God, not another title. I'm out of ideas.

(NOTE: this post was originally entered on May 20, 2012.)

Fourteen class days left.  Four weeks to graduation.  Twenty-one days.  Twenty-five days until my last final exam.  An unfortunate biproduct of finishing off GEs at the last possible moment.

When I was thirteen I hurt my left knee playing soccer.  I did the whole physical therapy bit (and it sucked, of course) and ended up wearing a brace to bed every night until March 24, 2011 when I took a train from Edinburgh to London at the beginning of a three-week long trip through Greece and Romania and ended up forgetting my brace.  I left it under my pillow in Edinburgh.

But as it turns out, I didn’t need it those three weeks I was gone.  I just didn’t. 

I hadn’t worn my knee brace for 390 days. After leaving Edinburgh I put it inside my hollow purple ottoman and it stayed the ottoman at the foot of my bed all year after moving from San Diego back up to Santa Barbara.  I didn’t have to think about it often—the only other things I’ve got inside the ottoman are the serving spoons my grandmother gave me and extra mulled wine spices—but I always knew exactly where my knee brace was.

And last night I pulled it it out and put it on, and I hate myself a little bit for it.  I got up this morning (afternoon) and did the leg exercises I’m supposed to do something like three to five times a day, but I made this horrific, relieved noise when the brace closed over my knee last night before I could even stop myself and I can’t stop thinking about how much I hadn’t even realized it hurt until it suddenly only hurt half as much.

This is mostly just a melodramatic complaint about how difficult it is to take care of myself.  Food every five or so hours (it never ends!), laundry, exercise—the only enjoyable part of the upkeep are warm showers. 

SoCal Coyotes

There are always weird things you gotta get used to, living in a foreign country. The language/accents. The food. The weather, the measurements, the attitudes, the public transportation. The layout of cities that are about a thousand years older than your hometown. It's phenomenal, granted, but it's also... sometimes it's exhausting. Mostly it's just tiring, like when you take a puppy outside and they run themselves ragged.

What's weird, though, is lying down in your new bed with it's too-thin mattress and strange duvet at the end of each day and listening to the unfamiliar noises outside your window.

I don't think I will ever, ever miss the sounds that came from the Three Sisters. Just to be clear.

What I did miss, and what I will always miss no matter where I go, are the coyotes in San Diego. When we first moved into this house--I was thirteen or fourteen--I panicked and huddled under the blankets the first night I heard them, convinced there was a pack of screaming women out in the canyon across the street. And then I started wondering if I was going crazy and hearing things, because no one came to their rescue. And since I'd already half-decided I was losing my mind, I wondered if there was some kind of unearthly creature racing through the darkness and eating people.

(Try not to laugh too hard.)

I still imagine a pack of coyotes could give professional mourners a run for their money, but I've come to appreciate the idea that there's some wildlife outside our despicable cookie-cutter neighborhood. There's at least a single pack out there, maybe two packs, and there's got to be enough deer and bunnies running around to keep them alive. I like the idea that there's life out in the canyon, even when the dry brush is almost as tall as I am and twelve inches of rain every year is probably all we're ever going to get (and five of those inches happen all at once, in December).

Usually I'm in bed by the time the coyotes have caught something and start celebrating. Usually it's between midnight and three in the morning. Tonight, though, I came home from a friend's house and parked the car across the street from my parents' house. I gathered up all the nonsense I'd brought out to the car and crossed the street, hoping the front door was unlocked or I'd have to go digging around in my bag for my house keys. (It wasn't, and I did have to.)

In the middle of the street, I stop and lift my head. It's faint, but coyotes sing in the canyon to the south. I stand out there on the blacktop for a while and enjoy the music. Before tonight, I hadn't heard them since leaving for Edinburgh last summer.

After a short while I turn to cross the other half of the street and take a step, then realize I'm hearing coyotes in surround sound. They're singing to the north, too.

There's an odd moment of simmering panic as I picture myself surrounded without having realized it, but both packs (and the northern one didn't sound like more than two or three coyotes) are faint. They're not among the houses.

This would have been a much more interesting post if I'd spotted one or two or been attacked, but unfortunately that's the extent of my story. No sightings, no attacks, nothing interesting--just the first whisper of appreciation for home stemming from something outside the obvious bits. (Family, the weather, my massive pile of books.)

Eight hours

I was sunning myself in the backyard just now and it occurred to me--hey, it's almost four in the afternoon. That means it's midnight in Edinburgh.

Eight hours is kind of a big time difference. I'm lying in the sun, outside, in the middle of the afternoon whereas if I was in Scotland, I'd probably be thinking about going to bed soon. I certainly wouldn't be wearing a bathing suit.

San Diego really is a world away. Or, I guess at this point, Edinburgh is.

Jetsetting tomorrow!

I really need to stop looking at the weather forecast for San Diego. Really, really need to stop that, because all it does is obliterate my curiosity and leave me depressed. (Ninety-seven/thirty-six degrees back home!! It's fifty-two/eleven out here in Edinburgh.)

I did buy a new coat today, though. It's cute. And I think it'll work quite well as the temp continues to drop.

Tomorrow I'm getting up at the crack of dawn (before?) and flying out to meet an old friend (whom I'll codename Escondido) in Paris. I'll be there for about half of Friday, all of Saturday, and will be heading back Sunday morning.

(SO EXCITED. I didn't even have a fantastic time last time I was in Paris, but it's going to be so much fun hanging out with Escondido this weekend. It's always an absolute blast hanging out with him.)