't resist what's in front of me. That's why I'm happy "food day" is a very, very rare occasion.

I could watch this a thousand times

2009-03-04T15:27:00.000-08:00

Oh my, I'm still laughing. This is soooooo hilarious.

and I have to put my other favorite dog video:

Yes, I'm a cheater

2009-03-04T09:09:00.000-08:00

For a few hours every week, I like to play Zelda: Twilight Princess on the Wii. This is an adventure game, where you have to figure things out, find clues, and fight monsters. I love entering fantasyland, where I wield a sword and explore strange new worlds. However, as Link, I have no patience.

I like when the game goes smoothly, where I spend a certain amount of time on my own trying to figure something out. But when I can't figure it out fairly quickly, I log onto the Internet, go to favorites, and look at "Zelda Twilight Princess Walkthrough." This shows the entire game, step by step. I used it when I couldn't figure out how to beat 3 shadow monsters, or where I needed to go next. I sorta feel guilty when I do this, like I should spend the hours other people spent to figure out the puzzles.

But you know.....I don't have time to spend 3 hours trying to figure out one monster. I'm not a huge gamer, and want to have fun when I play, not be frustrated. I wish the "Walkthrough" had existed when I played Zelda on the Super Nintendo in the 90's, because I became so frustrated that I just quit.

Is it wrong to cheat on video games? Does this mean I can't stick it through the tough spots?

When I start to feel guilty I just remind myself - it's just a video game. It's not real life.

Springing Forward

2009-03-03T08:13:00.001-08:00

On Sunday David and I went on a walk down to Faye Bainbridge State Park, where we sat on wooden chairs and stared at the rolling ocean, the snow-capped mountains. I heard the call of an eagle, saw seagulls playing in the surf. And on our way back home, I searched for evidence. Like a detective, I stared at branches on trees and bushes, looking for any sign of spring. And I saw it, tiny buds waiting to unfurl new life. I looked at the flower beds outside our front door and saw shoots of purple and pink. I was afraid our rare February snow would stunt the arrival of spring, but thankfully, I think I'm wrong.

Spring is my favorite time of year. I feel like those buds, slowly awakening to more light and warmer air. Something inside me stirs and comes alive. I feel like there is an end to the long tunnel of winter, that pulls my heart and mind down. I love that there is light in the morning when I wake up at 630am, like the earth is waking up with me, instead of me waking up the earth.

The only thing I'm dreading this year is the early arrival of "Spring Forward", setting our clocks forward one hour. It's happening THIS WEEKEND. Yes, it will be wonderful to have light in the evening until 630pm, but I think I'd rather have it at 630am. Once again, I'll be thrust into darkness every morning, looking forward to the light, that's not quite attainable yet.

Girl Scout cookies are like crack

2009-02-28T14:57:00.000-08:00

I go through the exact same thing every year with Girl Scout cookies. I politely look away when coworkers troll the newsroom, hoping to collect FOUR DOLLARS per box for their little son or daughter. Girl Scout cookies to me are like drugs, they are so addictive. All this week I only ate 2 or 3 cookies, even though they were displayed on cabinets....everywhere. This morning I went to the grocery store, and basically had to grab myself by the neck to drag myself away from the Girl Scout table. Whew! That was close.

Then today, as I'm sitting in the ferry waiting line, I see Girl Scouts. They're so cute and full of smiles, dragging a wheelbarrow piled high with cookies. I salivate as I watch then hand out cookies to other cars waiting to watch the boat. I fantasize about the crunchy coconut of the Samoas, the melt-in-your-mouth chocolate of the mints. The girls move closer and closer to me, like slow motion, and I find some hand that doesn't belong to me reaching for my wallet, pulling out a ten dollar bill. Then another hand I don't recognize rolls down the driver's side window, and a voice that doesn't belong to me says, "I want some! One box of Samoas, one of Mints." I'm tempted to shout NEVER MIND, and clamp a hand over my mouth. But once again, this spirit controlling my movements forces me to pay, and grab the cookies. Then this same force opens BOTH BOXES, and begins to eat. And eat. And eat. Delicious, delectable. Oh, my poor tummy.

They are tempting me right now from the passenger chair. I can taste the crumbs in my mouth. I haven't reached for one in five solid minutes, but I'm trapped in here for another 25. The city of Seattle looks so distant on the horizon; I'm sure I could eat both boxes before we can arrive. This is a good test for me, resisting more cookies. I feel like a drug addict on the brink of a breakthrough.

Oh!! Shoot!! I can't do it!! I grab another one and stuff my face.

I'm a scaredy cat

2009-02-27T12:11:00.000-08:00

There are two types of news stories that scare me to death to cover: funerals, and young men. I covered a memorial service last week that almost gave me a heart attack, this week it's the young men. I'm here staring at them right now, but am sitting in my newscar writing this blog as a way to procrastinate. I already have sweaty palms, and I feel anxiety welling within me. I'm afraid of stuttering, or dropping my mic, or having all those eyes looking at me at once. Sometimes I'm amazed that I'm a news reporter, since I was such a shy child. That shyness is still deeply ingrained, but only comes out in certain circumstances.

I'm scared of all young men under 30 - frat boys, firefighters, police officers and soldiers. Don't get me wrong, I think they are great, but from a distance. I admire their public service, and am honored that the soldiers are fighting for my freedom. But I'm deathly afraid to approach them and talk to them. I think "testosterone-ee" men are like viewing wild animals - they look good in uniform, but you should use binoculars to enjoy it.

But, this is my job, and part of my job is doing things that make me feel uncomfortable. I think it builds a stronger character through forcing me to do things I wouldn't normally do. I've noticed my shyness slowly leeching away over the years, and I'm much more comfortable talking to strangers, if they are women or older men. I especially don't mind talking to strangers who are expecting it, or are part of a cause, or rally.

I see the soldiers now, walking to Starbucks, getting teriyaki. They travel in large packs, which makes it even more frightening. They drive big trucks, the wheels crunching gravel. They talk in loud voices, and walk with a swagger. Bless their hearts, they are sacrificing so much for us. But please bless me as well, because I'm scared out of my mind.

Ferry Crowding

2009-02-26T07:22:00.000-08:00

There are some social situations that are just awkward. One of them is when a person is facing you in the elevator. Another is when a person is facing you on the ferry.

I caught one ferry earlier than normal today, which means I'm tired and cranky. It will all go away in a couple of hours, but right now I'm easily annoyed. For some reason, all the people sharing my "booth" on the ferry are driving me nuts. There are 4 people sitting near me, chatting. I want them all the leave. I want the entire booth to myself. I don't want someone's knees 2 feet from mine, or someone's foot 5 inches from my backpack. GO AWAY. I seem to have a problem with my space being invaded.

Right as I type this, the two men sitting directly across from me got up and moved away. I wonder if they got my strong brain waves, or read my thoughts. They were sitting there most of the trip, talking and looking over my head. They weren't being loud, or obnoxious. They were well-dressed and on their way to work. Why was this bothering me so much? I think when I'm tired, everything bothers me. Certain lighting bothers me, voices bother me, my arm is sore, I don't like the way my hair feels on my neck. Yes, I have sensory sensitivity issues.

Luckily, I know this annoyance will go away. It's a symptom of my taking forever to wake up. I got 7 hours of sleep, so enough, but I'm still groggy and chugging coffee. All I have to say is thank goodness I don't work the morning shift, or my coworkers would hate me.

In a room with Evil

2009-02-25T17:25:00.000-08:00

I felt like I was in my own version of "Silence of the Lambs" as deputies wheeled this shackled man into his courtroom. He's an accused rapist and murderer, and other violent attacks against women. His arms and legs were bound, a taser wrapped around his arm. The only thing missing was Hannibal Lecter's face mask, which he really needs after I heard him unfurl a string of obscenities. The extreme security measures were put in place after Curtis Thompson tried to attack jail guards, and lunged at his own attorney.

I had to sit within yards of this man in a King County Courthouse. Evil oozed from his pores, and I was afraid if his eyes met mine I'd turn to stone. His stringy hair was tied in a ponytail, his lips curled in a sneer. He started at the testifying detectives like he could kill in an instant. He shouted cuss words at the judge and his attorney in a deep, robust voice. I had flashes of him yelling at his victims that way, and it gave me chills. I could tell this was a seriously disturbed, mentally ill man, someone who I felt could be inhabited by the devil.

There aren't man people who I feel are truly evil, that I can feel their energy circling mine, threatening my sanity. At the same time I wanted to run for dear life and attack this man for brutalizing so many women. I could have become the news story in that courtroom.

I wonder what makes people so evil? How can someone get so screwed up in the head that they rape and murder? What events plagued this man's life to make him that way, or was he born with this evil already in him? Criminals like this scare me, and I hope to God I never come in contact with one out on the street. I hope justice is served against this psychopath.

Favorite neighborhood?

2009-02-23T17:29:00.000-08:00

I have yet to really find my favorite neighborhoods in Seattle. David and I went to town to run some errands on Saturday, and I forlornly said, "Where do you want to go?" The day was beautiful, but I couldn't think of anywhere fun, cute, and funky to walk around. It was slightly depressing. If I were in Portland, I'd know exactly where to go, and it's probably because I grew up there.

I'd go to 23rd street for espresso and boutique shopping, and to the Pearl District for martini bars and upscale kitchen stores. I'd go to Hawthorne or Belmont to mingle with hippies and look at African drums, maybe catch a movie and beer at a McMenamins theater. I'd go to NE 28th street for the most delectable happy hour imaginable at La Tabla, where bartenders with pierced lips serve fancy cocktails. I'd walk down to Burnside to go shopping for vintage clothes or furniture, or Alberta to look at the new art galleries and old homes with huge, wraparound porches. I love that traffic is slow, and that almost everyone is friendly.

When I first came to Seattle, I enjoyed Queen Anne. But I soon tired of the snotty "Greek system" mentality, and girls with jeans that didn't cover their rears. David and I used to walk around Capitol Hill, but that lost its luster very quickly for me. Greenwood is cute, but a little too busy and indifferent, and Green Lake is stocked with too many bikes and rollerbladers. Redmond with its windy one-way streets is too confusing, Lake City too trashy. Bellevue too plastic. Fremont doesn't do much for me either. I think Ballard may be the closest I've found to home. I love the coffee shops, and the funky bars. I love La Carta de Oaxaca and that delicious cupcake store. There are also entertaining botiques and furniture stores.

Another of my favorites is Bainbridge Island, which is precisely why I live there. I love the trees and parks and beaches, and that people drive a little slower. There are a handful of delicious restaurants, and exquisite art galleries and bookstores. I wish I could stay there all week long and go to Seattle only for special occasions.

Why can't I find many places to fit in here? Where is your favorite place to hang out? What is your favorite neighborhood?