March 17, 2019

Blessed Saint Patrick.

Rose at an ungodly hour, which was a compromise with the time I was used to in Israel, which would have been nine in the morning and more than time to start the day.

Left Residence 26 shedding shekels in all directions. Maybe they will actually miss me a little.

Say what you will about the hotel, my bed was freakishly comfortable, and upon it I had amazing dreams.

The journey was both the longest I’ve ever hard–31 hours– and among the least irritating. I thank my attitude rather than circumstance for that. Or maybe First Class. I realized I had not read my ticket properly, and had an 11 hour layover in Chicago, so I used my phone from the First Class Lounge at the Chopin Airport to book a room at the O’Hare Hilton. I’m old enough that this is still miraculous to me. It was also a stroke of luck, for the hotel was amiable, a ten minute walk from my gate, and had a bar at which I had good companionship before tottering off to bed– at what was, at the point, 6 AM by my customary time. Slept fitfully but well enough. Excruciating muscle spasms throughout the flights. At one point I had to stand and ask the attendant to get me a bottle of water. My belly and sides are still tender, tentative.

The food was Polish. Good, but odd.

In Warsaw some airline diddling made boarding about 40 minutes late, so I was grumpy already when the ticket checker said “You have been selected for extra security screening. Please proceed to the–”
“Asshole,” I said. Now, that fact is that I had no intention of saying that out loud, but I had. His face clouded with indignation and soon we were bickering, his side being that I was rude and my side being that I was truthful. Anyhow, to avoid an International Incident I apologized and marched off to a room where the largest men I have ever seen in my life looked into my shoes and rubbed something on my hands and ran some kind of sensor across my body. Ticket boy had given me strict instructions to return to him when I came back, so I marched directly to the OTHER ticket taker and took my seat.  When we got to Chicago, it was revealed that LOT had lost my bag. The half-coherent man at the lost baggage station. Assumed it was “some kind of security event.” So, “asshole” had been right all along. Except for waiting for my bag, all is well, I think, with that.

Russell showed up at the house, and we chatted. MMc is now poison to us all.

Had time to shower before showing up at a patrons’ event at the Magnetic Theater. Chit-chat over wine, a few scenes from recent or upcoming productions, and a “playwrights’ panel” Renewed excitement over In the Assassins’ Garden. I was told, and had the telling supported from several sides, that I am a “Legend” in Asheville. You hope you forget about it, but it is exquisite and satisfying to know for that one moment.

In the photos, I am always looking to one side of the camera—

Cleaned the pond pump. Chopped away stands of incipient bamboo. Regarded the peaches and the nectarine blooming. Saw where the serviceberry needs to be pruned. Maybe lost a pear tree. Maybe not. Rewrote Invisible Husbands.