Playing house with Debra these past two weeks has triggered memories of my former identity as one of two. I am surprised by how distant these memories feel. Has my life really changed that much? Am I now officially "the single guy?" Of course I had to note the equal remoteness of my memories of my former wife. Life is strange. We've been to lots of concerts, restaurants, and parties. Despite the fun I noticed a curious melancholy in my emotional background. It took me a few days to realize that it was caused by the looming imminence of my departure [View Full Entry]

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How many times has some amazing sight caused me to remark to the empty seat next to me? My imagination sometimes fills the seat with the friend who would appreciate the particular sight most. I must admit that I have grown accustom to virtual companions. The thought of having an actual person filling the empty seat causes some hesitation. I am set in my ways as a traveler. I have lots of don'ts: don't chat with people wearing uniforms, don't stand out in crowds. I get impatient when people ask strangers long complicated questions in idiomatic English. These thoughts weighed on [View Full Entry]

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This from my journal while riding the train from Montreux to Luzerne: "Switzerland is the kind of country I would have invented if it didn't already exist." It's Disney-esque. It's Heidi-esque. It's even a bit Python-esque I realized when I noticed that some of my fellow travelers were dressed in suits but wear hiking boots and have ski poles sticking out of their rucksacks. I want to know where they work. Don't like mountains and lakes? Then move here for the progressive attitude. Take the car sharing system, for example. If you need one, just come pick one up. If it's [View Full Entry]

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I got rave reviews as a tour guide from the guys I took to Georgia a few weeks ago, so this weekend Cyrus wanted me to take him. I can't imagine why. If Seinfeld was the show about nothing, then my tours are the tours about nothing. I sit on Nino's balcony and read. Sometimes I sit in a cafe, usually the same ones. I don't go to old churches, I don't go to cultural events, and I don't go anywhere that's hot. Getting There The marshrutka (mini-van) ride from Yerevan to Tbilisi takes about 6 hours, counting the two hours [View Full Entry]

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The Good Life "A toast to our beautiful lives." That's Suesue, the Persian-Berkeley Architect-Archaeologist toasting with David's special cognac. We had just finished a miraculous Persian feast she and some of the other girls had whipped up in honor of my visit to Erebuni House. That's the mansion on the far side of Yerevan where the Erebuni Seven (i.e., the Berkeley team excavating Erebuni) are headquartered. I had been invited to Erebuni House ostensibly to fix Felix's new laptop. He was trying to install Microsoft Office. Each time it prompted him for the product identificatio [View Full Entry]

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Sitting on Nino's balcony It's past midnight. I hear voices, distant TVs. I see headlights race up the hill on the far side of the river. I read, write, contemplate. I'm reading The Moor's Last Sigh by (Sir) Rushdie. I copy passages that speak to me into my journal: (She) drank her own bitterness and called it sweet, walked in her own desert and called it lush ... If Nino were here there would be endless Georgian toasts and bottomless glasses of strong liquor. Suddenly, skyrockets explode in the sky. I am literally thrilled by my private show. Traveler Tales Getting [View Full Entry]

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Dream #115 Although I no longer need to take melatonin for jetlag, I still have weird dreams. I dreamed that I had a disease. The recommended treatment was that I be shot on Tuesday. I had a final conversation with my ex-wife, but she was speechless for one reason or another. Even in my dreams I can't invent words for her to say. On Tuesday I wasn't nervous about being shot. When the doctor pulled the trigger I awoke wondering if waking is death to the dreamer. The Diggers David Stronach made an appearance at the University earlier this week. He's [View Full Entry]

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On the flight to London I have strange melatonin-induced dreams. I dream that I awake to discover that we have all been transferred onto the Chunnel. I didn't remember the transfer, perhaps I slept through it. But it strikes me as a brilliant idea because the train travels at the same speed as the airplane. Teasingly, the train dips into short tunnels that might confirm my Chunnel theory. Beneath the elevated tracks I see the detritus of Britain's WW II effort—old bombers, folded camouflage tarps. Heathrow is its usual gray, timeless haze. Zombies shuffle from one terminal to the nex [View Full Entry]

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"For six miles a vein of the purest, most perfect crystal runs under Nelson." Bubbles, the matronly proprietor of Cannabis Culture, spoke through a window connecting the shop to the cafe. She was explaining the healing powers that draw the broken and infirm to Nelson. Heads nodded as if the connection between the alleged vein and the alleged healing powers was obvious. In support of Bubble's assertion Jim added, "Every time I come to Nelson I loose something. This time I lost my hat. Last time my Braille watch stopped working," He stared at us through glass eyes that gave him [View Full Entry]

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I'm a shameless tourist in Petersburg: big white running shoes, sun hat, and a camera hanging from my neck. But the thing is, except for the skinheads and hookers, almost everyone is a tourist in Petersburg, even the Russians who come here as pilgrims needing a shot of national pride. Tuesday I was part of a mob storming the Winter Palace. No, it wasn't a recreation of Bloody Sunday; it was the queue of people lined up for the Hermitage. Once inside I didn't know if I should look at the art or the interior decorating. I got lots of ideas [View Full Entry]

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