It's difficult to write anything coherent about one of the most visually beautiful days of my life when I have a camera full of photos that I can't show you. Silly computers. They promise us a world of information, given and received, and then sometimes snatch it away from us when we least expect (or want) it.

I have a confession to make. It will surprise a few of my friends, but not Jeff, who has insisted in the truth of this statement for quite some time, to my disbelief:I am a chilehead.

* * * * *

Ages ago, someone who didn't know me very well asked me what my favorite restaurant was. (Anyone who knows me well would inherently recognize the dangers and long-windedness inherent in such a topic, and would steer clear. It's almost as bad as asking me about my cats.) My response was typically obtuse, yet truthful:

"What kind?"

"Oh, any."

I wish I could remember the gist of my response, but I told the truth. If I want to go to a Japanese steakhouse, I have to go to Tuscaloosa, to have Ben-Kei's shrimp sauce. If I want sushi, it's Vancouver. Blue crab? The little shack that Andy took me to a few years ago. Cheesesteaks? Philadelphia. Indian? Little Rock.

Lumbar Support Boy doesn't know it, but he was lucky to make it to Phoenix. It took two and a half hours of him attempting to pummel his feet into my lower back before I rose over the back of my seat to growl at him, but I think his mother got the point rather quickly.Take your child's feet from out of my back or I will make a scene. Oh, and have a lovely trip, wherever you're going, eh? Don't make me ritually sacrifice your kid at cruising altitude or you'll find out just how deadly knitting needles are when they're wielded with malice aforethought.

I took the purple-handled scissors and snipped off the 'HSV' tag left on the bag from Jeff's last flight. In the world of baggage, his trumps mine; back, many years ago when my parents gave me a set of inexpensive luggage as a gift, I'm not sure they ever envisioned me flying, much less taking these bags with me.But the bags survived four years of college, more road trips than I can count, and moved with me to Alabama. I learned just how frustrating it was to cart unwheeled baggage through Atlanta's Hartsfield airport.

"So few people come here and really make themselves at home. You went out there and slept like a baby."

I'll say.

Don't hate me because I'm here. I've been here for most of the afternoon. Most of it asleep.

On vacation. I've got post-dated entries set to appear while I'm gone, so it won't seem like I've gone much of anywhere. Standard daily entries (and a lot of photos) will appear when I return to posting.