Monday, February 22, 2010

Heading to Paris?

We pulled out our suitcases yesterday, and I noted that my old nylon 2-wheeler is really the perfect size for a week-long trip. A hair too big to be a carry-on these days, it has roomy pockets on the front that I can stuff with guidebooks and other last-minute things that don't interest baggage handlers  It's heavier than the new, hard-shelled, spinning models and has a tendency to tip over, but otherwise, it works.

I may decide to re-pack everything into my big new spinner, nevertheless, so I can throw in an extra coat. Showers, drizzle, and steady rain are in the forecast for the whole time we're in Paris, with temperatures between the 30s and 50s. So a Barbour jacket with a wool lining would be useful for days when my warm winter jacket would get soaked. I'm also taking a very packable, light raincoat, but it's not warm. On the other hand, traveling for a week with three coats strikes me as absurd. On the third hand, I've got space to burn in that suitcase.

On the fourth hand, I don't really feel like going.

I was awake most of the night. First, the Russian ice dancers' goofy Aboriginal routine had me wondering what on earth they were thinking??, yet again. And I kept trying to figure out what they kept reminding me of.

I finally got it: If I hadn't known what they were supposed to be, I would have guessed that they were dancing as breaded chicken parmigiana, topped with shredded cheese and garnished with lots of basil.  Over spaghetti (their "skirts:). Here they are, in a Reuters photo, see if you agree:


Their routine was dreadful, artistically and technically, from my perspective. But they were at the top of a pretty big heap of bad taste last night, with both French and American couples whooping it up with embarrassingly clich├ęd country-western and hillbilly routines. Meryl Davis and Charlie White's Bollywood routine was brilliant in comparison, with exciting, amusing, authentic choreography and costumes. I thought they deserved top marks. The Canadians, Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir, were also spectacular with their flamenco dance but not so original. The Israeli's program, to "Hava Nagila," was almost painful to watch, as was the "Moldavian" program by Americans Tanith Belbin and Ben Agosto. That one was all about showing off in elaborate costumes; I didn't see more than a hint of Eastern European choreography in there. (But I was wincing a lot.)

After I sorted all that out, Possum came up on the bed before I could fall asleep, to be loved. He likes to curl up on me in the middle of the night, purring and nuzzling, so I can pet and praise him. This often goes on for some time, as he falls asleep and I drift off, only to feel his cold, wet nose on my face or arm because he is awake and lonely again. How can I leave him for a week? 

Maybe I can't. Around 5:30 this morning, he developed diarrhea, and needed some clean-up help from us. Then again around 6 am, same deal. We've been experimenting with new food lately, so that's probably the culprit. And he's eating, drinking, and acting normally otherwise. My husband believes Possy will be perfectly fine and thinks I am crazy to even consider staying home; diarrhea in cats is almost always a passing thing, so to speak. However, I remembered that he ate a good chunk of a kitchen sponge the other day. So I called our vet and explained the situation. They described the usual signs of a blockage; he doesn't have them. Yet. I'm watching him closely. He seems fine. I left a long message for the cat sitter. And if anything changes, I'm simply not going to Paris. We'll always have Paris but we won't always have Possum.

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