KP

Today was my first day back to work after a week away. I don't usually mind returning to work, and I didn't mind it today. I like my job and my colleagues (that's such a fancy word, isn't it? Like I'm a university professor or a corporate attorney), so it's not a hardship to be in the office. Only I couldn't concentrate. I didn't have any good ideas, so I just did detail work. I made plans and checklists. I would have organized my inbox, but I didn't think of it--that's how uninspired I was .

In project management, there's a concept called lessons learned. At stages throughout a project, and at the project's conclusion, and really any time that something occurs to you, you should document lessons learned--good or bad--so that the next project team will benefit from your acquired wisdom. It's a good practice. I could apply it to my recent trip, because as much thought and effort as I put into packing, I could have done far better.

Lesson Learned #1: Pack pajamas that you don't care about. You can ditch them to make room for the stuff you'll acquire along the way. I suppose that Lesson Learned #2 could (or should) be not to acquire stuff along the way. But that's crazy talk.

*****

It's Wednesday, and I just finished grappling with a daily struggle. I dislike cooking, so much so that I will do almost anything to avoid it; and so every day, I have to force myself to start dinner before I involve myself in 25 other projects that will only delay the inevitable, which is that dinner must be cooked, and I must cook it.

Every day, I tell myself that I'll start dinner THE MINUTE I walk in, instead of checking email and folding laundry and washing lunch dishes and starting a blog post and preparing tomorrow's coffee and perusing the mail. But something almost always distracts me, and then it's an hour later, and everyone's hungry, and dinner is nowhere near the table. It's not even on the stove.

Today wasn't much different, though dinner is cooking now as I write this, so that's a step in the right direction. I should try to learn to like cooking. I certainly like eating.

*****
Thursday night, and the Capitals are playing the Hurricanes for the second time in a week. And I cooked again tonight, a meal that I make pretty often. My family might be sick of it, but they ate it happily enough.

I've been waking up at 4:30 every morning, and I haven't been able to go back to sleep. I don't think it's jet lag-related, because I've been back for almost a week now, and this happens all the time. It's probably more to do with spring, season of PTSD and panic attacks, predictable and vivid as cherry blossoms. This too shall pass. I do need to sleep eventually.

*****
It's Friday now. Do you know what I did today, other than wake up at 4:30 AM? I painted my nails, a cranberry red color. This is worthy of mention because I never do this. I don't think I've ever painted my nails a bright color, ever in my whole life. And all of a sudden, I decided that I wanted to have red nails. I'm not sure how I feel about it. It's a little jarring--it looks like I'm bleeding out from my fingertips. Maybe I'll get used to it.

My older son is leaving tomorrow for his high school band trip to NYC. 60 students, 2 teachers, and eight heroic parent volunteers are going to descend on Manhattan, colonize a hotel, visit the Statue of Liberty and Rockefeller Center and the 9/11 Memorial, see a musical, sit for a master class, and perform at  Hofstra University. And if the itinerary is any indication, they're also going to eat like passengers on a Carnival Cruise ship.

*****
It's Saturday morning and I slept in all the way to 5:30. Progress. According to this morning's news, cherry blossoms are at "puffy white" bloom stage, with peak bloom expected on Monday. I care more about the forsythia, which are at peak right now. I love forsythia, so unassuming and cheerful and so fleeting. Three weeks, and the blooms are all gone, turning the forsythia into plain green shrubs until the next early spring.

I drove my son to school this morning, where he and his fellow band members gathered with their suitcases and duffel bags and backpacks and instruments, waiting to board their bus to New York City. Excited and happy, they rolled their suitcases and shouldered their backpacks and waved to their parents with a glance over the shoulder. It's 9:30 now so according to the itinerary, the buses left 30 minutes ago. I'll miss that boy, but he'll be back on Tuesday.

Meanwhile, it's a stuff-to-do weekend. I have shopping to do and an already pretty clean house to clean and swim team business to conduct and some work to finish. It's Lent, so I'll probably go to Confession. My nails, painted just yesterday, are a mess, because I forgot for a moment that I don't live the kind of life that allows a person to keep her hands nice, so I'll probably take the nail polish off. But it's also still the weekend. So I'm not going to cook.

Ruby Tuesday

I'm happy to be back in America and especially happy to be in Section 416, Row L, Seat 10 at Capital One Center. It's game time minus 14 minutes and I'm waiting for the puck to drop at one of the last regular season games of the year. Capitals vs. Hurricanes. Don't get me started on the ridiculousness of a hockey team from North Carolina.

I like getting here early, seeing the stands fill up, watching the zambonis, listening to pre-game commentary from John Walton and Mike Vogel. We have different seats this time. My son, who is much more observant than I, noticed that the Capitals logo is right side up from this side of the ice. It's a hopeful sign.

First intermission : Capitals 1, Hurricanes 0.  I usually walk the concourse during the intermission but I don't feel like it right now.

The seats filled up very quickly tonight. The 400 level at Capital One Center makes coach class on any airline seem wide open and downright roomy, but 400 level fans are a hardy lot. We look askance at the one percenters in the suites and the 100 level. But if we're being honest (and we're always being honest because we're the gosh darn salt of the fucking earth) then we have to admit that we'd ditch the 400 level in a New York minute, if we only had a chance.

Tonight's Twitter song poll choices:

“LA Woman,” The Doors. Why? What do The Doors or LA women have to do with the price of tea in China at a hockey game between Washington and North Carolina?

“Cool Jerk,” The Capitols. This makes much more sense. It's the Capitols, and tonight is bobblehead night for Evgeny Kuznetsov, famously labeled a “jerk” by noted hockey curmudgeon Don Cherry. Whatever, Don. Kuzy is the coolest of the cool jerks. He is, in fact, the king of the cool jerks. 

“Ruby Tuesday,” The Rolling Stones. So it's Tuesday, obvs, and ruby=red, so this is a clearly relevant selection, and the best song of the three. I'm an Instagram girl, so I won't actually cast a Twitter vote, but l’d vote for “Ruby Tuesday.” “Cool Jerk” will win, though.

For some odd reason, Coldplay’s “Sky Full of Stars” was playing during the song campaign, adding to the confusion. I'm going to go full suburban white lady and declare my love for Coldplay, especially “Sky Full of Stars.” I like Coldplay and I cannot lie. As Kuzy would say, “Let's fuck this shit.”

“Cool Jerk” was the winning song and the Washington Capitals were the winning team, with a 4-1 final score that clinched a playoff spot. With three assists, our second favorite Russian was the player of the game. I'm in the car (not driving) and it's much more fun to listen to the post-game radio show after a win than after a loss. We're in first place now. Let's go Caps.

Transatlantic

Friday, March 22. It's 2:17 PM Dublin time and who knows what time wherever I am 40,000 or so feet over the Atlantic Ocean. I'm very happy to be going home.

I should be writing this on my Chromebook, but the space bar isn't working. Because the WiFi isn't working either, I can't find a fix for the space bar. So I'm using Keep Notes to write. Necessity is the mother of invention.

I just finished a white wine mixed with Diet Coke, which is a surprisingly good combination. During drink service, the very nice young flight attendant asked me if I wanted one or two white wines and I foolishly and hastily said "just one." Poor decision making on my part. It's slightly turbulent and another wine or two would not be a bad idea. But it's all good. It's all good.

What is wrong with my space bar, anyway?

*****

I started to feel fluish on Tuesday or Wednesday and I ignored it, for two reasons. Reason one: I ignore all health issues less serious than bleeding from the eye sockets. Reason two: I didn't want to ruin the trip for everyone. But now the trip is pretty much over, so I can stop moving for a bit and just rest. 

Except that I'm 40,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean.

We arrived at Terminal 2 of Dublin Airport just a little less than 3 hours before our flight, and we needed every minute of those hours. I can't express in words the relief of finally shedding all of the extra bags, then passing through both security checkpoints and just waiting at the gate.

Because my travel companion is temporarily disabled by a broken arm, we were granted the privilege of early boarding. In the future, anyone who wishes to travel with me will need to have some sort of injury or disability because it's quite an advantage to have the cabin almost to yourself. We were comfortably settled, with all of our belongings stowed and arranged, before anyone else was even allowed near the plane. And then we got to watch as our fellow travelers (in the literal sense) settled themselves and their belongings, with less time and a lot less room to move.

According to the in-flight map (which wasn't available on the flight over), we are somewhere south of Greenland. I'm listening to music now. I made a playlist, which includes some of the usual suspects (Paul Simon, Bruce Springsteen, Lady Gaga); and a few outliers (The Ting Tings, Betty Who, Michael Jackson, Aaron Neville, Bill Withers). It's a good mix. I can't worry about anything when Aaron Neville is singing "People Get Ready."

*****

I never understand people who complain about airplane food. It's not that the food is so good, it's just that we're on an airplane over the ocean and it's a bit of a miracle that any hot food at all is available. I remembered that it was Friday so I asked for a vegetarian meal and a moment later, I was a bit character on a Seinfeld episode. Call me Vegetable Lasagna.

We're halfway through the flight now. Still south of Greenland, pointing toward Newfoundland. We still have a way to go but we're closer to the United States than Europe now.

We passed over Newfoundland a little while ago and we're approaching either Nova Scotia or Prince Edward Island. The path on the map keeps shifting a bit so I'm not sure. Or maybe I just like the names of the Maritime Provinces. I was an Anne of Green Gables girl. Two more hours or so.

We passed right between them, actually, and now we're heading toward the East Coast of the United States, in a path that will take us right between Boston and Montreal. It's nice to be back in a place where people care about hockey.

*****

Saturday, March 23. The preceding was what you get when I'm stuck in a tiny chair with nothing to do except watch silly movies ("Crazy Rich Asians"--ridiculous) and good TV shows ("Derry Girls"--awesome), listen to music, read, and monitor the flight path. I didn't sleep, but I did get up and go to the bathroom 57 times. People probably think I'm a drug addict. I'm still sick, and I'm too tired to write anything more. It's nice to be home. 

En route

It's Wednesday, a day and a half before we leave Ireland for home. I completely did not want to come on this trip and although I can't wait to return, I'm very happy I came. I like Ireland much more than I thought I would. Of course it's beautiful; I knew it would be. I've seen the pictures. And of course, I knew that it was rich with history and art and literature. But when I was growing up, my family made a sentimental big deal of our Irish-Catholic heritage, and I was steeled against it.

With its indescribable natural beauty and its amazing culture, Ireland would have enough laurels to rest on. But it's also incredibly energetic, while retaining a calm, unhurried good humor that makes every interaction a joy. Well, almost. Basil Fawlty was the one exception. Irish people always seem interested in others, though not in an idly curious, intrusive way.

So I'll miss Irish people. I'll miss proper tea, served in a cup and saucer. (I could use a cup and saucer at home, but I won't be able to duplicate the tea itself.) I'll miss the sudden shifts from still overcast skies to bright warm sun with wind blowing the clouds across the blue sky to a heavy shroud of fog and chill. And back again.

*****
Now it's Thursday, and I'm back on Iarnród Éireann, on the second leg of our train journey from Killarney back to Dublin. Believe it or not, on the first leg, we sat facing another young couple that included a dark-haired pretty girl with glasses. If they were students, they were likely graduate students--they looked a bit older and considerably more stylish than the two from the first trip. Couple number two spoke English with Italian accents, and they were reading English-language versions of two of Dan Brown's novels: Angels and Demons, and another one whose title I can't remember, but which my mother told the young man included a section too scary to read alone, especially at night. "Don't tell me any more," he said with a smile, "I don't want to spoil it." They ate chocolate biscuits from a cellophane - wrapped package and politely offered to share. After a few cookies and a few pages of her novel, the girl fell asleep on her boyfriend's shoulder.

As on the trip from Dublin, the trains arrived and departed promptly on time. Irish Rail is easy to understand and navigate after one or two trips, and I feel confident that I could get anywhere in Ireland via train, but this will be my last trip for a while. We go home tomorrow--a longer flight because the wind will be against us, but a shorter elapsed time because we gain rather than lose four hours. I miss my family. I miss my house. I miss not having to check for my passport every five minutes. True story--I left my wallet containing my passport and driver's license, two credit cards, and about $850 in dollars and euros combined on a barstool in Dublin, and I found it a few minutes later, with nothing missing or disturbed. This could have been a very different trip. But that's Ireland, I guess, and that's the proverbial luck of the Irish, even the American, three-generations-removed, 3/4 Irish variety.

I'm so sorry. I'm from Barcelona

t’s Tuesday afternoon, just after 1, and I’m on board an Irish Rail train bound for Cork. We’ll change trains in Mallow for our destination, Killarney. The train was scheduled to leave at 1 and it pulled away from the platform promptly at 1. Apparently, the trains here run on time.

Heuston Station is a huge, mid-19th century rail station in Dublin, right around the corner from the hotel where we stayed. Outside, it’s a pre-Gilded Age granite and sandstone landmark and inside it’s a typical modern commuter and distance rail station, filled with coffee shops and bookstores and newsstands and lots of people.

I’m going to look at a map of our route now. We are passing through what most Americans think of as typical Irish countryside with rolling hills and farmhouses and contented Irish cows. I might need to take a picture.

An hour and a half later, and we’re still proceeding placidly through the countryside. We’re in a four-seat cubby with the pairs of seats facing a table, and my mother and I are riding backward. Poor planning on my part, but it’s not uncomfortable. Our seatmates are two young American students, a boy and a petite, dark-haired girl with glasses, obviously a couple. They studied and complained about their workload for a while, and then the girl took a nap on the boy’s shoulder, as he alternated between scrolling his phone and looking up birds in a field guide. When the dark-haired girl woke up, he told her that he’d seen a particular type of sandpiper that he’d been hoping to see. She seemed happy for him.

The Irish countryside is really just as beautiful as everyone says it is. And now we’re in the insanely picturesque town of Killarney. It’s too picturesque, in fact. It feels like a Potemkin village. Our hotel is very quaint and charming, and if it was a person, I’d want to smack it.

When we arrived, the innkeeper (I have to assume that he is the innkeeper) was busy at some paperwork. He held up a “wait a moment” finger and said “I’ll be just a tick, ladies.” He didn’t look up. After 90 seconds or so, I said hello again and told him that we had a reservation for two nights.

"Of course ye do,” he said, still not looking up. “Name?”

I told him my name. “Ah,” he said. “Here we are. Two nights. Have ye any bags?” And we did, of course. Another staff member, possibly his wife, bustled over, smiling and welcoming. She showed us to our room with its polished wood floor and flowered wallpaper and crushed velvet sofas and toile drapes and 25 pillows on each bed, and we settled in.

A few minutes later, I remembered that I had VAT refund forms to mail, so I went back to the front desk and asked the innkeeper if he wouldn’t mind sending them along with his outgoing mail.

“Well, I could,” he said, “but ye’d probably feel a bit more secure if you posted it yourself, wouldn’t ye? There’s a shop across the street, and a post box just in front. Ye can’t miss it.”

Actually, you can miss it, because I did, never having seen an Irish mailbox. I carried the envelope back into the lobby, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but he did. “Ye didn’t find it?” he asked.

“No, but I’m sure I will,” I said.

He sighed. “Well give it here. I’ll post it for ye.” Well, that wasn’t hard, I thought. I heard him mutter to himself as I walked away, “Ye can see it from here. I don’t see how ye can miss it.”

"I mean, this is supposed to be a hotel, not a Burma railway!"

So it’s Day 3 on this beautiful green island. No matter that we’re staying at Fawlty Towers. We'll see the Ring of Kerry tomorrow, and then we'll sit in a pub and listen to music. As it turns out, the mailboxes are green.

Dubliner

Everything looks better after you sleep. Things make so much more sense.

We arrived in Dublin at 5:15 AM on Sunday. After a brief regroup, we came into the city and just joined the St Patrick's Day crowds. My traveling companions were exhausted by 3 PM, having been up all night, and I was too, but I didn't want to sleep and miss daylight in this beautiful city. So I went back out and explored Dublin on foot. I was literally asleep at the table at 8:30 PM last night, and then I slept like I'd never slept before.

It's Monday now, and I think my body is on Dublin time. I woke at my normal early hour, dressed, drank delicious instant coffee, and went out to walk along the quays. My mother and sister and friend were still in bed, and they take some time to get ready in the morning, so I had two hours to wander and take pictures and breathe the chilly spring air.

When everyone was ready, we went to shop on Grafton Street, and then to visit the Book of Kells at Trinity College. I spent more money today than I normally spend in a month, and I'm not even panicking about it. I might suffer buyer's remorse over the two (one for me and one for my husband) Aran sweaters and silver and Connemara marble jewelry, but I'd probably be even sorrier not to have brought something home.

The Book of Kells, though beautiful, was a little disappointing. The exhibit was well done but only two of the four books are on display, so visitors can only see four folios at a time. But the Long Room at Trinity College Library was astonishing and well worth the 14 euro admission price. I'll remember those ancient stacks of books and the long, dark history-filled corridor that houses them forever.

We're going to Kerry tomorrow, via Irish Rail or Iarnród Éireann, I'll miss Dublin but we'll be back for a night on Thursday.

National holiday

In Muriel Spark's A Far Cry From Kensington, a mentally unstable character commits suicide. During the investigation of the woman's death, the police question the protagonist and other witnesses, hoping to learn what might have driven the woman to take her own life. Upon learning that the victim was Catholic as well as mentally ill, the police officer shakes his head sadly, and says "Catholic doesn't help with an unsound mind." The first-person narrator adds a knowing comment: "He spoke with an Irish accent, and probably knew what he was talking about."

For some reason, Americans of Irish descent are fond of saying that the Irish don't make a big deal of St. Patrick's Day, and that it's only sentimental Irish-Americans who dress up in green and wear funny hats and drink and sing songs on March 17. But it's March 17, and I'm in Dublin, Ireland; and I just left a street where I was part of a crowd for which the phrase "crush of humanity" was coined, so I can assure them that this is not true. Yes, there are plenty of Americans here, but most of the revelers in green are as Irish as Finnegan's Wake, and shillelagh law is all the rage.

I've been playing with Adobe Spark. 

My mother has knee problems and can't walk long distances, so we took a taxi from our hotel to get as close to the parade route as possible. When the taxi driver stopped to let us out, he said "Be careful, ladies. It's St. Patrick's Day, and everyone in Ireland is an asshole today." He spoke with an Irish accent, but he didn't know what he was talking about. The Irish are lovely, even on St. Patrick's Day. 

The road is rising up to meet me

“I’m sorry about the rush. I get anxious when I travel.” (Melissa McCarthy as Lee Israel in “Can You Ever Forgive Me.”)

Truer words were never spoken.

It's Saturday night, 8:25 PM EDT, meaning 1:25 AM or so Dublin time. I have no idea what time it actually is because I have no idea where I actually am other than somewhere high over the Atlantic Ocean. I’m lucky that I’m a fairly small person. Coach class on Aer Lingus is not for the faint of heart, nor is it for the long of leg.

And I’m not as faint of heart as I normally am either. A glass of wine helped me through some rather bouncy turbulence an hour back or so. Now I’m waiting for dinner and half-watching “Can You Ever Forgive Me,” a movie that I have already seen and will probably see again on my way back across the Atlantic next week.

The worst part of leaving home is saying goodbye and with that part over, I’m fine now. We’ll be in Dublin in three hours or so, just as St. Patrick’s Day is dawning. A handful of my fellow passengers are in full American-Irish SPD garb (including one woman who is wearing, I give you my word, an “Erin Go Bra-Less” t-shirt) but most of us are in standard coach passenger airplane attire. Nondescript and comfortable.

It’s the end of the movie, the heartbreaking scene in the courtroom where Lee Israel bares her soul and admits her guilt and her cowardice. I haven’t seen “The Favourite” yet, and I’m sure that Olivia Colman is wonderful but it’s hard for me to imagine a better movie performance in 2018 than Melissa McCarthy as Lee Israel. It’s even better the second time around.

The plane is shaking a tiny bit, and it’s pitch dark outside the few windows that aren’t closed. They’re bringing dinner around. I’m not very hungry but I might need one more class of wine. I get anxious when I travel.

*****
Sunday morning. A clear and cold morning in Dublin. We arrived at 5:30 AM local time and watched the sun come up as we waited for the shuttle to our hotel. At some point, I'm sure I'll feel the lack of sleep, but for now, we're ready for the parade. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Daylight

It's Ash Wednesday, the beginning of a Lent season that will end in a late (April 22) Easter. Lent always feels endless to me. Is it because I'm counting the days until it's over, beginning on Day 1? Perhaps. Perhaps.

And perhaps it's also because today, March 6, is the coldest day since January, with a high temperature that didn't even reach freezing. It's March. I want Spring. I want to see forsythia and cherry blossoms. Most of the blooming season for the cherry blossoms overlaps with my trip, so I might miss them. The forsythia hangs on for a little longer, but not much longer. Fleeting. Everything is fleeting. Everything is moving too quickly.

Anyway, I should go to Mass. I don't have to go to Mass, but I should. And that's Lent for you. A lot of sacrifices that you don't HAVE to make, but you SHOULD. I miss chocolate already.

*****

So I did decide to go to Mass. In fact, I'm sitting in the parking lot, having arrived 20 minutes early. This is how I do my job and raise my children and compulsively clean my house and still have time to read and write: 20 minutes in the parking lot.

*****

Thursday, Day 2. There were four priests distributing ashes last night, and I picked the sloppy guy. Few people are more aware that they come from dust and will thence return than I, so I probably didn't need a whole shovel full of last year's incinerated palm branches. I came home from Mass looking like a coal miner. But a little soap and water, and I was right as rain. 

I'm on hold with Aer Lingus now. It's been 30 minutes and 54 seconds. So I'm going to multi-task, because that is what I do. 

I have a Pixel 2 phone. I like it but it has its little quirks like every other phone. For example, when you choose the phone application (who knows why we even call them "phones" anymore, because it's the least frequently used option), it's hard to actually see how to make a call. All of the options (recents, favorites, search contacts) display across the bottom of the screen. You have to look carefully to find the little keyboard icon that allows you to actually dial a number that you don't already have stored. 

Meanwhile, like most business concerns, Aer Lingus does its darnedest to prevent people from calling them on the phone. You can search their helpful FAQs, and you can chat with a helpful agent (or maybe a chatbot), but you have to really dig to find a phone number. Once you find the phone number and dial it (assuming you can find your phone's keyboard), and maneuver your way through the automated call distribution options, you hold for a while. If you're me, you write about it, as it's happening. Don't ever say that I don't cover the news live. 

******

It's Friday now. Day 3. Yesterday's phone calls (to Aer Lingus and Visa) were part of a herculean push to cross off every item on a very long to-do list. I'm almost finished. It's been a busy week, and my reluctance to do just one thing at a time has nearly brought me to ruin on more than one occasion. Last night, I hurriedly tossed taco shells onto a baking sheet that was balanced precariously on the edge of the counter. I should move that, I thought, dismissing the thought almost immediately and then fortunately reacting quickly enough as the thing tilted over and nearly clattered to the floor. In me vs. gravity competition, gravity is nearly undefeated, but I won that round.

*****
Saturday, Day 4. I can tell what time of year it is because the annual bout with depression and anxiety is upon me once again. I don't want to write about it. So I'll write about what I'm reading, which is Masha Gessen's The Future is History. I've read about one-third of this pretty long book, and I can't put it down. Gessen, a journalist and native Russian, writes about post-Soviet Russia through the personal stories of four Russians who were children during the events of 1991. I read Anna Politkovskaya's A Russian Diary a long time ago. Although Masha Gessen is just as vehement a critic of Vladimir Putin as Politkovskaya (who was murdered for writing the truth about Putin), she is a more effective storyteller, just as good at the micro, personal, biographical detail as the macro, socio-political analysis. It's a very good book.

*****
It's Sunday, Day 5 and the first day of Daylight Savings Time. I don't like to lose an hour of sleep any more than the next person, but I love an extra hour of daylight at the end of the day. My news feed is filled with the annual stories about the health and safety impact of a whole already sleep-deprived country losing another hour of sleep, complete with the usual prediction and/or recommendation that the whole idea of Daylight Savings Time will or should go away. I don't remember ever not having twice-yearly time changes, and it really never occurred to me until a few years ago that it was a thing that could or should change.

I probably sleep less than most people, so an hour once a year isn't going to hurt me. And when I think about it, I actually like the idea of a twice-yearly reset. So I'd rather keep the March and October time changes. I suppose I don't get a vote, though. 

*****
Tuesday, Day 7 (I skipped a day). I leave for Ireland in a few days. My before-trip to-do list, nearly crossed off a few days ago, has grown by a few items; and the things I thought I needed to take don't all fit into my bags. So I need to either find a bigger bag, or leave some things behind.

I have this long-cherished idea of myself as an insouciant wanderer who throws a few things (any old things) into a bag (any old bag) and just takes off without another thought. The "any old things" and "any old bag" parts are not likely to happen, but the "few things" part is achievable, with some planning. Yes, I realize that planning is not necessarily compatible with insouciance, but one has to start somewhere.

Actually, I don't really care at all about traveling light for its own sake.

See what I did there?

But really, it's a matter of practicality. We'll be traveling within as well as to Ireland, and when I think about how much weight I'm willing to drag around with me, the answer is not very much. I have two bags. I'm going to figure out how to get everything I need into those two bags. Failing that, I'm going to figure out how to need only the things that I can fit in those bags.

*****
Wednesday. One week down. I don't generally like to count down days or weeks. It's like wishing away your life. But I do count down the days until the end of Lent.

It's much warmer now than it was a week ago, and the extra hour of daylight more than compensates for the loss of an hour's worth of sleep. It doesn't, however, compensate for the loss of chocolate. Spring giveth and it taketh away.

Five more weeks. Next post from Dublin. Go dtí an tseachtain seo chugainn. 

Gateway

I read somewhere that Stalin once asked a political enemy (Lev Kamenev maybe, or one of the other old Bolsheviks) how much the state weighed. The person was apparently confused (probably head trauma) and asked Stalin what he meant (probably not a good idea), and Stalin apparently then asked him what the Kremlin and all of its furniture and finishings weighed, and how much all of the paper in the Soviet record archives weighed, and how much all of the gold and gypsum in the mines weighed, and how much all of the soldiers and tanks and planes in the Soviet army weighed, etc. And then how much all of it combined--how many pounds or kilos, did it all add up to? The idea was that the Soviet government apparatus was so huge and all-encompassing that no one person could oppose it. The sheer weight would crush him.

*****

A few weeks ago, I had to attend a tech symposium at the NIH main campus in Bethesda. The National Institutes of Health, with all of its many Institutes and Centers and its 300+ acre campus, and all of the employees and contractors who work there, is a small, very secure and insular little city unto itself. It's like the Vatican.

Even if you have a Federal government ID, you still have to go through security when you visit NIH. I knew this going in, so I was prepared. The NIH Gateway Center, where all visitors begin their day at NIH, is like customs and border patrol for the NIH city-state. Visitors enter through a glass door and step into the security screening area. After they pass through security, they are directed to one of 6 numbered windows, where uniformed clerks issue ID badges and send visitors on their way to whatever NIH building they're supposed to visit. It's all very efficient, and very busy. NIH hosts lots of visitors, and they all have to pass through the Gateway Center. 

*****
NIH, as large as it is, is just a small part of an even larger Cabinet-level agency. Which is itself just a small part of the Executive branch. Which is itself just a part of the vast apparatus of the United States Federal government. Add up all of those buildings and pencils and papers and computers, not to mention millions of people. It's a lot of weight.

****

As I said, I knew about the visitor rules, so I came prepared. I was about 10th in line when I arrived, and I spent my few minutes in line unzipping my handbag and wallet and pencil case, pulling change out of my pockets, and generally sorting and organizing my belongings for the screening. A group of visitors came in just behind me, and they all fell into line too. With 18 or 19 people waiting, a small group of three--two young men and a youngish woman--entered the Gateway Center and headed directly to the front of the line. 

"Good morning," said one of the young man, the leader of the trio, to the security guard. 

"Good morning, sir. The back of the line is right there," said the security guard, pointing helpfully to the back of the line where these three obviously belonged. 

The young man smiled, an I'm-sure-you-don't-know-whom-you're-speaking-to smile. "We're badged," he explained, waving the same PIV card that 80% of us standing in the line were already wearing around our necks.

"Yes," said the guard, "thank you very much. If any of you have NIH badges, you can head directly to the employee entrance on South Drive. If you don't have NIH badges, you can join the line, and we'll get to you just as quickly as possible." 

The young man's face fell, but he knew that he was beaten, and we knew that he knew. No one person, not even three people together, can bear all that weight. The three turned meekly around and got in line behind the four or five newcomers who had joined the line during this conversation. You can't fight city hall, and you really can't fight the NIH Gateway Center.

This is a birdhouse just outside the Natcher building at NIH.
Maybe I wasn't supposed to take pictures, but no one told me that I couldn't.
Presumably, the birds don't need visitor badges. 

*****

The line moved very quickly, and I walked from the Gateway Center to the conference, arriving just in time for the keynote address, given by a very senior Federal government official. The topic of the address was pretty much the same topic covered in 80% of gatherings of government information technology people; that topic being DATA: How to gather it, how to organize it, how to use it to measure and quantify stuff, and how to secure it. No one seems to know the answers to these questions, least of all me. I'm a layperson. 

The keynote address was in an auditorium that seats about 300 people, so there were microphones set up for the Q&A session. It would never occur to me to ask a question at one of these things, but there are people who live for the opportunity to ask a really insightful, carefully worded question in a public setting. Identity politics bores me to death, but I couldn't help but notice that all four of the questioners were white men in their late 30s and early 40s. Every question was prefaced by a 50-plus word statement that demonstrated the questioner's wide-ranging understanding of all things data. It was like an audition. And who knows, maybe it worked. Maybe this very senior Fed pulled his assistant aside after the Q&A session and said "That guy in the blue striped oxford shirt who asked that really sharp question about extract-transform-load--get me his number. I need him on staff ASAP." 

After the keynote address, we collected swag from exhibitors, and then attended break-out sessions, which were only slightly too-technical; just enough that I felt that I was learning something. In one session (the most technical), the speaker quoted Bill Gates' two rules of automation. To paraphrase: 

1. Automation applied to an efficient process will magnify the efficiency. 
2. Automation applied to an inefficient process will magnify the inefficiency. 

Commenting on artificial intelligence, the same speaker (a scientist who probably understands the topic as well as anyone) said that no one really understands AI at all. "You'll never understand how it got the answer; you just have to decide if the answer is believable." 

How should I feel about this? Reassured that it's not just me who can't wrap my head around something so complicated? Or terrified that a senior Federal government scientist can stand in front of a room full of Feds and contractors and blithely claim that a technology that controls more and more of the world every day is a total mystery even to the initiated, and that we shouldn't worry about it? Yeah, definitely the latter. Not reassuring at all.

*****

I actually love going to these conferences. I always learn something, and I get to watch people. And I love to watch people, wherever they are--in a hospital emergency room when they're tired and confused and vulnerable; or at a professional conference, when they're well-dressed and well-prepared and polished like diamonds. They're all interesting. More interesting than birds. And much more interesting than data.

Birds of prey

It's a cold Thursday night, with snow in the air. It smells like snow and the roads are salted in anticipation of the overnight storm. Le sigh.

I'm in the auditorium at Rockville High School, waiting for the senior parents meeting to begin. The PowerPoint presentation is ready to go, with a title slide that reads "Class of 2019: Congratulations."

(Auto-suggest: Really? When I type "con," your first suggestion is "Congolese?" And when I add the letter "g," you helpfully offer to complete the word "Congresses?" Plural? Really?)

But I digress. Back to the PowerPoint slide, which should read "Your firstborn child is leaving you soon, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

*****

The auditorium is filling up and the principal is on stage now so I'll have to stop writing soon. I sat in one interminable meeting after another today, so my patience is strained and I'm praying that no one will feel inspired to stand and ask a question just for the sake of asking a question. There are about 300 seniors in this class and about 100 parents here already; and in my meeting experience (extensive), about 10 percent of meeting attendees really really really love to prolong meetings by asking really sharp, insightful, good questions, so this might be too much to ask. But hope springs eternal.

*****

It's Friday now. Of course people asked questions, but not many, and only one that I would have characterized as an unnecessary show question. And it did snow, but not enough to close school. I worked from home. It was a stressful day for some reason. I almost sent an angry email reply to someone who I thought was scolding me unfairly. Then I thought better of it, and it turned out that the scolding had been meant for someone else, so I'm glad I didn't send the reply. No good comes of angry emailing. 

Meanwhile, now that I have all of the graduation details sorted out, I can just relax and dread the part where my son leaves high school and then leaves home.

*****
Saturday afternoon. My 14-year-old son has a Confirmation retreat this weekend, and I dropped him off this morning. I hate even a single-night sleepover, so the idea of shipping one of my sons off to college is causing me some anxiety. He is actually considering spending a year or two at the local community college before transferring to a four-year university, and I would be very happy if he did that, but I don't want to tell him that, because I don't want him to make this decision based on what he thinks will make me happy. So I'm going to proceed on the assumption that he's going away, and prepare accordingly.

*****
Sunday morning. More snow to come. We had a brief thaw yesterday. Most of the previous day's snow melted, and the sun fought its way through the clouds, and you could just start to sense the promise of spring. Thinking that it might be the last decent weather day for a while, I went for a run in the afternoon. My older son was out with friends, driving around in his car. When I heard the sirens, I texted him immediately. He was fine; the sirens were for something else--I still don't know what. (Everyone in my neighborhood texts or emails me when they hear sirens, thinking that the wife of a police officer must necessarily be the best source of insider information. But I'm always the last to know.)

With the sirens off my mind, I noticed the buzzards. Or vultures. I think those words can be used interchangeably, but I'm not going check. I trust my vast reading public to look it up, and to correct me if necessary. Anyway, buzzards were circling; more than half a dozen of the icky ragged-feathered things swooping and swirling and waiting for something to die. I was walking, and I started running again, hoping to get away from whatever it was that was dying so that I could avoid witnessing the disgusting feast.

I'm a terrible runner, as I've mentioned before. Really really terrible.  Slow, awkward, extremely limited stamina--only when it comes to running, though. I can walk or swim or work all day long and into the night, but I can only run for a couple of blocks before I'm winded to the point at which a casual observer would guess that I'm having a heart attack.

Gasping for air and cursing the day I was born, I ran down the street wondering what unfortunate creature was on death's door and about to become a buzzard gang's late lunch.

And then I realized that me running is not the most lively looking thing. And I looked up, and I swear that one of the buzzards looked back at me, in a rather pointed way. And I realized that a person should not ask for whom the buzzard swoops. It swoops for thee.

*****
So it's Monday now, and I survived the run, obviously. I don't know if the buzzards went home disappointed, or if some suburban woodland creature expired in time for the buzzard dinner bell. It's not my problem, is what I figure. When it comes to buzzards overhead, it's every creature for itself, and if a rabbit or a squirrel or a chipmunk is still working its way through some buzzard's digestive tract, then I can't waste time crying about it.

The brief thaw has ended and the cold has returned. But it's still broad daylight at 5:50 PM. The sky outside my window is clear, cold blue-gray warmed just a tiny bit by the soon-to-set sun. Both of my children are under my roof and will be for the next few months. And there's not a buzzard in sight.