Montreal is a difficult city to navigate by car. It is beautiful and clean and full of great people and restaurants and amazing architecture, but the best way to see it is definitely on foot.
We got a later start than we wanted to on Saturday, and then about half an hour into the drive we had an alarming car issue at 75 mph. It turned out to be no big deal, thankfully, and the rest of the ride was smooth. It took us an hour to get across the Canadian border, and finding our hotel was somewhat challenging, but once we did that everything was fine. We tried to bring MT to Notre Dame, but it was closed for a special "Light and Sound Spectacular!" or some such, and none of us was interested in waiting an extra hour and a half for the Lord's Laser Show, so we walked down to the waterfront instead. There were several festivals going on there over the weekend. One was a Japanese thing on the waterfront, one was some kind of anime thing which seemed to be made up of mostly teenagers in costume, and another looked like a massive dance party of some kind that we drove past late night on our way back to the hotel. We walked for ever and ever, taking in the sights, snapping a few pictures (to be posted later), and eating and drinking whenever and whatever struck us. I got a chocolate chip almond baguette at a bakery in the Jean Talon Market, and two date pastries that I had been waiting since my last visit to have again. We had lunch at a taco place, snacked on fresh fruit (which we were not allowed to bring back across the border, unfortunately), and stopped for a beer at a local brewery up there that was decent even though it was loaded with tourists.
We had dinner at an Italian restaurant. The woman (obviously the owner) was Italian and spoke fluent French and English. Her cooks were both Indian, the other waitress a native English speaker who sounded Canadian, and while we had dinner I noted that she wished a large group of regulars at the next table a happy Ramadan. It made me really miss living in the city.
There is something wonderful about feeling so alien in a city so close to home. I don't speak much French (virtually none, really), but the b.h. and I are both fairly fluent in French food words, and we joked about how timid we were when trying to order anything. We relied largely on pointing, too embarrassed even to try. The opposite of Ugly American, I guess. I have tried to learn some basic French via podcast (I can say my name, where I live, and count up to twenty, and, under the right circumstances, remark on the weather), but couldn't really tell what letters the woman was pronouncing half the time due to crap car speakers, so I gave that up months ago. I have been looking for a class here in town, but have had no luck so far. I recently discovered that a friend of mine from high school, who was an exchange student, is living in Quebec City with his girlfriend, so we are trying to plan a visit there as soon as possible. It will be nice to have a native (and a native speaker) to translate for us.
We got back to our hotel fairly early, slept for several hours, and then found our way to the Jewish part of Montreal where we had bagels from a shop that has been in business for 70 years. They were fabulous, as expected. From there we went back down to the waterfront, walked around some more, and stopped in the Museum of Archeology to see their Easter Island exhibit.
After that we hit the road. The border was quicker on the way in, and we hung out in Burlington for a bit before dropping MT off at the airport.

This is a park in the middle of the city:


We walked around a little bit, but we didn't really know where we were going or how big the park was, so we didn't see much. We did witness a guy trying to corral what appeared to be a woodchuck that was trying to run into rush hour traffic. He did manage, and the beast eventually scurried back toward the woods, eliciting cheers from the mass of teenagers smoking there.










This sign was supposed to indicate that there is a speed bump on the street. As you can see, it has been modified hilariously.




Did I mention the pastry as big as my face? It was divine.

Holy crap. I mean, Holy Effing Crap. It's about time.

On Sunday I worked and spent the evening cleaning house. Monday I got up early and did more cleaning, as well as some laundry, because we had a house guest coming (why else would I possibly bother, right?). So Monday afternoon I went up to Burlington and picked up MT from the airport. We drove over to look at Lake Champlain for a minute, then hopped back in the car and came back here. For reasons to various and mundane to recount, MT hadn't gone to sleep yet, and having worked both Saturday and Sunday nights, he was pretty beat. SO he took a nap for a few hours while I walked dogs and the b.h. made dinner. After that we ate and had several beers and spent time on the porch talking and catching up.
Tuesday I got up early and, while MT slept in, went for a hike in the woods with my friend A and our collective dogs. This was enormously entertaining, because her dog is a tiny poodle who always runs like she's been shot from a cannon, which Kilgore loves because finally somebody can keep up with him. So we wore the dogs out for a couple hours, then I returned home and waited for MT to get up. When he did, we went downtown and wandered about for a bit, then A met up with us and we all went out to Morse Farm for a maple creemee, by which MT was sufficiently impressed. We also took him up the trail to feed the resident goat. After that A had to go to work, and MT and I went out to Plainfield and browsed the fantastic Country Bookshop for nearly two hours before returning to the house. For dinner we went to Taco Night at a local restaurant. We all found it very disappointing. After that we visited A at work and had a couple beers, and then went back to the house, where we talked and watched some TV and I passed out pretty early.
Wednesday I got up early and went for another dog hike with A. It wound up being much longer than we intended, because we were hiking in unfamiliar territory and got a bit turned around. The dogs loved it, though, and despite the heat we had a good time. MT got up just as I was leaving for work. I had a short but pleasantly busy day, and returned to the house just after six.
We went to dinner at the Local Restaurant, (formerly my place of employment, formerly A's place of employment, and currently the place where the b.h. goes to school). Harried Manager treated us each to a glass of 2003 Josef Christoffel Riesling that he had unearthed from the wine inventory brought over when the school consolidated restaurants. It was, as you might imagine, amazing. We each tried it with all of our different courses and compared notes and shared bites and generally had a great time. Dinner was great. The service was hilarious, because the bartender had had a birthday the day before and was still recovering. Since we're all friends we didn't mind that he was forgetful and often looked nauseated, especially because he managed to laugh all the way through the worst of the rush despite his condition. We had a couple beers, then came home and had another. I got a phone call from my old boss Sam (he of the Local Liquor Store in Athens), and we talked for awhile while the b.h. and MT watched cartoons. I went to bed around one thirty or so.

Thursday I had to be at work at eight. There was a fuckton of work to do in cheese. I was receiving the weekly inventory, which is normally Sven's job. I was pretty slow at it, but luckily had some help from Amy, a new cheese person. After that we just rolled up our sleeves and, if you'll excuse the phrase, cut the cheese. All day it was high production. I have no idea how much coffee I drank, but it was at least twice what I usually drink, and it barely sufficed.
After work MT and I took the dogs to the river. We spent an hour or two running around in the water and skipping stones and chasing and being chased, then piled in the car and came home.
Thursday evening MT and the b.h. and I went down to The Alchemist Pub. The wait was, as usual, an hour, but we were having a good time drinking their delicious house brewed beer and talking, so it was no bother. Eventually A joined us, and the hour wait turned into an hour and a half, and we finally sat down after eight to eat. My food was as delicious as the beer, and once again I remarked that I am glad we don't live in the neighborhood or I would be a two hundred pound alcoholic. Again we came home and watched a bit of teevee, and again I passed out pretty quickly.
Friday I worked a full day, but I came home on my break and took MT downtown to get some lunch. When I got home I immediately changed shoes and MT and I took the dogs to Hubbard Park for a nice long hike. Friday night the b.h. made pizza for dinner, and MT and I went down to the Local Dive Bar to see A's boyfriend D play a show with his band. We had each already had a couple beers at the house, and the beer at the LDB is not great, so we nursed one each very slowly and talked and enjoyed the music. We left fairly early because we had to get up early to go to Montreal on Saturday. As we made our way down the street to my car, MT remarked that he didn't miss the bar/band scene at all. I can't say the same myself, actually, because I would about kill for more regular (good) live music, but I guess I'm saving money by the lack of it here in Vermont.

This lady came in in what I believe was supposed to be a cover-up. Like, the kind you wear over a bathing suit while you run into the gas station for a pack of Pall Malls. Only it wasn't a gas station, it was the Local Grocery, and she wasn't buying smokes, she was buying deli meat and sopressata, and, most importantly, she was not wearing a bathing suit. Instead, this woman, who was probably forty-five or so and not what one might describe as fit, was spilling out of the very short clothing item in question in every imaginable direction (as well as some unimaginable ones). After instinctively running in the back and hoping she would go away, I then tried to make eye contact with her, out of sheer curiosity- was she actually crazy, or just Montpeculiar crazy? The jury's still out, and I doubt very seriously that they're coming back.

"You don't have any real Parmesan."

"Excuse me, do you have any real Parmesan?"

The distinction between these two sentences may seem small to you, but to me it really isn't. The first one is an assumption, and it is often delivered in an accusing manner, sometimes with an added note of panic that says "You realize that in your complete inadequacy you are about to ruin my entire life, don't you?", but always, always in a way that says "Well, I knew this was a shitty little Po-dunk town, so I guess I should have expected as much, but I am still really disgusted with you". Occasionally, it ends with a question mark and is filled with incredulity, as it was with the woman who couldn't believe that we only had thirteen different non-dairy cheeses, and actually used the word "pathetic" to describe the selection.

This happens regularly, and as with the screaming infants and the whining toddlers and the clueless parents, it becomes less and less tolerable with each repeated incident. And as my day wears on,my patience wears thin. This week has been especially exhausting, because both of our dogs have been, um, how do I put this delicately...
Oh yes- SHITTING THEIR BRAINS OUT.

And every night I have been up and (literally) running out the door to avoid disaster. They have been to the vet and we have drugs, but that doesn't change the fact that I have had no more than three consecutive hours of sleep in several days, and as you may imagine, this has made me slightly more testy than usual with certain types of customers.

"You don't have any real Parmesan."
"Actually, we do. In fact, we have three different kinds. Would you like me to show you where they are?"

I smile when I say this, but it is the smile of a person with a knife in her hands that is thinking about which of your appendages she is going to plunge it into first. Sven has been a lot of fun this week, thank gods, and has saved more lives than he knows by either making me laugh or running interference for me.

"I can't figure out why, but I feel more aware this week than I have in a long time that I am a Service Worker to these people, rather than a person who is doing a job." He paused before asking "Do you think they're just tourists?"

"I think they're just ass-"

"Hi, can I help you?" he interjected, going around the counter on yet another interception. He waved his hand frantically at me behind his back, urging me into the kitchen.

The Vermont Cheesemakers Festival was last Sunday. The b.h. had the day off, and I got paid for the full day (it's educational, you know) to go eat cheese and play outside (mostly- we did volunteer to help with breakdown afterward) for the day at Shelburne Farms. I have been to the museum, but this was my first visit to the farm. I don't know who these Shelburnes were (are?) but they must have been pretty bloody wealthy, because this is their idea of a barn:





It looks like a set from The Lord of the Rings, doesn't it? Like Rohan?

They also had what appeared to be a two-headed cow, which obviously must have cost a fortune (or else the b.h. is especially talented at photography, but one never knows):



As we drove in, we were struck by the size of the place (enormous) and its proximity to the lake (adjacent). All I could think about is what it must have been like to grow up on the land. What is now an inn of considerable size was once a family home. Mind blowing. And this is a small portion of the back yard:





Then of course, there was the food. I only took a few pictures, and I'll save the best for last, but suffice to say that it was a fantastically decadent day, I learned a lot, I met a lot of cheese makers, and I am glad they don't do this more often or I would probably die. My arteries are still trying to get over it.

Bob is a talker. He's a really smart kid, at least in the book sense, and he is very nice and he tries very hard, but socially he is a bit awkward.
"Yeah," I heard him saying, so loudly that he was nearly shouting, while slicing prosciutto, "pretty soon they'll have no use for me at all, you'll just come here and there'll be a big mechanical arm getting your order." I had no idea what he was talking about, but the customer obviously found it amusing, because I could hear him laughing as Bob went on and on for several minutes at the same volume. It was only when the customer picked up his order and left that I noticed his arm. He only had one, and it was- well, mechanical.

"You know it makes me horny when you talk like that," said my Clueless Ginger Co-worker to his obviously angry girlfriend's back as she stormed away from him.

"Actually, she said don't be such a cunt," I said quietly and with as much sympathy as I could muster.

His face fell first, followed by his shoulders, and all hope disappeared.

"It's okay, man," I offered. "Just give her some time."

For some reason, we have had a flood of newborn babies through the Local Grocery in the past week. Babies that look to small to be real. Babies that, even when they're screaming (and in the LG they usually are), barely make a sound. Babies that would probably be better off at home. In an unusual twist, I haven't really said anything out loud about it. I think my sense of humor is starting to wear on Barbara. For some reason, she seems to be getting defensive when I respond to the sound of a shrieking toddler or a whiny six-year-old with
"Can't somebody put a plastic bag over that thing?", or the ever-charming "If that thing doesn't shut up I'm going to throw it in the river."
I wouldn't do this, of course. And no matter how tempted I might be to say something to their clueless parents, I need my job, so I usually just mumble something snide or go hide in the kitchen until the noise passes. But lately I've noticed Barbara getting a little testy, so I have made an effort to quietly ignore all but the worst offenders. (I'm not perfect, after all). So the newborns were something that I noted, but chose not to mention. After the third one on Saturday, though, Sven had had it. He leaned over, and putting on his Green Mountain Goober voice (imagine Bill Murray talking to himself about blowing up the gopher in Caddyshack, and add a Kennedy-esque twist to the vowels) said quietly but with a definite note of exasperation
"Uh, gee honey, I know you just gave birth like, two hours ago and all, but do you think you could run down to the Local Grocery?"
I've gotten a lot of mileage out of that mark with each repetition. I just have to make sure Barbara is out of earshot.

So I am at the Local Dive Bar with the b.h. We have come to see our friend D's band play. I do not frequent the LDB. In fact, I have really only gone there to see D play, or when I haven't finished drinking for the night and everything else closes. There is a reason for this.
The b.h. and I approach the bar at an open space between two filthy biker types in leather and a scary toothless old man. The b.h. pulls money from his wallet and turns to me to give me some.
"In case you need one later without me."
I thank him and give him an order for Switchback, which is the only beer in the LDB that is even close to palatable for me. The b.h. turns back to face the bartender, and as he places the order, the Leatherclad Biker Guy nearest me turns and looks me up and down from his bar stool, leaning back and nearly falling off of it.
"Hi," he slurred in what I assume was his sexiest pick-up tone.

"Hi" I deadpanned, not turning to face him.

"I'm Randy," he slurred, thrusting his hand toward me.

"Hi Randy" I deadpanned again. I looked down at his filthy, outstretched hand, wondering how many times he had used the bathroom since he had last washed it.

"Forgive me if I don't shake hands."

I was so proud of myself for finally remembering to use that line. Tombstone, aka the Best Movie Ever (aside from Brazil, The Accountant, The Future is Unwritten, and all of my other favorite movies) was released seventeen years ago. That line was delivered by Val Kilmer in the role of Doc Holliday, then watched (and re-watched, and re-watched ad nauseum), and then it waited in the back of my brain for seventeen years before finally being served up at an appropriate moment. I was nearly giddy.
"That's okay!" he slurred, louder and more animatedly now. "What's your name?"
"Denise," I answered without pause. (This is not my name.)
The b.h., in the meantime, collected our beers, tipped the bartender, and turned to give me my beer without acknowledging any of this conversation. One of the reasons why I love him is that he knows when I can handle a situation and generally lets me, rather than bothering to get involved and winding up in an unnecessary argument with an obvious idiot. We walked away together without another word.
"Nice meeting you Denise!" the guy said cheerily at my back. I wondered briefly exactly what the point was and then forgot about it completely until just now.

It reminded me of a time back in Athens. I was working at yet another dive bar, with my good friend Jared. His girlfriend at the time was A, who has since become a very good friend. On this particular night, A was sitting at the bar by herself having a drink while Jared and I slung drinks to filthy hippies and pool hustlers and the few frat kids who were daring enough to come in. We would each spend some time talking to A when we could, but for a while we were pretty busy and she was left to her own devices (and defenses). It was during this rush that a guy came up and asked if he could sit next to her. There were no other seats at the bar, and A isn't a bitch, so of course she said he could. He ordered a beer from Jared, sat quietly until it was delivered, and then started talking to A.
"You want a drink?"
"No, thanks. I've got one." She gestured at her beer which was three quarters full.

"You wanna dance?"

"No, thanks. I don't dance."

"You wanna play pool?"

"Um, no. I'm really just hanging out."

He paused for a minute or two, looking slowly around the room, and then turned back to her as if another thought had just occurred to him.

"You wanna go to the lake?"

"."

Somebody keeps leaving comments on my blog that are written in a different language. How can I decide whether or not to post them if I have no idea what they say? What if they're lewd comments? Or it's Nazi propoganda? (And why does Blogger insist that the word "Nazi" get capitalized? I'm not really for paying them even the tiniest respect.) I guess the other question is how did this person find me, and how could they possibly enjoy the blog if they don't speak English? Has anyone else had this experience?

This is fantastic. I can't wait to read the autobiography.

The b.h. went to visit his folks in North Carolina last week. He left bright and early on Thursday, and I had several long and difficult days at work, after which I mostly moped around the house eating bread and cheese and bemoaning his absence to no one in particular. When I wasn't at work I was dragging the dogs off to the woods or the river (on some days we did both). I knew they were going to be hysterical during the fireworks on the 4th, so after about two and a half minutes of nervous barking and whining and running around the house, I threw them in the car and drove around town looking for a place to park so we could watch them. The problem with being in the house is that they can't see the fireworks, so they have no idea what is happening and why the house is shaking. In the car, they're used to all kinds of noises and lights and whatnot, so they were completely calm. We sat on an empty road about half a mile from the house, windows and music both up, and everyone was totally happy. I can't believe it only took me eight years to figure this out.
After the fireworks were over, we went back to the house, I gave them each a treat, and then I headed out to meet my friend C for a drink. When I arrived at The Black Door, C was with his brother and a group of people I didn't know, as well as another friend, M. We all sat around and shot the shit and had a few beers, A and D stopped by a bit later, and we were pretty much the only ones there. We sat out on the patio, the weather was amazing, and eventually the bartender came out and sat with us for a bit. Good times were had by all.
When they closed, C and M and I went down the the venerable Charlie O.'s, the sort of dive-ey hell hole that you only enter because your friend's band is playing or every other bar in town is closed. There we ran into Harried Manager from the Local Restaurant, who was completely obliterated and invited us to his house for an after hours party. Moments later the door guy started shouting for everyone to leave, so we followed M and HM back to HM's place, which was about half a block away. I should mention that C and M both had a shot of tequila at Charlie O.'s, which I was smart enough to decline.
Anyway, we got to HM's and opened a couple beers, walked around admiring his decorating style (which was the thing that finally convinced me of his heterosexuality, by the way), put on some music, and found ourselves a chair.
Soon half of the town was pouring in the door, and C and I found ourselves rather pressed into a corner. There was a big weird guy kind of hovering over me, and C and I were both looking for a polite way to escape when we realized that the big goofy bastard was bleeding. Not from like, a gunshot wound or anything, but there was blood dripping all over his arm, which he was flailing around in our general direction. This realization caused us both to scramble clumsily out of our seats and to the other side of the kitchen. I even left my beer behind.
We watched from the corner as the Bleeding Guy and some woman took our seats.
"Probably just a ploy," I muttered to C from inside the refrigerator door. "I think they just wanted that table."
When we finally got back to the table a short while later, my beer was gone. The glass was there, but somebody (some drunk, bleeding scumbag, no doubt) had killed off my Guinness. Bastard.
The night finally ended when C and I were too tired to talk anymore and we realized that we were two of only five people left in Harried Manager's apartment. As we made for the door, I was accosted by HM's sister, who started to drunkenly embrace me before I was rescued by C and pulled out the door. Note to self: Never, never stay out until 4am in this town. Never again.

And now for something completely adorable:

Finally, I am absolutely certain that Wyatt doesn't speak English. There are times when I am unsure, when I am on the couch watching TV, he stands there staring at me very intently, like there is something extremely important on his mind.
"Pork chop," I expect him to say. "Get me a goddamned pork chop immediately. This dry shit you've been feeding us is not cutting it, and I'm here to register the official complaint. Now go get me some meat or I'll pee on your shoes. Again."
"Seriously?" will be my response. "You peed on my shoes on purpose? Why didn't you just ask me? I would have changed up the food situation ages ago!"

But he never speaks. And after today, I am very certain that he actually doesn't speak English, because if he did, he'd have said something like

"Get me out of here you stupid fucking bitch. What the fuck is wrong with you? This river is too deep and too fast for my big, wide ass, and since it's been raining for a couple days, you probably should have known that. What the hell were you thinking? You stupid bitch. Now go get the car."

As it was, he followed along next to me without a word, against his will, his tiny legs doing their best to propel him in the opposite direction than the one I was heading in. I was sure we would come to a spot that was shallow enough for us all to stand on, since on regular days when it hasn't been pouring rain this particular part of the river is quite shallow. I also knew that slightly up ahead there was another trail head on the bank, where we could climb up and walk back through the rest of the nature center to the car. What I hadn't counted on, and could not possibly have foreseen, was the giant dog that was standing at that trail head, without a human anywhere nearby, growling at Kilgore when he tried to make his way to the shore. It was huge, well over a hundred pounds, and looked like it might have been part wolf. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice to say that the current was far too strong for Wyatt to walk against, much less swim. The water was much deeper than I imagined, and though I was never in any danger (it only came up to my stomach at the deepest point), I did have a hard time keeping my bag dry and propelling Wyatt along in the right direction. We stood there uncertainly for about five minutes, during which time Kilgore drifted about a hundred yards further downstream, swam to the bank, doubled back, deftly avoiding the giant wolf dog, and jumped back in to meet us. The other thing I hadn't foreseen was the weather, and when it suddenly blew in the wind whipped up and it started to rain. I dragged Wyatt (whose legs were still pumping even though they weren't getting him anywhere, but which were slashing my legs brutally) across to the other side of the river, climbed the embankment, and ran through the brush until we all came out in somebody's back yard. We picked our way through their garden very carefully, walked around to the front of the house, let ourselves out the front gate, and then ran the quarter mile down the road back to where the car was parked. We passed several other people who were just as surprised by the weather as we were, which made me feel marginally less stupid. The ride back to the house was quiet.

Monday I went back to the Nature Center with the dogs. My friend A and her dog were along as well, which made it all the more entertaining. A's dog is a miniature poodle named Sushi and when she runs it looks like she's been shot out of a cannon. Kilgore and Sushi ran ahead of us all along the path, with Wyatt bringing up the rear in lumpy, Hasselhoffian style (his life jacket is safety yellow and makes him look quite official). I had to kind of push Wyatt along at first, holding onto him and wading into the deeper water at his side, but once he realized he wasn't going to sink he actually started to swim on his own. Sushi, despite being black and therefore much warmer in the sun than the rest of us, was having none of it. At least now I know what to get A for her birthday.
Tuesday I ran all of the errands I had failed to run on Monday. I went to the bookstore, exchanging three books I had finished reading(Hemingway's Movable Feast, which I read out of obligation as it was given to me as a gift, another book I have forgotten the name of that was left behind by my dad on his last visit, and a book by Ian Rankin which I thoroughly enjoyed but have since forgotten the name of) for two that I hadn't (Delta Wedding by Eudora Welty and A Month of Sundays by John Updike), and owing less than a dollar in the end. Oh how I love used books. I also stopped at the post office, donated some clothes and household items to the Salvation Army, picked up some shoes that I can wear in the river, and bought some hair dye. Then I took the dogs on a very long hike in the woods.
Having accomplished all of that, I felt I deserved a reward, so i met A for a couple beers and some tapas at the Local Restaurant. It was a beautiful night, everyone was in a good mood, and the restaurant wasn't very busy, so they all kept stopping by our table to chat. It was loads of fun and the beer (Hill Farmstead IPA) was absolutely fantastic. I think we may just have to make this a regular thing. Three dollar pints are hard to beat.
Wednesday was pretty much business as usual at work, and after I came home and cooked for a few hours while I waited for the b.h. to return from work. I sauteed some kale, roasted tomatoes and zucchini, and made whole wheat penne pasta, threw them all together in a big pot and added goat cheese. It was pretty damned good. I think I'm getting the hang of this.

Long but productive day at the LG today, after which I was full of cabin fever. I came home and the b.h. was just returning from walking the dogs in the woods behind our house, which as you may recall is pretty strenuous. He decided to accompany me to the Nature Center anyway, because he is very good to me. The Nature Center is just a few miles away, and basically consists of a very large field bordered by trees and a large swath of the river. The field is left to grow wild all year, and at the end of the fall they mow it all down and start over. It's a great place for birds (there are bird houses all through the place) and a nice way to see what wildflowers are currently in bloom. There are paths that are grassy and cut short winding all about. It is a favorite place of ours. Kilgore loves to swim, but Wyatt, being built (as I have probably mentioned) rather like a barrel with four tiny pegs sticking out, is not exactly aquadynamic. He has attempted to swim on occasion, but without my direct intervention he will list helplessly sideways, and so he usually stays in the shallow water and stalks Kilgore, running at him when he comes out after a long swim. Yesterday he seemed particularly frustrated and anxious to swim, so today I brought along his fancy new life jacket. He didn't leap right in, but the progress was promising, and he seemed perfectly comfortable in it. Looking forward to tomorrow. Pictures to follow.
Also, as promised and by request, The Shirt:

Got two more compliments by two more gay men on it last night.

A really cool thing happened to me at the LG the other day. A regular customer, an older guy who doesn't say much but usually cracks wise when he does, came in looking for some cheese. This is a man who never, ever needs my help, but whom I ask, every time I see him, how he is doing and whether I can help him find anything. So on this day, I ask, and he smiles, and he says no, but then he realizes he can't find the Rochetta. I point it out to him, and he picks up a wheel, looking as if he is trying to make a decision.
"Do you want me to cut it for you?", I asked him. It isn't a large wheel, but it is a very rich (and delicious, and decadent) cheese.
He paused for a moment.
"Could you? I usually buy the whole thing, but I-"
"Of course I can. No trouble at all. Surely some one", I said, referring to myself, "will want the other half."
"Are you sure? I mean, you don't have to-"
I ripped the wrapper off, smiling, and told him that it was really no big deal, and that I would be taking home the other half, and that it would not go to waste. I wrapped it up, thanking him for helping me to justify my inner glutton, and he took it and went away.
A few minutes later, he appeared again on the other side of the counter.
"Do you mind if I switch halves with you?"
"Not at all," I said, not thinking about why or caring much. They were virtually identical. I took the half from him and handed him the other. Then I turned around to put it back in the cooler and realized that it had a PAID sticker on it. I looked back at him, starting to protest, but he winked, waved, and walked off.

I know I have been home from New York for quite some time now, but I am not nearly through talking about that trip yet. Or rather, I don't have a lot to say, but there are still a number of pictures i think you might enjoy. So here are a few more:

These are, obviously, taken in Grand Central. The one of the ceiling is difficult to see, but there are celestial images painted on it, which apparently were only (fairly) recently discovered during a cleaning. There are two very small spots where the ceiling was left as it was before the cleaning, I assume to demonstrate just how bad the staining was from decades of tobacco smoke. No photo of that spot, I'm afraid. My camera wasn't up to the job.








And, the outside:






This is a picture of the best cup of coffee I had the whole trip. Why? Because I can.




The rest of these are just random architecture and street art. There was an indescribable amount of this stuff. I loved it.

So, unsurprisingly, there is an Athens contingent in New York City. What was surprising is that I ran into two of them without planning it at all.
The second day there I woke up early and had to move my car. After circling a couple blocks trying to find a legal spot, I jumped out and found myself standing at a red light waiting to cross the street behind a guy who used to work at Agora. I couldn't remember his name to save my life, and it was a million degrees outside and I had just woken up, so I didn't say anything to him.
Then on Friday, we all went into Manhattan to take pictures and look at lobbies of great buildings and stop at Grand Central Station to buy rape whistles (K likes to give them as gifts. They're small and floral and fit on your key chain), and we were standing on the sidewalk taking pictures. The b.h. was wearing his 40 Watt t-shirt, and out of nowhere a very loud, very New York voice boomed
"Is that The Forty Watt in Athens, Georgia? I used to work there thirty years ago!"
The voice came from a uniformed man outside of one of the spectacular buildings whose facades I was attempting to photograph. We ended up chatting with him for a few minutes, and of course we knew many of the same people. He showed us the inside of the building where he was working, which was stunning, but I was too shy to take pictures. I did take his, though.


Honestly, the world is just so small.

We stopped at a Buffalo Exchange on the way back to K's. I bought a pair of jeans and K got two skirts and a shirt, which she ended up giving to me (Again with the she's too kind). We also stopped at a thrift store, which was not quite as thrifty as a regular thrift store, but pretty damned thrifty for Brooklyn. I was tempted by a lot of things, but purchased only a small vintage commemorative glass from Soth of the Border.
We got back to K's and made more coffee. I painted my toenails, charged my camera battery, and took some pictures from her balcony:






After hanging out there for an hour or so, we were ready to get our night started. K had a gallery opening to attend, so we all got on the subway together and went to Union Square, where she met up with her friend J. We parted ways with a plan to get in touch after the show, and the b.h. and I headed in search of food. We made a quick stop at the Walgreens, where I was told by the man checking us out that my blouse was "lovely". (Wardrobe compliments from gay men = Score!). We found several places that looked interesting, but none seemed suitable for his meat habit, my vegetarian needs, and our schedule, which was slightly tighter than was ideal. We weren't exactly sure about getting to the boat where the rock show was going to happen, and we wanted to get there in plenty of time. We wound up eating at a vegetarian place since getting too full on a big heavy meal before boarding a boat for a rock show seemed like a bad idea. Angelica Kitchen is in the East Village, and it has been doing Vermont for longer than Vermont has. By this I mean the focus is on seasonal, local, organic food. The day's specials were Steve McQueen themed (I wish I could remember the names - one was a play on The Great Escape, and the other was called Steve's somethingorother), a sure sign that these were, at least to some degree, our people. While I w, I was chatting as waiting in line for the rest room (I had to wash my hands, you see, because we had ridden the subway, and well, ew), a waiter who looked remarkably like a gay twenty-something version of Brent Best told me that he liked my blouse and that it really suited me. That's two compliments from two unrelated gay men in less than an hour. Totally keeping that shirt. Anyway, the food was excellent, the service was quick, and we got out of there in plenty of time. We started walking in the general direction of the dock, stopped for a cannoli (yay! cannoli!) on the way, and eventually grabbed a cab the rest of the way. We saw the band at their van right when we pulled up, so we went over to say hi and met the new bass player.
If I haven't properly indoctrinated you yet, then let me pause here to tell you how much you need to hear and see and love J. Roddy Walston and the Business. This band may actually save rock and roll. And they just released an e.p. this week, so you should go get one. It's on iTunes and it's under three dollars. That way you can say you had it first when they blow up, which by the looks of things they are just about to do.
Getting on the boat was easy and uneventful. The show was pretty crowded, and there were a number of record industry douchebag types, as well as several people with cameras that were too professional for tourists. I assume that they were press folk, though it hadn't occurred to me until just this moment to do a search and see if the show got written up anywhere. We talked to the boys a bit, and I took a lot of pictures.






None of the shots of the Statue of Liberty turned out, which is rather a bummer. Oh well. Here are a few of the band:

We woke up fairly early on Thursday. I had slept very well, despite being next to a window that was directly under The Williamsburg Bridge. K had given us her room, because she is too good to us, and the hum of the traffic and the trains in the background had put me out like a light, so I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I made coffee, the b.h. took a shower, and soon we were on our way out. We ate breakfast at a small and beautifully decorated restaurant a couple blocks from K's house.



I had an egg sandwich with capers and cream cheese, and K went for granola, fruit, yogurt, and a giant side of bacon. I think the b.h. had steak and eggs. Everything was great. K was wearing a very cool ring, which I attempted to photograph. The results were iffy, but i think the ring speaks for itself:



Our next stop was Green Wood Cemetery. At the turn of the 19th century, this was apparently a top (if not the top) tourist destination, and after having a walk around I could see why. I think my favorite thing there was the statue of Minerva (whom you may also know as Athena) the Goddess of Wisdom. Her statue is waving,



and when you look out toward the harbor, you can see (look closely, now, just above the second set of windows on that white building)




that she is waving at the Statue of Liberty.





Other highlights of this park, which was the site of one of the first battles of the Revolutionary War, are the monument to the soldiers who fought in the Civil War, and a mausoleum guarded by two bronze dogs:





I like the sentiment on this one:



This one left me feeling quite unsettled:



And considering how this one screams "people who *cough* know people", I don't even want to know what Anna did to get her name filled in on this stone:



I took pictures until my battery died. This place was really cool. Is that weird?

"Don't tell them New York City almost killed us again." - The Hold Steady

We got stuck in some crappy traffic in Connecticut, but even still we got to the city in under five hours. When we pulled up in front of K's apartment, she was outside with her roommate, who was eating Ben and Jerry's ice cream out of a carton without the aid of a utensil. We dropped our bags upstairs and headed directly to the subway. We went into Manhattan and walked over to the Empire State Building.

I hadn't been there in well over a decade, and neither the b.h. nor K had ever been. It is, as you might imagine, quite a popular tourist destination, and even at nearly midnight on a Wednesday, there were lines. None of us cared, though, because we had plenty to talk about and lots of people watching to do. My favorite thing about being in such a touristy place is listening to all of the different languages being spoken. The b.h. likes to play "Wher're they from?", where you try to guess people's nationality by appearance and then listen for what language they're speaking to see if you were right. Turns out that Germans were the easiest to spot. The Dutch mostly look just like people from New York (meaning that they have better fashion sense than we do), and the British looked the most like us. Our favorite people in line - we kept passing the same folks, because the lines wound around and around like they do in airport security (or, if you prefer, as I do, an amusement park) - were a British woman and her daughter. Her daughter was probably around ten years old, and she was obviously smart and very friendly and super happy to be there.

Just before the second set of elevators, we were forced through a line where we had our pictures taken. You could hear the photographer from a long way away:

"Cheese.... Cheese.... cheese...."

"You should totally hire that guy," said the b.h. My stomach turned at the mere thought of eating cheese again, but I laughed through the vomit in the back of my throat anyway.

Very few people actually wanted their picture taken, but we weren't given a choice. We arrived at the photographer to find a fake backdrop of the view we were about to see. The logic escaped me, but I saw that they suckered at least a couple of people into it. The three of us agreed to make stupid faces, since we knew we wouldn't be buying them anyway.

The second elevator ride was even less comfortable than the first, since it was totally full, but I was flanked by our British friends and the b.h., so I closed my eyes and thought of wide open spaces. The view was fantastic. The night was odd and misty, so we couldn't see a great distance, but in Manhattan you don't really need to. I wasn't exactly sorry that I couldn't see Jersey. Because of the weird weather, we would occasionally have gusts of steam, or fog, or clouds or some such. I was half expecting Batman to pop out at any moment, and I wondered if he would be descending to the 86th floor from the higher observation deck (which costs fifteen dollars more), or ascending from street level.

My least favorite thing about being with so many tourists is the creeping germophobia that always seems to come over me. Hand rails, fences, elevator buttons, and viewing machines. Virtually every surface likely touched by several hundred people an hour, if not more, and how often do you think they clean that stuff? Uh huh- that's right. Never. On the elevator ride down, I closed my eyes and thought of a giant bottle of hand sanitizer. I should mention that every person who we encountered working in the Empire State Building was polite and friendly, except for the cameraman, who was completely deadpan. When we got back to his post, he and an assistant were trying, carnival-barker style, to get people to purchase a copy of the photo he had taken earlier. I thought the better of our horrible face-making only when I saw the result - all eight by ten inches of it - plastered to a wall where everyone could see it. Egads.
We left in no particular direction, and soon found ourselves in Korea Town, which was convenient because we were quite hungry and one of K's favorite restaurants is there and open 24 hours.
The place had a grotto motif, two stories with one whole wall designed to look like rough, bare rock slabs. In between floors, a small platform jutted out. Said platform was carpeted in red and featured a white baby grand piano.
"I've never seen anybody play that thing," K lamented. "I guess I need to get here at a more civilized hour."
We sat at the same table K always gets seated in, with a clear view of both the platform and the main floor, which were completely empty. The b.h. got something big and meaty, and K ordered a couple vegetarian things for us to split.
The waiter returned a few minutes later with eight small dishes and three small empty plates.
"Which one is which?" I asked K when he left. I recognized the tofu and the kimchi, but there were several things that were unfamiliar.
"Oh, this isn't our dinner. These are just... snacks, I guess. They always bring this stuff."
We ate. The tofu was excellent, and I enjoyed both of the kimchi dishes, as well as the pickled turnip. I had nearly forgotten about the food we had ordered by the time it arrived. The fried kimchi pancake was the best thing by far. They also brought us a bean ice cream (sweet potato flavored, I think) each for dessert. It was delicious.

I had to visit the ladies' room before we left, and was surprised (and rather grossed out) to find a sign requesting that guests not put any paper in the toilet. Now, I am well aware of the damage that can be done to old, fragile plumbing by giant wads of t.p., or, gods forbid, feminine hygiene products, but I do not recall ever having been asked to put all paper in a wastebasket, and I was glad not to be the poor soul who had to empty said wastebasket. I left the bathroom and emerged into the hallway where I discovered a strange phenomenon: there was a very strong breeze, nearly a wind, coming down the hallway. As I came up the stairs from this hallway and into the main part of the restaurant, my hair was blowing like I was in a car going fifty miles an hour with the window down. But the front door wasn't open. Where was this wind coming from? I never found out. Weird.

We got back on the subway and were at K's apartment in short order. The b.h. and I each got a beer from the restaurant downstairs, and turned in.


Korea town, the baby grand, and the curious windtunnel effect of the restroom hallway.

I worked early on Tuesday, and we were pretty busy because the store had been closed on Monday. The day went by very quickly, and before I knew it I was at home packing. I slept very little, as is often the case when we are about to leave town, due to needless worrying coupled with giddy enthusiasm.

I woke up very early, packed the car, and went to work to meet up with my co-workers before heading South to White River Junction for a day of cheese class. The class was offered by our state's Cheese Council, in cooperation with a local University. It was lead by a woman from Spain, whose accent, I gathered, was difficult for the other seven people from my store, and nearly impossible for the cheesemakers who made up the rest of our class to decipher.
We were given a plate with two samples on it and a small slice of apple. We were shown notes on an overhead projector. We took almost two hours discussing these things. (This was the first time that this class had been offered outside the University, where it is taught over a six week period.) We took a break at this point, and I assumed that there were going to be two or possibly four more samples after lunch.
There wasn't any lunch, nor was there time for one. We broke for ten minutes, during which I mostly waited in line for the bathroom and then attempted to meet a couple of the cheese makers. I overheard a couple of them complaining about the smell of the first two samples (a French Camembert and an Epoisses, which bore little resemblance to the cheddars and mild cheeses that most of these people grew up on and produce). This was clearly not what anyone expected.
Two more samples were handed around when class resumed, as well as small paper cups half-full of water. Again there were notes. Feeling my carpel tunnel start to kick in, I wondered why on earth they hadn't thought to print these things out in advance. We tasted, we discussed, and we disagreed. The cheesemaker at our table couldn't believe that anybody would eat any of this stuff on purpose. We finished the fourth sample and I was imagining what I might do while I waited for the b.h. to arrive (he was taking a bus down to meet me). And then the rest of the samples came out. They kept coming. We were handed sheets on which we were to make notes. The rest of the cheeses were made locally by the people in the class. We were not told what the cheeses were, but each one was given a number and we were expected to make notes about them, based on what we had learned in class, which would then be given to the person who made the cheese. When this portion of the class started, we had already eaten two ounces each of FOUR cheeses. It was not pretty.
"Well, at least we won't have to make any bathroom stops on the way home," joked my boss, Barbara.
Basically we suffered through as much as we could of the rest of the cheeses, but most people stopped even pretending that they cared. The class ran an hour longer than it was scheduled to, and I ran out the door at the end to pick up the b.h., who had by then spent an hour at the bus station. I learned a lot in that class, but the most important lesson I learned while driving to New York City feeling like I might throw up at any moment, and it is this: Never, under any circumstances, eat more than half a pound of cheese in one sitting.