My favorite tree on Thompson Street

Saturday at Market

I would have posted lovely pictures of the Farmer's Market on Saturday, when I took them, except that I have been largely unable to access my blog the past few days. Users of my forums have noted that things are moving painfully slowly there and, similarly, it's proving infuriating to try to log into my Movable Type account to blog, let alone actually post something.

My hosting service, GoDaddy, swears it's not something they can replicate in Technical Support Land and is, therefore, a figment of my imagination and/or something I'll just have to figure out how to fix. Problem is, I have no idea what the problem is. Thus, no idea to fix it. Not that I'm frustrated or anything. It's hard being your own IT department. I'm having an amazing and challenging and frustrating time working on rewriting my screenplay. It's tough to have written a full-length feature script and then to have to dissect it and piece it back together or change it according to the rules of drama and structure and voice and timing... I'm devouring scripts right now (You Can Count on Me, Good Will Hunting, Thelma & Louise, Silence of the Lambs) and watching movies (American Beauty, Witness, Chinatown) to try to absorb some knowledge, some idea of how to piece a story together for maximum dramatic impact. And as with so many things in life, the more I see, the less I think I know.

Of course, lately I've been feeling a lot like someone who just doesn't Get It. For example, I recently skimmed through James Frey's controversial psuedo-memoir A Million Little Pieces. I found a dollar copy somewhere and thought I'd check out what the fuss was all about. Given the blurbs on the jacket, my expectations were pretty high going in and by the time I had waded through as much of it as I could, I closed the book in frustration and thought, "I don't get it."

All debates about reality and memoir aside, I found the writing style to be virtually impenetrable, a repetitive sea of monotonous observations that pained me to work through. If you're writing a novel and your main character is a brash, unlikable egotist who changes little throughout the course of the book, you've got a problem on your hands. If you're writ

Saturday at Market

I would have posted lovely pictures of the Farmer's Market on Saturday, when I took them, except that I have been largely unable to access my blog the past few days. Users of my forums have noted that things are moving painfully slowly there and, similarly, it's proving infuriating to try to log into my Movable Type account to blog, let alone actually post something.

My hosting service, GoDaddy, swears it's not something they can replicate in Technical Support Land and is, therefore, a figment of my imagination and/or something I'll just have to figure out how to fix. Problem is, I have no idea what the problem is. Thus, no idea to fix it. Not that I'm frustrated or anything. It's hard being your own IT department.

All that aside, it was a lovely day at Market and I've a Flickr slideshow with more colorful fall photos by clicking here.

I'm prepping (or not prepping) right now for the third week of the six-week workshop I'm teaching at 826 Michigan on Tuesday nights. It's called "Push-Ups for Budding Auteurs" and it's aimed at giving kids who love to write an hour to flex their creative muscles through guided writing exercises and prompts. I've got an amazing group of about ten kids, ranging in age from 10 to 14, with a wide variety of interests and abilities. And some truly awesome minds. They just love to write. I'm having an amazing and challenging and frustrating time working on rewriting my screenplay. It's tough to have written a full-length feature script and then to have to dissect it and piece it back together or change it according to the rules of drama and structure and voice and timing... I'm devouring scripts right now (You Can Count on Me, Good Will Hunting, Thelma & Louise, Silence of the Lambs) and watching movies (American Beauty, Witness, Chinatown) to try to absorb some knowledge, some idea of how to piece a story together for maximum dramatic impact. And as with so many things in life, the more I see, the less I think I know.

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Of course, lately I've been feeling a lot like someone who just doesn%

I had enough battery power left for one shot

...at the park. This is it.  

Two degrees of separation from salvation

I'm one of those people who used to get ridiculously moved by those late night Foster Brooks or Sally Struthers commercials, thinking I could make the difference in the life of a child I'll never meet -- and for less than the cost of a cup of coffee a day. Yet the organizational wall that stood between me and the children seemed too big, too suspect. So I selfishly continued to buy the cup of coffee a day instead. I like to know that I'm making a difference to people -- but not to the people who run these organizations.

Now I'm only two degrees separated from feeling like I have the potential to make a real impact on the lives on some children in need. Life is funny. I met my friend Stephannie when she was the secretary for the Knight-Wallace Foundation here in Ann Arbor last year. On the side, she was also a classically trained opera singer and a Tibetan priestess (or some such thing...clearly, I'm not down with how this all works). You know, the usual stuff.

Earlier this year, Stephannie got the opportunity to move to Tibet to work on translating some ancient texts and to work with the community there, perhaps teaching. There are many people in need in Tibet, but often programs focus on serving the needs of boys and men. Enter a young man named Dockpo Tra. Concerned about the welfare of young girls, he has personally rescued 30 Tibetan girls, ages 5-13, from difficult and dangerous living situations and brought them to live in his home.

Tra's goal is to build a school to provide these girls with both a safe home where their basic needs are met and an education. (At present, girls in Tibet make up about 25% or less of the school population.) You can read much more about the details of this amazing project, with which Stephannie is now affiliated, by visiting Dockpo's organization, The Alliance for the Empowerment of Tibetan Women. (You can find out more about Stephannie and her work in Tibet by visiting her blog .)

You can read all the details there and you'll discover they've got big dreams for helping these girls. They need money, of course, but the good news is that money goes a long way in Tibet. The amazing thing to me, at least, is that I feel as though I know these girls. I see photos of them with Steph and they seem so much more real to me than random kids in commercials. I'll know first-hand if and how my efforts affect them. That's pretty amazing. As I said, US money goes a long way in Tibet. I asked Stephannie (below, with the girls) and she said about $50 US will buy one girl two full sets of winter clothing and two pairs of winter boots. (The winters are long and severe in Tibet.) That's a pretty tangible difference, don't you think? I can do that. Chris and I can make sure a couple of girls have what they need for the winter.

And because I'm feeling so Sally Struthers, here's my quest -- to find enough people that all 30 girls are outfitted for the winter. That means $1,500, bit by bit. I won't beg. I know everyone has their pet causes and that this may not move you. But I can let you know, I can keep you posted on these girls and how your donation makes a difference. Or I don't even need to do it at all. I can't stress enough that even $5 or $10 will be really helpful. Just make your checks out to Stephannie Piro and send them to:

Michael Meihn c/o The Dam Tsig Foundation PO Box 8392  Ann Arbor MI 48107

In addition, I decided to try to rally a last-minute knitter's effort to make hats, scarves, mittens, etc. for these girls and send them over. Stephannie says it's hard to find really warm winter gear for them there. Winter's already setting in and it takes a while for things to reach them there, so I'm thinking I'd like to send what I can within a few weeks. If you're a knitter and you think you might be able to whip things up -- remember, the girls are between the ages of 5 and 13 -- that'd be fantastic. As I said, I'm just mulling this over and if you have any thoughts or ideas or think you might want to pledge a hat or two, email me at julia@readjulia.com. Thanks!

This concludes our public service announcement.

Missing the point

It's no wonder I can't make it to things I say I'm going to attend. My brain is a sieve. The whole point of that last entry was supposed to be about how I really, really was going to attend the event on my calendar on Thursday night. But I didn't quite get there. I mean, I didn't quite get there in the blog entry. I did get there in a person. As part of my screenwriting class, we got to attend a fascinating lecture and Q&A with Josh Olson, the dude who wrote A History of Violence. (He received nominations from the Academy Awards, the Writer's Guild of America and others for his work.) My problem going into it all was the fact that I didn't actually enjoy the movie very much. However, when I ran into our teacher Jim Burnstein and John Olson on the way to the lecture, I shook his paw and the following words came out of my mouth: "I loved your film."

I'm that much of a celebrity whore.

Actually, I think that with this second-semester experience, I just have an overwhelming sense of admiration for anyone who does this crazy form of writing for a living. And also, I'm a celebrity whore. Josh Olson is a giant guy, by the way, big and ambling and friendly and it's not hard to believe that he's a fan of comic books and fantasy. He was dressed appropriately for the closed event, which was attended by maybe fifty or sixty students within the Screen Arts & Culture department, in what I think of as the Hollywood screenwriter's uniform -- black t-shirt, black jacket and jeans.

He was very generous with us as he shared his journey to screenwriting fame, crediting a lot of waiting and diligence and a lot of hard work. It wasn't a short or easy road that led him to writing A History of Violence, which was based on a comic novel. (That might help explain why I didn't enjoy it that much -- I'm not much of a fan of the comic novel and once I knew the film's origins, I realized it really somehow retains that "feel." Also, I watched it on a plane to Amsterdam during some turbulence and that doesn't help anything...)

But the coolest thing was that, despite our obviously different interests, I could really relate to him as a writer. I was thrilled to discover that we both have the same approach to writer's block. "Write badly," Olson urged us, and that's exactly what I do when I can't get an article finished. I write the most pedantic, awful version of it, just to get the words on the page, some sense of structure and then I go back and I rewrite it, pretending I'm editing the work of some addled sixth-grader.

I've had some difficulty reading screenplays -- they're just not easy on the eyes, sometimes tough to follow and get into. Olson noted, quite wisely, that it's because screenplays are what he called an "interim form" of writing. They're not meant to be read. A ha! It's not just me.

And he urged us to do something really important, something that I think applies to anyone who writes, whether you're a journalist or a novelist or an essayist or a screenwriter. He said that, in the midst of all the craziness, you have to "hold onto the thing that makes you want to write."

To be honest, I've never quite figured out what that thing is for me. Maybe it's to be heard or to be taken seriously. I'm not sure. But whatever it is, I get that I need to hold onto it, because I've lost sight of it in the past and I've let myself move far away from writing and I've never found happiness doing anything else.

The best laid plans

It is truly stunning the extent to which I will go sometimes to avoid writing. As of 11 this morning, all of my socks were paired, my winter tights brought out and inspected for holes and my t-shirts folded well enough to be a Gap display. Those of you who know me, know this type of organizing only occurs when I'm trying desperately to avoid something, and I am. I'm trying to avoid fixing all the holes in my screenplay. So far, so good. I'm on a roll, actually, when it comes to not following plans. Last week I was excited to see Sandra Cisneros when the combination of a nasty cold and a hot pot of soup convinced me to stay home rather than going to see one of my favorite authors speak. Yesterday, I headed to Borders at 11:45 or so for a 12:30 in-store performance and signing by Barenaked Ladies.

The crowds I had expected to see outside Borders were non-existent and once inside, I discovered why. All the smart people seemed to know that you had to show up way sooner and get yourself a special wristband to be admitted to the upstairs area, where the event was taking place. By the time I got there, of course, they weren't giving out anymore wristbands and a group of really sulky fans were lining up by the stairs anyway, pouting.

An employee assured me I'd still be able to hear the event from downstairs, and I hung around a few minutes, listening to the floorboards above us creak with a zillion fans poised to have Way More Fun than me. I decided sticking around and hoping the music flooded downwards was a bit like living next door to people having a party and pretending that you were invited. I left to drown my sorrows in a non-fat decaf latte (how's that for livin') at Espresso Royale.

Glad I did, too, because I ran into two of this year's Fellows - Challen Stephens and Baris Kuruku - and promptly horned my way in on their coffee date. Challen's an education reporter from the Huntsville Times and is here studying Images of the South while Baris is here from CNN Turk, where he's a sports editor and anchor. Had a really great time chatting with both of them and especially listening to Baris tell us, in perfect English, how bad his English is. This year's got some good Fellows, I tell you. It's no class of '06, but what is?

A chilly fall day

Seems like overnight it became time to take all the tank tops from the closet and pull out stacks of sweaters I'd forgotten all about. And, curse it all, what I thought were allergies yesterday have blown into a full-on cold today, complete with stuffy head and aches. Still, there's a unique and specific pleasure to bundling up, pulling a blanket over you and watching movies on the laptop. Chris is off sleuthing on the west coast, so I'm not receiving the adequate amount of pity minor colds require. But at least the cats seem relatively attentive. Last night, I made a big pot of soup with leeks and carrots I got at the Farmer's Market and I've already run all my errands for the day, so there's nowhere I need to be.

There are worse ways to spend a day.

The author on Mango street

I think it was my senior year in college, when I was trying hard to be a Fiction Writer and was desperate for women who were writing the way the voices in my head sounded, that I first stumbled upon Sandra Cisneros' The House on Mango Street. I was smitten. Spare, simple language, the rythmn of the life of the title street reflected in the rythmn of the words. She became and remained one of a group of women who changed the way I wrote and the way I thought about writing, along with Lorrie Moore, Amy Hempel, Jane Ann Phillips and Mona Simpson. I'm thrilled to note she's on the UM campus this week. Tomorrow night, she gives the Hispanic Heritage Keynote Speech (entitled "Why I'm not Hispanic") at the Rackham auditorium at 7:30 pm. She's also featured in a mid-day talk on Friday, in her PJs no less. Unfortunately, I've another commitment so I can't catch the Friday one, which takes place from 11 - 1 in Angell Hall. The intriguing description is below:

Dressed in their pajamas, author, Sandra Cisneros and U-M Professor of Anthropology and Women's Studies, Ruth Behar will have a public conversation. They will discuss a range of topics, including writing, books, and being Latinas, topics which they have been talking about for over a decade. A continental breakfast will be served.

St. Louis again

I can't stay away. I'm back in St. Louis for the weekend, this time for a performance of St. Louis' top-rated non-broadcast live talk show, Free Candy. Somehow we've once again used our wiles to wrangle up an impressive and fun guest line up. Amanda made some sort of deal with the devil to get us a few minutes with the much-ballyhooed and world-reknown conductor David Robertson who recently signed on to be the musical director of the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra until 2010. Very fancy! He must have us confused with, like, Letterman or something. It happens all the time. Just don't tell him, okay? We're also going to have Charles Henderson on from the St. Louis Scottish Games . If you're not from around here, you may not know what a big ol' deal this event is each year. But people will be coming from all over to toss cabers and do the highland fling next weekend, mark my words. And I'm excited to hear singer-songwriter Jesse Irwin. Amanda's been talking up his combo of clever lyrics and folky music, especially on his song "Ladeusiers." It'll mean nothing to those outside the St. Louis area, but those familiar with the hoity-toity nabe of Ladue will appreciate such poignant turns of phrase as:

You're rich and you're bright and you're pasty and white You've got what it takes to suceed You like cheeses and wine, and you're real good at buyin' Lots of shit that you don't really need And you live in a house for a family of ten But you've got a family of two You're a Laduesier, Laduesier - a hoosier that lives in Ladue

Actually, I'm excited about all aspects of this show. I was here a couple of months ago for a show, in the midst of all our moving madness, and didn't really feel like I brought it. (Brung it?) Now, life's a little less crazy and I'm able to focus a little on it and hopefully not force Amanda to carry the whole show while I gaze out at the audience comatose. Not that she doesn't do it beautifully, because she does.

So if you're in St. Louis, come by Hartford Coffee Company at Hartford & Roger in the Tower Grove South neighborhood. Tomorrow night, 7 pm start -- which means get there by 6:15 or so to grab a seat. Free candy, free entertainment. Excellent.

Enough plugging of all that. It's been another fast weekend here, running around trying to see as many beloved friends as possible in too short a timeframe. Then it's back to Ann Arbor Monday morning. And at some point in there I've got some serious homework to do for my screenwriting class.

I'm actually suffering from a bit of a crisis of confidence in that arena. I met with my study group last week and am now afraid that perhaps people in their early 20s with no life experience don't "get" my writing. Well, it's either that or my work sucks as badly as they said it does and it seems far, far easier to blame them.... Oh, the life of a college student is so, so hard!

Fall has arrived

I don't know if it's here to stay, but the fact that today's high isn't supposed to exceed 60 degrees certainly suggests that we're actually going to have an autumn this year. True, I've been looking forward to this, my favorite season, when we get to bundle up in sweaters and layers and take long walks shuffling our feet through piles of fallen leaves. But I'm not sure I'm quite emotionally prepared for the actual End of Summer as it will mean some really serious focus on my writing goals, especially my MFA application. It's been yet another whirlwind week in the life of crazy-travelin' Jules. Last week's big excitement was starting the advanced screenwriting class I'm taking. It's going to be a lot of work and a lot of homework but I think it's going to be a terrific education in rewriting and give me a greater insight into this strange and difficult craft. I'm learning a lot, even if I feel like I'm practically ancient in a sea full of lethargic 20-year-olds.

Chris and I zipped off last Thursday to Louisville for my brother Jonathan's wedding. Chris stayed through the rehearsal dinner Friday night but had to jet off pre-ceremony on Saturday morning to return to Ann Arbor, where he was scheduled to speak on a panel about post-fellowship careers. It was one of many events during the Knight-Wallace Fellowship reunion weekend, most of which I missed.

I got up at an ungodly hour on Sunday to make it back to Ann Arbor in time for the KWF BBQ and then to host a small gathering of the class of 2006 on our deck afterwards. Lovely time catching up with fellows from in town and out, including Fara Warner (with new beau Paul in tow), John Bacon (with the lovely Whitney), the entire Butters clan, Lisa & Chuck in from NYC, Rainey & Graham in from Boston and Thomas Kamilindi. Good times!

Now I'm scrambling to update this blog, get some homework reading done and head off to Pioneer High School this afternoon to help local scribe Deb Merion with her college essay writing workshop (an 826 Michigan gig). Then it's back home for a jump start on the week's homework since I'll be out of town next weekend again for a rockin' Free Candy. Very much looking forward to it, although I'll take a weekend at home after that, if you don't mind.

Not dead. Or trapped under something heavy.

Just busy...and woefully inattentive to my blog. Which probably disappoints all three of my readers. Sigh. It's been a whirlwind week of going hither and yon, it seems and that'll probably continue for the rest of the month. I jetted off to St. Louis this weekend for a 48-hour shot-in-the-arm of the people I love and an unsuccessful attempt to get a renter for our house there. I really had an outstanding time, being made a fuss over by wonderful folk and catching up with friends. I love Ann Arbor, but you St. Louis people are my backbone.

I traveled back to Ann Arbor yesterday, which just happened to be September 11. That meant I was standing in the "B" boarding group line at the Southwest terminal in St. Louis when we were bid, by a pre-recorded message from the department of Homeland Security, to observe a moment of silence at 9:46 (8:46 St. Louis time) - the moment the first plane hit the World Trade Center. It was a strange thing indeed to hear a terminal fall silent or, actually, almost silent as some people don't seem to be able to stop talking for an entire minute for any reason. But did it feel meaningful or important? Hard to say. I certainly didn't feel any spirit of camaraderie with my fellow boarding passengers.

What did strike me, however, was how I felt boarding the plane yesterday morning - normal and insignificant. And I think about how those people simply had no idea, how normal their lives must have been, the places their minds were wandering before everything changed in a matter of minutes.

Unlike those people, I got off the plane when it landed in Detroit and just went on with my life. You know, otherwise the terrorists win. Speaking of which, I can't express how annoyed I am at this whole ridiculous level of extra "security" created by insisting we all pack our toothpaste and lip gloss.

I'm stunned at the level to which this government is willing to stoop to manufacture fear, completely ignoring the fact that this last round of "liquid bombers" had nothing more than an idea in place when found. They had no solid method, no materials. Does the TSA think that while these guys couldn't work out how to disguise shampoo as an explosive *I* have? I appreciate the credit but a quick chat with my high school Chemistry teacher would clear that up right away.

Regardless, I made it home safe and sound, just in time to spend the rest of the day obsession over my screenplay before starting Advanced Screenwriting last night. It's essentially a rewrite class, where we'll be taking the feature-length script we wrote previously and, in all likelihood, tearing it apart and reconstructing it. I had to swallow hard at the amount of work and reading it's going to entail, especially while I'm planning to teach two workshops this fall at 826 Michigan and get my application together for the MFA program.

Still, the odd thing is that, upon revisiting it after a summer away from it, it turns out I actually like my screenplay. And I don't often feel truly confident about much of the writing I produce. But considering this was the most challenging, most different type of writing I'd ever done, I like the idea of pushing myself further, just to see what I can deliver. Unlike most of my young (so young!) and eager classmates, I don't harbor fantasies of jetting off to LA and seeing my name on the big screen. I'm just curious about what I'm capable of in this vein.

Anyway, speaking of homework, I'm off to pick up the text books and scripts that are required reading for the course and get as much reading done before we leave town again on Thursday for my brother's wedding in Louisville. And, yes, I'll check my shampoo then, too. Just to keep America safe.

Pics from PR

In case you were dying to know a little bit more about our travels last weekend... A few street shots of Old San Juan. Why don't we paint all our buildings such beautiful colors?

La Cementeria de San Juan sits right by 16th Century fort El Morro, with a view of the Atlantic.

One of El Morro's ancient turrets keeping guard over a tranquil, grey ocean.

Many of the houses have decorative tiles on them. This one, apparently, is where they keep the grandpas.

And only French speakers will understand that this is where they keep the crazy dogs.

Happy Labor-Free Day

I'm typing this from our deck, where I've been sitting in my bright orange adirondack chair, sipping coffee and knitting. It's a gorgeous Monday, which feels like Sunday, as these holidays often do. In the shade it's just cool enough to warrant a light sweatshirt. This feels like heaven. It has been, in fact, a fabulous weekend all around. Although we had a little difficulty readjusting to reality after returning from the rainforest early last week, it seems we brought home with us a lesson or two about really unplugging.

On Saturday, I turned ten. That is, I celebrated ten years of sobriety. In a row! And my husband, to mark the occasion, spent the day spoiling me to death, starting with breakfast in bed. He delivered to me a tray with a warm come-undone bun from Zingerman's, a ridiculous concoction of a sourdough boule studded throughout with big chunks of dark chocolate and a piping hot latte. Plus, one perfect sunflower and one perfect stargazer lily laid on the tray to perfect effect. (The remainder of each bunch was in the kitchen and would later appear in the living room arranged in vases.) In the afternoon, we had lunch at Zingerman's (seriously, they're not sponsoring this entry!) and it was a perfect day for people watching. It wasn't overcrowded, thank goodness, since it was the Wolverines' first game but still reflective of the swollen population now that school's back in session.

We capped that off with a brief meander through the Saturday farmer's market, still packed at 1 in the afternoon and strolling in and out of the Kerrytown shops. Then I was dropped off at the Relax Station for a 75-minute massage. Too decadent! (Best of all, the therapist was really good at myofascial release which, as you may know, is not entirely pleasant but very helpful to those of us in pain.)

That evening, Chris had made reservations at Eve in Kerrytown. I have to say it was sublime. Everything about the place and was perfect, from the cozy atmosphere to the service to the food itself. Really a lovely treat and well worth splurging on if you're in town.

As if that wasn't enough -- as if any of that wasn't enough -- when we got home, Chris showered me with gifts. How many women can claim a husband who buys them great shoes? All you have to do is witness my green suede Merrell moccasins and you know I'm one of them. My packages also included a gorgeous Motawi tile. I've been aching for one for ages and now have kick-started my collection.

I didn't need all the fuss and adulation. The milestone is, after all, its own reward. But, damn if I didn't enjoy every minute of it. And, yes, I do know how lucky I am.

We've since spent the rest of the weekend hanging out, doing the errands that people do. Yesterday, we hit Target and we decided to tackle our joined problem with wrinkedyness by investing in one of those clothes steamers. I cannot express how much fun I had yesterday afternoon, steaming the hell out of everything within reach, like an unfilmed infomercial. Few things bring me so much pleasure as a great gadget. What a sucker I am!

Today, Chris is off running more errands of his own. And I am, as I said, sitting quietly on our deck, trying to pretend the noise of the traffic on West Huron is the rush of wind through the leaves of palm trees in the rainforest. (It's not working very well.) But that's okay. We have a nice yellow house, a pine tree in our front yard a zillion miles tall and squirrels getting a little too saucy in the trees. That seems every bit as good.

Getting to El Yunque

There are certain things to know about Puerto Rico before visiting. The island comprises both the most pristine and breath-taking tropical scenery imaginable -- and widespread poverty, which rears its head in the form of crumbling, rusting structures, maddeningly something roads and hollowed-out homes with ornate metal bars protecting what little possessions are kept inside. And unless you are among the few rich enough to have access to heliports and blinders, you can't reach the former without at least passing through the latter. While that seems to be an annoying reality the wealthy begrudgingly accept, this tempered sense of paradise, this grounding in reality is precisely why I love Puerto Rico so much.

Perhaps I'm afraid of what would happen to my perspective or my expectations were I to experience only the beauty, unchecked by a reminder of how fortunate I am and what this country is really like.

To get to Casa Cubuy, our rainforest getaway, you have to drive for miles along Route 3 from San Juan, past Luquillo and Fajardo, past Naguabo and into Rio Blanco, a tiny town named for the river running through it. Route 3 is pocked with gigantic potholes, which slow traffic to a halt throughout the way.

Driving in Puerto Rico is like an extreme sport, a game of survival. Our rental car is no match for the natives driving Daiwoos with missing rear windows, mismatched doors and crushed headlights. They weave in and out of lanes, no turn signals used, speed up on the shoulder to pass and make crazy right hand turns from the far left lane. In addition, brave or crazy souls on motorcycles create their own lanes, darting in and out between cars reaching speeds that seem a death wish.

Thus, it's a long and exhausting drive which, in reality, covers only about 55 km. (In PR, the road signs are in KM, the gas in liters.) Along the way, you pass a seemingly infinite number of decrepit strip malls, storefronts guarded by heavy iron railings so that you can't tell what's open and what's not. Along here, the business seems to be autos -- there seem to be more ferreterias than people. In between are fast-food restaurants -- Wendy's, KFC, Taco Maker, Dunkin' Donuts. It's not a pretty drive.

When we arrived in PR this past Friday, we were running on fumes from only a couple of hours sleep before our 6:30 am departure. Still, we decided to soldier on and kill a few hours in Old San Juan in the hopes of avoiding the early weekend rush-hour traffic that was already at a standstill on Route 3.

We found a parking space right near Cafe Berlin, our usual spot for a quick bite or nice coffee, and sat nestled inside as a rain cloud burst open and soaked the Plaza Colon. Afterwards, we wandered the streets for a bit, making our way across the rather deserted blue cobblestone streets and up to the grounds of El Morrow.

It was early evening by the time we hit Route 3 and it was, of course, no better than before. Both of us were fading a bit, but we held it together long enough to pass all the familiar businesses, hold our own in traffic and pull into the Pueblo grocery store in Fajardo to stock up on some supplies and snacks. There, Chris made a call to Casa Cubuy, our rainforest oasis, and learned that the storms we'd enjoyed earlier had knocked power out to the inn. So we took our time, grabbing a bite to eat and dawdling until we could fight exhaustion no more and needed to head for a bed. Casa Cubuy is located on the south side of El Yunque tropical rainforest. Route 191 used to run across the top of the mountain but a landslide a few years back closed the road at the top and now you have to drive all the way around, pas the usual tourist entrances to the public parts of the mountain, and make your way up.

It takes, when you are tired and eager to have arrived, forever and a day to get there. You wind around, past the big letters proclaiming the "promised land" above a development of candy-colored homes, past Roosevelt Roads military base.

When we hit the bottom of Route 3, it was already pitch black and even with our windows rolled up we could hear the melodious chorus that is the tiny coqui frogs singing in the darkness. They provided the soundtrack for the 15-odd minute drive it takes to get from the bottom of 191 to Casa Cubuy, which sits almost at the top. The road is all tight turns and narrow lanes, towering clumps of bamboo and rusted out cars. Locals come barrelling down the mountain as if they have nothing to lose until the gringos cry "uncle" and pull to the side.

Although the houses and makeshift bars we passed climbing our way up all seemed to have power, Casa Cubuy Ecolodge did not. We parked the car and kept our headlights on as we grabbed our things. The owner, Marianne, met us out front with her grandson and a fading flashlight. She directed us inside, which would have been a chore were we not comfortably familiar with the set up, and bid us wait while she fetched a propane lamp.

The darkness amplified the sense of isolation up here and I felt tired and disoriented. When we settled in and blew out the lamp, I was surprised to find that the sounds of the rainforest I'd so looked forward to -- the roaring waterfall, the whistling winds, the downpours -- were slightly unsettling.

Throughout the night, our room lit up from time to time with great flashes of lightning. A storm raged across the rainforest until the early morning hours, when the dawn revealed a glimpse of lush greenery outside our balcony and the quietening of the coqui. It was only then that I fell asleep completely soundly, blissfully sleeping through breakfast and the sounds of fellow guests chattering away in the common area below.

Hasta luego, pio-pios!

I awoke this morning to the sound of heavy rain and lingered in bed much later than I'd care to admit. And now it's pouring again. A fitting prelude to our upcoming long weekend at an inn nestled right at the edge of El Yunque, the tropical rainforest and national park in Western Puerto Rico. It is, as you may know, probably my favorite place on earth. It's the only place the husband truly unplugs from all his internet 'n gadgetry. There are no phones, no TVs. We take a stack of books with us, knowing that the humidity will curl their pages by the time we've worked our way through them.

We sleep late and deeply, waking up from time to time as a rain cloud bursts open drenching the palm nut trees just outside our balcony. We keep the sliding glass doors open at night so that the rushing of the waterfall below and the song of the tiny coqui frogs helps hypnotize us into sleep and so the wind that rushes through the forest at night can skip across the room and reach us. We'll walk a half-mile or so down a switch-back trail -- passing wild-growing bananas, pineapple, oranges and avocado -- to swim in the little pool the rocks in the waterfall have created. During the day, our clothes will start to take on the moisture around us and nothing will feel completely dry for days.

I love it there.

----

Also leaving town tomorrow is our Charlie Clover. He heads for a stop in Miami before going back to be A Very Important Editor (not his official title) at the Financial Times.

He stopped by today to bless us with a few items left behind by Miss Vanessa Bauza. She told Charles she thought the antique school desk she bought in Chelsea would look good in our mud room and she was, of course, right. We've also inherited a large metal and wood star and a beautiful framed "vintage" travel poster of Cuba. There's a beautiful woman in it, smiling, full of life, not unlike the poster's previous owner. It's going above my desk.

Now that Charles is leaving, I'm starting to get truly suspicious that our fellowship year might actually be ending. I know, I know. I've said this before, but I'm picking up subtle hints here and there. For example, where is everyone?

In addition, when I saw Birgit earlier this week, she mentioned something about "the new fellows" hitting town soon. I'm not sure if this is some crazy code phrase or just the delusional babbling of a chronically overworked woman. But something's up. Something. I can feel it in my bones.

Where Would Jesus Shop?

This week, I've been milling over the question of whether or not shopping at the local Farmer's Market makes me a better person. Not better than you, of course -- because, dear reader, that could hardly be possible. But does it improve me somehow, enrich my soul, pave the way to a better seat in heaven? It occurred to me as I walked home from the market Wednesday morning, laden with blueberries, zucchini, raspberries and the season's first tiny blackberries. There was a swagger in my step, a bubbling pride, a distinct level of self-canonization taking place. Look at me, I seemed to be saying, I shopped at the Farmer's Market. I heart my local community. I heart produce. I am, therefore, divine.

Why do I never get this same puffed-up sensation when I buy a head of lettuce at Kroger? Is this a false sense of self-congratulation? Is it some sort of organic high? Whatever it may be, when combined with the righteousness I feel walking to and from the market (Earth! I love you enough not to drive!) it threatens to get out of proportion. It also makes me a person who sometimes pays more for her berries (not a euphemism) than she would at the grocery store. However, it means that -- unless the people in the Amish headgear are running a major scam -- I'm more comfortable with where my money's going. Instead of paying for the processing, packaging, marketing and positioning of said berries, I'm paying for the fruit and for the work that went into them. And if I want to get all John Mellencamp about it, I'm also supporting farming as a way of life in a time when working the land is anything but lucrative and easily sustainable.

I read recently, too, that fresh produce uses about 10 times less environment-hatin' energy to produce than processed foods, including frozen versions of fruits and veggies. That goes for grocery-store fresh produce too, so I can shop for the waxy, uniform-sized perfection of the grocery store produce too and still heart the environemnt.

Then there's the taste. I don't know if it's because some of the produce is homegrown, organic and, frankly, downright ugly. But the flavors in the tomatoes and berries I lug home from the market are downright sublime, completely incomparable to anything I buy at the store.

Shopping at the market also gives me an awareness of seasonal eating. There was lettuce this week, for example. The cherries have disappeared, the peaches are abundant, raspberries are especially sweet and the blackberries are tiny and bit overeager. It makes me think about when produce is meant to be eaten, when it presents itself, which is something we don't have to think about often in our year-round grocery stores which offer up hard strawberries even in the middle of winter.

Thus, I've come to a conclusion. I have decided that the answer to my initial query is unequivocably yes. Yes, shopping at the local Farmer's Market does indeed make me a better person. In fact, it probably makes me a better person than you. There. I've said it. I'm sorry. But that's just how it is.