My time in Portland marks the first time in my life living anywhere other than a humid subtropical climate. Relocating into a temperate zone has forced me to rethink my relationship with the sun, in ways both expected and not.

It had to happen eventually, but it took a bottle of mead and a late night and finally signing off of work to realize it.  I am going. I am really going. I have this sleep, the one that's coming for me fast even as I type this entry, and one abbreviated one more, and that is it. A little over twenty-four hours and I am gone.

I am lying on the guest bed next to a surprisingly small pile of items that must go with me. Is this all I need of life for two weeks?  Really?

Tickets are booked to Paris; tickets are booked to San Francisco.

We will be six in San Francisco, with tagalong extras depending on the day and the inclination of our local friends.  We have nebulous plans:  look for us in the cheap seats at the Giants-Astros game on July 4.  I'll be the one in the bleachers with the beer; that's all you need to find me in the crowd, right?  We'll do a night tour of Alcatraz and I'll relearn the San Francisco bus system and pictures, pictures, pictures!