Boston in a nutshell

I'm back from my trip, refreshed and feeling like a new woman. Working Friday night at the kennels made me realize that most of my joie de vivre in the job was restored with the enormously thoughtful, generous and unexpected gift of a new iPod from my sister, planned from the very first day I told her of the theft of its predecessor (she's the best damn sister anyone could want and I'll hear no opinions to the contrary). That and the absence of critically ill dogs and the placement of unrealistic expectations on me. However, I've realized that no amount of vacation in the world will cure me of my dislike of whiny, needy, crybaby dogs, a bigger bunch of which I've never seen than those I had Friday night. Ahhh, well. There seems to be no pleasing me.

My trip went very well. My eastward journey was spent for the most part unconscious. I slept soundly in the airport while waiting to leave. I slept even better on the first leg to Philly, after my one seatmate announced before take-off, "No offense, but I'm gonna grab me a window seat back there" as if I was looking forward to his company so eagerly that I had to be let down easy. Across the aisle sat a 20-something or younger kid who looked like a less polished version of Justin Long, who zonked out just as quickly and deeply as I. The flight attendants must have wondered if there was a carbon monoxide leak in our row.

I thought I could stay awake for the much shorter hop from Philly to Boston, but I was mistaken. This time my seatmate, a well-traveled businessman, stuck around, and let me tell you it takes no small amount of aplomb to recover your dignity after snorting yourself awake and realizing your mouth's been hanging open for the last half hour. But I did feel like a million bucks after that nap.

The first order of business in Boston (after satisfying my Dunkin Donuts craving) was to get this done:

I feel like a new woman because some of me is, in fact, new.

In my dream about getting this tattoo, I went to Ami of Miami Ink , who insistently tried to convince me to do something more flowery and girly. I meekly insisted on keeping this design. This dream came true a little when Khoa, the artist, presented me with the barest suggestion of a spiral shape for a sketch and kept saying, "but using my style. My style." I'm glad he's so confident in his style, but I'm the one who has to live with the result. I insisted on solid lines and thank goodness, because I have no idea what he was imagining. He more or less freehanded this. It looks pretty basic, but he put in a little shading and some breaks in the lines so it looks more vortex-y, which I'm not sure I'm thrilled with. Easy enough to fix later possibly. This is my right upper arm, where I've always wanted something, I just hadn't decided what until this week. Despite me mentioning my armband and leg tattoo several times during the session, he remained under the impression that this was my first -- which you wouldn't have guessed by the way he was mercilessly pummeling my skin.

Stand-alone piece or starting point for my sleeve? Only time will tell.

We made all the essential New England stops, Newbury Comics, Friendly's, Ikea (WHY isn't there one in Denver yet??), grinder shops. We rented movies, Amy introduced me to the nectar of the gods (vanilla chai latte) and we talked at great length about the pros and cons of me staying at the kennels. I bought a lot of Red Sox paraphenalia for Tery and visited my sister's hospital, St. Elsewhere.

The last stop was Quincy Market. I'd been there before, but not since they built the New England Holocaust Memorial. 6 glass towers 54 feet tall, each one representing a different concentration camp, etched top to bottom not with names, but the numbers of 6 million victims.

Inside the towers each wall contained a short anecdote from survivors or witnesses. The one that stuck with me was from a man who described hugging his parents goodbye as they were taken to the camps and telling his mother he hoped she didn't have to work too hard, and how they were both dead a short time later.

A starkly beautiful and elegant reminder of the ugliest period in our world's history.



Just to lighten the mood, here's a picture of Amy's cat Npuph (silent "N." She lived in a heavily Vietnamese-populated area of California when she got her):

She's not fat, she's fluffy. 13 pounds, and probably 6 of that is fur.

All in all I had a really great time, but by the last day I missed the sunny, clear skies of Colorado. Did you know in Boston in winter by 3:30 p.m. it's already practically twilight? Gloomy and depressing, and now I remember part of the reason why I left New England in the first place.

My return westward was a little more difficult. This time I was changing at LaGuardia, where I've actually never been. As I tried to determine where to find my connecting flight, airport personnel ushered me towards a shuttle bus with vague, unhelpful directions in thick New York accents. I waited nervously on the sidewalk, not at all sure I was where I was supposed to be or how to know which bus I was waiting for. My worry was not alleviated in the slightest when I noticed that New York city buses were passing through, and one misstep could land me in midtown Manhattan.

A girl appeared at my side, a fellow traveler, young and fresh-faced. It turned out she was heading back to Colorado too, and when she learned my destination she proclaimed relievedly, "Good! I'll just stick with you!" The only thing more nerve-wracking than being lost and confused is being lost and confused with someone depending on you to lead the way. I didn't do too badly though, and got us both safely to the main terminal.

I had to pass through security a second time thanks to LaGuardia's lack of an internal transport system. Whereas I understand New Yorkers have a better reason than most to be a little tense about security, standing in line in my socks while gruff male voices barked unintelligible orders made me feel for all the world like the newest arrival to Sing Sing Prison. Please sir, I'm not a terrorist, but I cannot understand what you're saying. Don't shoot!

For the longer leg from New York to Denver we were packed like sardines into the plane. It would have been better if the kid next to me in the middle seat hadn't interpreted my generous gift of the arm rest as an invitation to jab his elbow into my ribs the entire way. It would also have been better if at Denver International, when they decided to change our flight's baggage carousel, someone could have informed the baggage handlers. But no journey is perfect, is it?