Two days ago, I was whipping along the five blocks between Ballston Metro Station and North Wakefield Street in a three degree wind chill without a coat or gloves. By the time I reached the door - I do not lie- the ends of my fingers were indigo black as though I had dipped them in ink wells. I had to run them under hot water in the kitchen for five minutes before they were thawed enough to type.
One day ago, I was schlepping a bag full of damp laundry and high-heeled shoes through quick-falling snow as fine as crystallized sugar.
And last night, Laurie, Connie, Lana, and I got off the plane, shed our coats like dead flower petals, and stepped into Mission-flavored paradise, La Jolla ("the jewel") with its seventy degrees and its perpetual fuschia masses of bougainvillea. We ate pizza Margherita overlooking the Pacific Ocean. We chased the sunset through quiet streets of bungalows and gaudy Spanish mansions. We found it at last, just after it had died into the West, at the cliffs in Ocean Beach. Lovers embraced, prefering the view beside them to the one in front of them; seagulls wheeled on upswept drafts of salty air; surfers bobbed like black ducks in a borderless pond.
All Clear! - Of all the memories, experiences and things I brought back from Uganda, I have managed not to bring Malaria with me. I was so happy I had to share it with ...
9 years ago