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I've been making an equation in my mind between this trip to Sweden and Tour of Duty. If last summer in Sweden was Kids in the Hall Tour 2000, then this vacation is Tour of Duty. As we recognized during the second tour, it would be a mistake to try and compare it to the first. They don't share the faerie-dust shimmer of novelty. But the lustre of the unfamiliar is not the whole of the experience. The excitement of newness is not all there is to be excited about. It is a mistake to ignore the lake for the reflection. A lake is more than its shine, and a trip to Sweden is more than its unfamiliarity. We must not allow the magic of the original to mar the magic of the succeeding.

It's good to be back here.

The trip was exhausting. I thought I was lucking in getting a bulkhead window seat, and I was excited that they were showing some good movies on the plane, and then, hey, mine was the only seat on the plane whose personal viewscreen was busted, and my reading light busted as well. Grrrrr. They said the plane was full and they couldn't move me. It's a good thing I didn't get up to check the availability of seats in, say, first class, because that might've seriously pissed me off. Luckily I'm reading a really, really good book. I woke up this morning and spent three lazy hours in the Swedish sunshine coming in through Linn's window reading Tom Robbins. (Which explains the overstrained metaphors in the first paragraph.)

Anyway, Asti saved the trip by meeting me for lunch at Heathrow, taking me back to her extremely gorgeous home for a whirlwind standing picnic and tour, which considerably brightened my experience. Although I was zombie-ish and groggy, she launched right into Big Sister territory, taking charge, to my relief, and displaying a charming mixture of matter-of-fact New York warmth and British hospitality. And she gave me hairsticks... and showed me how to use them so they actually stay in my hair.

And now I'm here, I've slept, and thanks to jetlag and my peculiar circadian rhythms, I'm awake in the morning and ready for the day. We came straight to her parents' house. Comfy and familiar.

It feels like Saturday. Every day on vacation feels like Saturday. It feels like Saturday. Satyr-day. Pan-day. Day of revelry, day of wine. If not literal, then metaphorical wine. Essence of wine flowing through my blood.

(This overstrained metaphor thing is just a phase.)

Why are you in Tavie's head? 5:22 AM | shower me with attention