free association
So, I'm all giddy. Thanks to the lovely Bihari of Iowadrift, I've been tagged with (for? by?) a meme. I don't even know what that means, but I suddenly feel like the popular kids asked me to sit at their lunch table. Hee hee.
And without further ado:
London: My first trip with my husband, then only a shadow of a glimpse of a possiblity. After finishing up our Peace Corps service, we went on separate trips: he, backpacking alone through Europe, I, to Morocco with friends and then to Ireland with (already) ex-boyfriend. In seedy internet cafes in Marakesh and Fez, then Dublin and Galway, M and I kept emailing each other, finally making plans to meet. But where? We actually decided on Paris, where (after abandoning surly ex in Cork) we met and, you know, drank a lot of wine. Then we decided to go to London. Really, just because we could. Europe is so cool like that! It was December. It was cold and dreary and the sun set around 3:30 in the afternoon. We didn't know where to go (because of the dearth of things to do in London...) and we really had no money, having spent it all on the grimy hostel run by the rather authoritarian Romanian couple. So after balking at spending $20 to see a crappy American movie, we found a pub, drank a pint or four and talked and talked and talked. We were, I realize now, hammering out the future. Drunken, smelling of smoke, I knew I'd found the bloke fer me.
Martini: This is another tale of romance (minus the belligerant gypsies). When M asked me to marry him, he devised this elaborate and very sophisicated night out. First, dinner at the Watergate. Then a short stroll to the Kennedy center where M happened to have tickets to the symphony waiting (he believes, and I allow it, that I am much more cultured than I really am). Afterwards, we went to a fancy schmancy bar. I was underdressed, despite my attempts to the contrary. Anyway, I felt that under these circumstances I should forgo my typical beer or shiraz so I went out on a limb and asked for a martini. I believe the skinny, black-attired, heavily- made-up cocktail waitress asked me what I'd like it made with. Umm...vodka? She saw immediately that I was a complete rube and ran out to fill up a glass with rubbing alcohol before dropping an olive in it. She brought it and I sipped it, feeling ever so chic, but growing ever more sick to my stomach. Well, eventually, the glow settled in and I realized that I WAS one of the beautiful people after all. We slipped out of the bar and to a small hotel. The rest is, as I've heard it said, history.
Pheasant: Not a hunter myself, I'm always fascinated by those stuffed beasts in museums. Grisly, yet oddly endearing, their glass eyes gleam and I want to reach out and stroke their fur. And, yet, not. The pheasants I recall, however, live in black and white, in the photographs I remember hanging in my Grandma June's hall. Pictures of my dad and his dad and his brother and sister, grinning with guns and dead birds. Very uncharacteristic of the dad that I've always known, though he keeps a certain familiarity with firearms. Colorado is a flaming red state, you know.
Suede: I think I remember ruining a pair of shoes. Sodden, almost slimy, after a trudge through the slush. Other than that, I've got nothing.
And, as, I gather, the thing to do is pass these things on, I tag my dear Ukemochi...
And without further ado:
London: My first trip with my husband, then only a shadow of a glimpse of a possiblity. After finishing up our Peace Corps service, we went on separate trips: he, backpacking alone through Europe, I, to Morocco with friends and then to Ireland with (already) ex-boyfriend. In seedy internet cafes in Marakesh and Fez, then Dublin and Galway, M and I kept emailing each other, finally making plans to meet. But where? We actually decided on Paris, where (after abandoning surly ex in Cork) we met and, you know, drank a lot of wine. Then we decided to go to London. Really, just because we could. Europe is so cool like that! It was December. It was cold and dreary and the sun set around 3:30 in the afternoon. We didn't know where to go (because of the dearth of things to do in London...) and we really had no money, having spent it all on the grimy hostel run by the rather authoritarian Romanian couple. So after balking at spending $20 to see a crappy American movie, we found a pub, drank a pint or four and talked and talked and talked. We were, I realize now, hammering out the future. Drunken, smelling of smoke, I knew I'd found the bloke fer me.
Martini: This is another tale of romance (minus the belligerant gypsies). When M asked me to marry him, he devised this elaborate and very sophisicated night out. First, dinner at the Watergate. Then a short stroll to the Kennedy center where M happened to have tickets to the symphony waiting (he believes, and I allow it, that I am much more cultured than I really am). Afterwards, we went to a fancy schmancy bar. I was underdressed, despite my attempts to the contrary. Anyway, I felt that under these circumstances I should forgo my typical beer or shiraz so I went out on a limb and asked for a martini. I believe the skinny, black-attired, heavily- made-up cocktail waitress asked me what I'd like it made with. Umm...vodka? She saw immediately that I was a complete rube and ran out to fill up a glass with rubbing alcohol before dropping an olive in it. She brought it and I sipped it, feeling ever so chic, but growing ever more sick to my stomach. Well, eventually, the glow settled in and I realized that I WAS one of the beautiful people after all. We slipped out of the bar and to a small hotel. The rest is, as I've heard it said, history.
Pheasant: Not a hunter myself, I'm always fascinated by those stuffed beasts in museums. Grisly, yet oddly endearing, their glass eyes gleam and I want to reach out and stroke their fur. And, yet, not. The pheasants I recall, however, live in black and white, in the photographs I remember hanging in my Grandma June's hall. Pictures of my dad and his dad and his brother and sister, grinning with guns and dead birds. Very uncharacteristic of the dad that I've always known, though he keeps a certain familiarity with firearms. Colorado is a flaming red state, you know.
Suede: I think I remember ruining a pair of shoes. Sodden, almost slimy, after a trudge through the slush. Other than that, I've got nothing.
And, as, I gather, the thing to do is pass these things on, I tag my dear Ukemochi...
posted by cmm at 9:42 PM
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