Getting held up by New York

I’m working on a novelette about the meningitis madness of last month. Until I get it done, let me entertain you with another tale of traveling with pain.

About five years ago, I fled an intolerable situation in California and, being pretty sure I was in my last few months of life, went back to the Northeast to visit with my nearest and dearest and stay until I mended or died, whichever it turned out to be. In short, I was not at my precarious best. I’d thinned my belongings down to what would fit in a suitcase small enough for me to handle, plus a spare set of “smallclothes” and meds in my laptop bag.

I flew into JFK airport and made my way (eventually) to a New York suburb down the street — and downmarket — from Scarsdale. I thought flying across country was hard work. Leave it to New York City (and environs) to adjust that perception. Anything worth doing is worth doing BIG!

It started with getting my luggage — the carousel changed 3 times. It had my supplements and laptop power cord in it, so there was no leaving it behind, as there was no knowing where it would wind up if I abandoned it and tried to get it tomorrow — it could land in Athens stuffed with either explosives or maple candy, or in the garbage scow on the Hudson stuffed with random bits of unsuccessful mobster; the contents would be more oddly distributed still. I’ve been flying into and out of JFK since the early 1970s, and I never leave my luggage uncollected there.

Each time a new carousel number was posted next to our flight number, herds of wilde travelbeests lumbered across the linoleum plains, flowing around eyots of irrelevant carousels and travelers from other flights, who huddled against treelike pillars and carousel islands in order not to be trampled underhoof.

I limped gamely after, unwilling to leave my luggage to the mercies of the feral crowd. We ultimately wound up back at the first one, which somehow didn’t surprise me.

I managed to get my bag unhooked from the carousel lip, but no further. It was just about to throw us both into the guy next to me, when he kindly popped it out and dropped it neatly next to me, with a brisk nod. Then went back to field the hefty steamer trunk of the twitchy Givenchy skeleton behind him.

I debated taking the bus to Penn Station ($3.50) vs train-shuttle (unstated) to the shuttle-bus($1.50); figured train-shuttle would be free, as my training in UI & signage, and casual acquaintance with the law regarding same, made it absolutely clear that prices must be stated up front. No price stated, ride is free. Sweet!

Of course, every other international airport I’d been to in the past 20 years provided free transport within the airport complex. This was New York, where you’re charged even for the gum on your shoe, so I was a little wary, but I was also exhausted and poor.

Got off at the end of the train-shuttle, pulled my wheeled suitcase to the exit door, and there found a sign stating it cost $5 to exit the train-shuttle station.

Stared at sign for 2 solid minutes, flies drifting in and out of my open mouth. SO. BLEEPING. WRONG.

Briefly considered going back, but too tired. I gave up my prospect of a little “real” food in the city to get out of the shuttle track area (why did I think $5 would buy anything in NYC?), and got to the shuttle bus.

The leaderboard read, “Penn Station.”

I asked the driver when the bus came that would take me to Grand Central. He said, “This bus goes to Penn Station.”

I asked again when the bus came for Grand Central Station, and the bus driver again said, “This bus goes to Penn Station.”

I said, “I understand that. I’m wondering when the bus is that goes to Grand Central.”

“This bus goes to Penn Station, lady.”

It finally dawned on me, as he was about to close the door in my face, to ask if there WAS a bus to Grand Central from the airport.

“Nope. This is the only shuttle into the city.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. You have to get from Penn to Grand Central yourself.[I interjected, in shocked squawk, “STILL?” He nodded.] You can take a bus or the subway, but with your luggage, you’ll want to take a cab.”

I hitched up my jaw and hauled self and luggage in. He almost waited until I was seated to take off.

A teenager tripped over my suitcase on the wide, spacious, brightly-lit shuttle-bus. My suitcase came up to mid-thigh and was HOT PINK. Somehow, he walked right into it and went down with it — wrenching my wrist and elbow of course. After looking around blearily, initially wanting to blame someone other than his own clumsy butt, he very sweetly picked up all 38 pounds that encompassed every object I owned other than the clothes I had on, which was more than I could do, and put the handle back in my hand. I re-wrapped it with the scarf I used to cut the vibration and, with an added loop around my forearm, provide some stability against my weak grip. But, in case of other spaced-out passengers, the loop didn’t go back on until I was off the bus… at Penn Station.

Because it’s NYC, where a good conflict should never be resolved but should be handed down for posterity, they have NEVER IN THE PAST CENTURY figured out how to link up the northbound train station with the southbound train station, despite the fact that the trains are the lifeblood of the city and, on top of that, millions of customers travel from south of NYC (Baltimore, Washington DC, and points south) to north of NYC (from White Plains to Buffalo, all of New England, and Canada) every. freaking. year.

The JFK shuttle comes into the southbound train station, Penn. I needed to leave from the northbound train station, Grand Central. It was up to me, as it has been up to every single individual traveler in the past 100 years, to figure out how to get from provincial-sounding Penn to the arrogantly misnamed Grand Central. Let’s review my choices:

  •  A cab was out of reach, especially as I’d just blown $5 on a ride that should have been free.
  • The subway meant more confusion, bumping, and stairs (the elevators and escalators are always out of order or being fought or pee’d on, sometimes both at once) than I could even think about without screaming.
  • The bus required finding secret, unmarked bus stops where they WILL ignore you if you’re off by a few feet and, I’m not kidding, either one or two transfers for one of the most essential routes in the city. There was no direct bus between the two major terminals of this train-dependent conurbation.

I can’t make this stuff up!

I decided to haul myself and my hot-pink suitcase the X blocks of crappy city sidewalks to Grand Central. “It’s not that far” — famous last words. “I’ve done it before” — 20-odd years ago, pre-injury.

I checked the map, got a sighting on the sun, went one block to read the street sign and check my direction, turned left, and marched off — for about 5 steps.

There were many adjustments to work out: soft tethering scarf, arm used (eventually, both), length of stride, and what to focus on — the directions, the pedestrians who mostly swerved nicely, the truly awful surfaces I had to traverse. The surfaces won in the end, out of sheer necessity. The occasional bozos, who thought I could steer better than their unladen selves, bounced off of either me or my sharp-edged case, spitting vile things without drawing breath. I kept on, pushing through the yawing wobbles the collisions caused as I pitched and heaved steadily onward.

Dear heavens, it was arduous.

Halfway there, dripping soot-laden sweat and hauling my grimy, now ashy-rose suitcase which had accumulated about 15 pounds of pollution by then, I found myself heading towards a cluster of burly cops standing between a parked cruiser half in the road with its butt half blocking the driveway, and the loading dock behind.

They gave me that dry, supercilious stare that city cops learn in the Academy. It says, “For our comfort and convenience, we’re deciding whether or not to kill you right now. Don’t try to make our day.”

I thought about that for a moment, trudging along with my case baulking at the bad paving, yanking my swollen wrists around like a fighting tarpon. I glanced at the path around the cruiser, involving 2 curbs, bad patching, and a pothole; quite apart from the random, fast, and dangerous traffic in the street. Definitely worse than the sidewalk.

I realized what I looked like: a grubby, chubby, oversocialized, White middle-aged female, evidently too poor for a cab. Very low on the food chain.

I realized I didn’t care.

I flashed back to the Jaguar my friends used to call me.

It was a youthfully arrogant and vigorous period of my life, when an off-duty cop in a bar in Manhattan wanted me to tie him up and beat him black and blue, because he’d really enjoy that. (I refused ever so courteously — which went curiously with the well-worn motorcycle jacket and wash-and-wear lack-of-hairstyle — and walked away, eyebrows twisting at the sheer novelty of the experience.)

I refused to walk around into the street. It was insane and vile to expect it, when I could clearly hardly put one foot in front of the other and was towing my life with battered arms.

No. Not playing that game.

One tactic of successful women:
If the game is rigged against you, change the rules.

This clot of cops got the twin-engined, diamond-drill stare from under my beetling brows, the burning power of pure womanly disgust and exasperation doing the work of 5 bodyguards and a million dollars.

Great shot by Bernard Dupont of France, via Wikimedia.

New York’s Finest peeled back from my path like an amateur drill team, stumbling slightly and eyes wide.

Yeah. That was more like it.

Same photographer, same cat, relaxing after she made her point.

I heard their startled and admiring voices behind me. I almost smiled. I wondered what they’d say if I turned around and demanded a lift. It was almost worth the effort, but turning back was unbearable, even for that entertainment — so I kept on.

NYC cops weren’t so racist then; it might have worked even if I weren’t White. The good old days.

Stumbled into Grand Central, at last.

Just what it’s like. Image by diego_cue

After dropping my sweat-sodden self onto a bench until my breathing evened out, I got up on pure willpower (my legs certainly didn’t have much to do with it) and wobbled up to the ticket window (One of those funny alcoves on the right.)

Despite the unmitigated chaos and relentless interference of my cross-City odyssey until now, I had the pleasure of getting good instructions, delivered clearly; the right ticket to my destination; explicit directions to exactly the right track and the right train; and which cars to avoid — “The drunks use that one, and it’s never clean.”

I fell into the seat nearest the door, then slid to another when someone dumped a heavy bag which fell over onto me, edge first of course. I let the bag lie and he eventually picked it up.

A lovely young woman, the quintessence of perfectly-formed and perfectly-presented modern American beauty, got on in one of the suburbs, sat down across from me, and gave my weary, grubby, chubby, middle-aged self the sweetest and most open smile. I did my best to repay such sweetness from out of the blue with the best smile I could dredge up in return, and a nice word.

I got off at the Scarsdale stop and there was a slight pause in my progress as I resisted the boisterous flow of commuters scenting their stables. Clutching the rail that had kept me from being swept under, I saw a car door open. In a few steps, I fell off of the train station and into the arms of my old friend.

I asked her later why such a beautiful, clean, discreetly made-up, perfectly turned out young woman would greet such a gargoyle’s appearance with such sweetness. My friend replied, “I’m not sure how to tell you this, but it’s envy. You can afford to let yourself go [finger-quotes.] She can’t. She wishes she could be like you.”

It finally penetrated what a trap the relentless and expensive looks-slavery of upscale New York is for women. My lifelong sarcastic envy of “Barbie dolls”, not to mention “Givenchy skeletons”, died on the spot and I was glad I’d added the nice word. Anyone who could envy me at that point was in really bad shape.

The cross-country flight was originally going to be the funny story I told to amuse my hostess — delay, changed gate, dashing around in a wheelchair, turbulence, sick babies, nervous lady with long arms and huge rings taking up the aisle and risking the eyesight of those nearby — but it really paled next to the story of the last few miles. She laughed and applauded and then, once I was fed and pilled and washed, tucked me into a soft bed with endless pillows. I slept better than I had in months, safe and still and comfortable at last.

I haven’t tried to cross New York City since, except when I can afford a cab all the way from the airport to Grand Central. Life is too short for that much work and physical battery… and the NYC cops have changed.

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The Car Quest: the Grail is ours

My sweetie is between homes (long story) and, thanks to a few runarounds from shops that should know better,  between cars. That’s one reason he was free to come out and  help me drive across. We had a wonderful time and got our communication styles well in train, so it was a useful trip in many ways. But, on our return to Central California, it was time to face the more humdrum realities.

The first item on JC’s agenda was sorting out transport. First we had to decide whether it was sending good money after bad to continue trying to resurrect his old one (and here, as an honest reporter, I have to put in a very good word for Thurston Toyota‘s Service Dept, managed by Rod, who pulled strings and called in favors and pulled off some minor miracles to help us out).

In the end, he had to pull the plug on his faithful steed. He decided to go straight for his dream car: a VW Passat wagon, V6 with heated seats and leather interior, mileage under 100k, ~10 years old or less … for around $4k.

You realize that doesn’t exist, right?

After a particularly slimy salesman, many hours of driving, and sniffing out a lot of dead ends …

Incidentally, if you find yourself in Stockton and you’re hungry, consider hitting the Creamery at 5756 Pacific Ave #3. There was some confusion about my order, and it didn’t help that I had mentioned gluten allergy but not made a loud, firm pronouncement. The waitress was absolutely angelic, sweetly insisting on taking everything back and bringing something that I could eat, and would want to; and the kitchen turned my revised order around in record time. I expected a Chili’s type of meal — decent but unremarkable — but it was better than the price led me to expect. If I’m ever stuck in Stockton again, I’ll remember it.

Where was I? Oh right, used car salesmen and dead ends…

I called a number in a town I’d never heard of and found myself talking to a sweet young man who was describing JC’s dream car — and wishing he could make it better.

For real.

And then he knocked 15% off the asking price just because he was sooo glad to talk to a nice person after a busy morning of Craigslist trolls.

So 6 hours away from home (but 3 from where we were in Sacramento), we found his dream car, with a lovely young family of the warm and hard-working kind that you can’t help but be glad to give your money to.

We made it back to Clear Lake with breaks at the loveliest places JC has sussed out over the years. He gently scolds me for being too trusting and keeps an eye on the sketchier characters at the gas stations and — I just noticed this — slides up to me when he thinks they’re looking too hard. I’ve never been with someone so protective and mindful. 

JC says it takes the two of our screwy brains to make one, and then we come out pretty good.

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Arizona plus one

After a delicious dish of huevos rancheros at Virgie’s, we made it from Gallup, NM to Laughlin, NV in one day, even with a couple of memorable stops…

At the petrified forest in the Painted Desert:

Where JC exchanged formalities with a handsome raven (video coming soon)…

At the Indian Art Center in Winslow, Arizona:

And a brief off-road trip into the woods.

The western third of the state was wonderfully hilly, and at the end of the day, we both had a lot more energy. There’s something to be said for being on terrain that you’re used to.

Blogger ate the prior draft of this entry, which is too bad, but I’m not up to reconstructing it. I’m overdue for my Epsom bath… Here in Laughlin, NV, over one state away from where we woke up this morning:

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New Mexico’s beautiful names

Cimarron, Eagle Nest, Angel Fire, Taos, Chimayo, Santa Fe, Bernalillo, and the mouth-tickling Albuquerque… BEST names of any state yet.

JC checked all the vehicle fluids at the start of the day and is doing my laundry at the end of it.  He shares all costs with me. He keeps an eye on my stuff, likes my car and watches my back. And he actually enjoys driving.

I’m not sure I should get used to this, but I’m certainly grateful to have him around. Plus he’s good company.

It’s been another bad day for autonomia and pain (not helped by a 2am to 4am bout of cortisol-induced insomnia), but my left leg isn’t bad and these beds aren’t bad either, so I’m dosing up on tulsi tea to get through the night and inviting a better physical state tomorrow.

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Colorado Springs and the Paleolithic Point

Being part of an interracial couple can be unnerving at times. Last night, we walked into a steakhouse; I sailed in first, as JC had held the door for me like a gentleman. I was confronted by a very long table of very white faces, many of them bearded, all of them looking directly at us.

All of them. Directly. At us.

Not one fork moved.

I fiddled with my jacket zipper for a moment, dithering in the doorway, decidedly nonplussed.

JC took a look around, stepped around me, and sailed in as if he had just bought the place. He twinkled at the waitress, said something jovial to one of the guys at the endless table, chose a booth, and we had a wonderful meal.

He told me later that he cased the men over my shoulder and saw that the biggest of them was very much out of shape. With nothing to worry about, he defaults to playfulness and easy-going charm, which has the effect of drawing any remaining fangs.

I’m learning a lot from this guy.

Today

We noodled around Colorado Springs for a while. We were trying to find a museum which, he was told 20 years ago, would host an extraordinarily valuable archaeological find that he had made.

The museum had moved, with a great website but no address; and according to the website it had shifted its focus to post-World War I, while his find was Paleolithic.

We drove all over Fort Carson looking for the museum, called quite a few different phones with no clue, no answer, or an answering machine, and spoke to any number of very sweet people who had absolutely no idea that anything like a museum ever existed there… a museum that had been built less than 2 years ago — if it exists at all. I’m beginning to think the Mountain Post Historical Whatever exists only in print.

Sigh…

I have a couple of numbers to call, and if those don’t work out, I already have a plan C in place, which involves digging up the now-retired archaeologists in charge of the original excavation. Since his find saved their funding (and at least one doctoral thesis) after four fruitless years, I’m pretty sure somebody will remember.

I have a feeling there’s an interesting story that took place in the 20 years since that item was brought back to the light of day. It was very important to someone very important in his field, but it’s not important to the landlords who ostensibly own the right to it… And, at a market value of ~$10,000 at the time of its finding, that’s not a trivial issue.

It’s not unusual for great finds, like great works of art, to lie moldering in a museum basement because the present curator’s vision doesn’t include them. Even great curators have limits to their vision, and any curator who doesn’t dig Paleolithic craft is somewhat wanting, in my view.

But then, I am a bit of a throwback.

Speaking of being a throwback

We saw the Manitou cave dwellings. We were headed for the Manitou Springs, but I put the wrong thing into the Garmin. I first read about New World cave dwellers when I was five or six, and actually climbing around inside those wonderfully convoluted dwellings was a dream of 40 years’ standing. It was a totally unlooked-for gift.

JC kept saying, “there’s more…” And led me to further outdoor displays… the first floor of the gift shop… the second floor of the gift shop… the museum, with some stunning examples of work… and of course the bathrooms, which he knows I have to get to regularly.

We stopped in Trinidad for the night. The weather has been so odd – and so fraught – that the direct route over the Rockies, via Denver, was a little unnerving to me. Our route will bring us past more painted rock, and even some stunning canyon land. There’ll be a little bit of nostalgia for both of us, and there’s nothing to brighten a trip like telling each other stories.

Logistics

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about how to conduct long trips. I’m checking some ideas against JC’s horse sense, and will refine them further with my CRPS: Art & Spirit core group.

And then we’ll deal with the reality of funding.

This trip has been immensely valuable from the standpoint of researching how to make this kind of traveling feasible. The answers look nothing like anything I’d envisioned at the beginning, so this was an extremely useful endeavor.

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I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore

We made spanking time:  crossed all of Kansas, made it to Limon, Colorado (and the best ribeye in I can remember), and got our first glimpse of vertical: Pike’s Peak at long range.

View CRPS – Art & Spirit: renew, refine, research, revise in a larger map
Kansas was unbelievably flat. Not quite as flat as a billiard table, because those are too small to really convey the right impression.  Every now and then, there was a bit of texture — a teeny dell, a couple yards deep; a bit of watering hole; something. I’d stare at it in relief.

Then the landscape went back to flat. Really damn flat. I mean, flat, flat, flat, flat, flat.

Flatter.

The conservatism that’s such a feature of the Midwest makes some sense when you see it. The whole place is so flat (especially Kansas!) that there’s no privacy. You have to plant dozens of trees around your house before you can have any hope of discretion.

With such a constant sense of exposure, doesn’t it make sense that people would edit their own behavior before it can be edited for them? We all behave more carefully when we feel we’re being watched. Around here, it’s hard not to watch anything that isn’t …. flat.

Tomorrow, my sweetie assures me, there will be terrain. Lots of it.

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Better

My sweetie got here safely, despite the macramé of transit between there and here.

I spent the day reorganizing the car, throwing away a couple of bags and coming up with some donations for goodwill.

We’re one hour outside of Kansas City, which I drove all the way through from South to North. It’s far and away the most attractive and pleasant-feeling city I’ve seen since Massachusetts.

I love the minarets…

A minaret on  church? Why not? Especially if you gild that lilly…

The fact that gas is only three dollars a gallon doesn’t hurt. One day, I’d be happy to check out the music scene there.

Tomorrow, I get to share the driving! Meanwhile, it’s a quiet evening in good company.

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Not much scenery after dark

Usually, or at least so far, I’ve ended each day with some coherent sense of things. Not today!

Perhaps that’s because I spent several hours in the middle of it, struggling with a terrible wireless signal and time sensitive need to book a flight. My sweetie is flying out to meet me and help with the rest of the drive. How cool is that?

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The last-minute logistics have been horrible, but so far, with much persistence and lateral thinking, things are shaking out. Finding a safe place for his dog for a week was probably the most worrisome, but an online search turned up Canine Energetics.

I spoke with the owner, Sean, who struck me as extremely decent, sensible and accommodating. The facilities sounds like dog heaven. I have every faith in her ability to play well with others, and she’ll probably have as good a time as she can away from her human.

I pushed on for an hour past dark, and realized that somehow I’m almost (not quite) a whole day ahead of myself. This means I have time to pull the car apart, make it easier to manage getting what I need, and clear the entire front seat (including the foot well) for another person. Not a trivial task!

I also have a ton of paperwork to catch up on: finding a suitable ISP, nailing down the design for the website, and filing the paperwork for registering “CRPS: Art & Spirit” as a tax-exempt nonprofit. I’ve gotten much-needed logistical help, so at this point, the next tasks are approachable. I’m grateful for all the help I get, and the help I get for this project is more important still. We’re going to have a “gratitude” page, where we can publicly thank those who will let us, for the help they give 🙂

Now, all I need is a web geek who’s reasonably up-to-date on the technology and knows how to design an accessible page. Suggestions…?

Southern Illinois was exquisite. It’s so pretty and so shapely that I can’t wait until Hollywood discovers it as a shooting spot. I knew I couldn’t do justice to the shape of the land, so I cheated:

Somehow, at least along Interstate 70, Missouri isn’t quite as nice, and neither was Indiana. There’s definitely a difference.

Y’know, I feel a lot safer, noodling around by myself, than I did in the coastal Northeast or pretty much anywhere in California. I still keep my word to my sweetie, though: locking all the locks, no hitch-hikers, and — it still cracks me up, but I do it — be careful who I talk to. There’s so much more to human nature than what’s on the surface.

Off for Epsom bath. Incidentally, these are not a “Calgon, take me away!” kind of bath. But I think I’ll talk about that another time.

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A good day

Tired beyond belief but made it to Greenville, Illinois. I’m going to take a nap before doing anything further, and if it lasts until tomorrow, so be it. The epsom bath can wait for a change.
I’m in an EconoLodge paying far too little for an airplane hangar with two queen sized’ twin’ beds. And not a trace of mildew.
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Re-learning how to drive

I’m either half a day ahead of schedule or half a day behind, and I’m honestly not sure which. It’s roughly another 5 days to Denver, and with my sweetie’s troubles slowly and expensively resolving, it’s probably best not to try to rush, but to let things unfold.

Mind you, an hour’s reiki this morning might be helping me think that way.

Badly as I want to be there already, snuggled up to him and brainstorming, here I am …

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Between Richmond and Centerville, Indiana.

My room has a fog of mildew which stopped me on entering, but I paid before asking to see the room, so I’m stuck. I can’t remember where the AC power cord is for the car’s air filter, though I may have tossed it in a burst of mindless efficiency before leaving.

The window is wide open while I do laundry on the other side of town, so we’ll see if that makes enough difference. If I wake up brain-dead, I’m sure you’ll hear about it.

Despite good energy and good progress, I decided to reef it in and stop early tonight — largely because I’m out of long-sleeved shirts, and needed to save arm-time for dealing with that.

I stopped here, precisely, because I had mail forwarded here to me at General Delivery — a system that actually seems to work. It included my permanent Massachusetts driver’s  license (which might be handy after the temporary one expires) and a really lovely card from one of the really lovely people I’ve met on this trip. A wonderful cherry on top of a rather good day.

It occurred to me that I haven’t discussed  my accommodative strategies much. Here are a few things I’ve done, redone, and learned on the way:

Grabbing the wheel

Those of you who know CRPS well know that vibration is absolute hell, and a steering wheel is a big vibrating thing that’s made to press against the weakest, most pain-frazzled tendons in my entire body. So that had to be dealt with.

I’ve learned, from all my adventures with tools when I lived on the boat, that no amount of padding will make up for harsh hardware.  So buying a vehicle with the lowest possible level of wheel-vibration in the first place was a major consideration.

My car, Henrietta, is a Toyota truck:


… but it’s built on a Camry base:

This means it has a much more forgiving frame than trucks and truck-mounted SUVs (though it can still tow 5,000 pounds!) and it handles the road very gracefully.

I’ve learned through many years of athletics that gel provides the cushioning my body likes best. So that was the next thing to go on:

That’s extra-thick gel-padded bicycle wrap on the steering wheel.

(And, incidentally, that’s the driving grip I use half the time. Holding the cover, rather than the wheel, nearly eliminates vibration altogether, and it’s very easy to grab the wheel if I need to dodge.)

Years of nursing and my own experiences with increasingly, um… responsive skin have made me a HUGE fan of good wool. It breathes even when wet, pads even when squashed, and if you keep your eyes open, you can find wholesale prices on new sheepskin (– and get sturdy sweaters of cashmere, merino, or alpaca for $5-10 at the right Goodwill stores, but that’s another post.)

In Massachussetts, I live near the Sheepskin Outpost on the Mohawk Trail, and I lucked into a sale there. That got me:

– The steering wheel cover, to provide more padding and keep my hands off hot rubber;

– The seatbelt cover, to keep the edge of the belt off me and keep the skin on my shoulder and chest aired;

– The seat covers, which I wound up getting for half of wholesale, because they’d just bought the stock of a company that went out of business and had more inventory than they could afford to store.


Boy, did that ever work out for me!

Covering my can

This is about traveling with disability, so here’s some physical reality.

I started megadeath antibiotics a few days ago, and the first symptoms are making themselves felt. Kefir just isn’t enough to save my skin.

My very favorite brand. I’m getting nothing for saying so, but I’d like that to change 🙂

Also, I’ve really been having trouble getting the circulation in my left leg to behave.

Today, in the middle of my day, I had a brainstorm that would minimize the reduction of circulation to my legs and maximize airflow to my antibiotic-ravaged sit-down.

I swapped my underpants for my white silk long-john bottoms instead, and decided I could just wash out the silk each evening and hang-dry it overnight. Besides, the extra layer kept the chill from cutting into my leg every time I opened the door.

Tonight at 6:22 pm, my left leg is feeling better than it did at 2:22 pm, when I made the switch — despite a couple of hours in the car and far too little activity. Who knew such a little bit of material could make such a difference?

And I’m happy and relieved to say that the parts my undies have to cover are doing better, too. I had no idea that white silk was so healthful.

No more elastic around these legs. It’s too bad, because I’d just stocked up on undies. But of course, I got them on sale. It could have been worse.

Gratuitous toilet humor…

I stopped in a gas station that had the kind of bathroom I grew up thinking of as a gas station bathroom. It’s not chair-accessible (in fact, there’s hardly room for a standing person to turn around in) and the tile might be original with the building.

However, in a totally novel approach to graffiti, this gas station found a new use for the wrongest possible shade of brown paint:

There’s really nothing to add, is there?
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