A Visitor from Down Under

There is something about summer in the city.

The heat is on here in DC, and all I seem to want to do is laze about all day and dance all night. All winter it seemed that we were hermits -- we didn't go out but to sit around in each others' apartments and drink copious bottles of vin rouge.

And now, I've morphed into Mimi from Rent; I just "wanna go ou-ut tonight!"

So Saturday night, we piled into a taxi, drove down U Street, which was swarmed with people, passing several stoop gatherings along the way, and into Adams Morgan, which was even more swarmed.

And upon walking into Tom Tom's, a bit of a dive, really, I was approached by a tall, tanned man who said, "Let's 'ave a spin."

I obliged and took his hand, and he twirled me around.

Which was all rather charming.

"I'm Australian," he announced.

"No you're not," I countered, positive he was a goofy DC guy trying out a line.

"Wot, you want to see my passport?"

"Yes."

He pulled it out, and sure enough, "Australia" was embossed on the cover.

So I decided to dance with him. I have a thing for Aussies.

At one point, he stopped dancing, looked a bit startled, and said "Wait. Wait! Where am I?"

"I don't know!" I gasped.

He looked around and nodded.

"'Eaven. I'm in 'eaven."

Normally such a line would irritate me, but something about his delivery just made me laugh.

He and his "best mate" followed us to a hookah bar, but then we lost them in the crowd on our way to get falafel.

Just as well I suppose. Sometimes a random encounter is better left a random encounter.

Particularly when said encounter is an Australian carpenter Greyhound-ing his way across the States and only in town for 2 nights.

G'day.

More Pretty Words from 'The Writer's Almanac'

Sorry. I know I need to diversify my sources. But it's just so good! And so fitting to this lovely summer morning.

On this day in 1908, D.H. Lawrence (books by this author) wrote in a letter to his friend Blanche Jennings from his house in Derbyshire in England where he was living:

"I am unwilling to leave this deck-chair; I refuse to swot; let me write to you then, me lounging here on the grass, where the still warm air is full of the scent of pinks, spicy and sweet, and a stack of big red lilies a few yards away impresses me with a sense of hot, bright sunshine. ... It is a true midsummer day. There is a languorous grey mist over the distance; Shipley woods, and Heanor with its solid church are hidden today; no, I can just see a dense mark in the mist, which is Heanor; but Crich is gone entirely. The haze just falls on Eastwood; the church is blue, and seems fast asleep, the very chimes are languid. Only the bees are busy, nuzzling into some wide white flowers; — and I am busy too, of course."

The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor, June 25, 2010

Let's Have a Poem, Shall We? Oh Yes, Let's.

It's Sweet to Be Remembered

by Charles Wright

No one's remembered much longer than a rock
is remembered beside the road
If he's lucky or
Some tune or harsh word
uttered in childhood or back in the day.

Still how nice to imagine some kid someday
picking that rock up and holding it in his hand
Briefly before he chucks it
Deep in the woods in a sunny spot in the tall grass.

"It's Sweet to Be Remembered" by Charles Wright, from Sestets. © Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2009. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

And me, I stole this from The Writer's Almanac.

I Have a New Rule

There shall be no involvement, of any sort, with men who live more than 30 miles away from me.

Even if they say and do cute things.

My Ballerina Days May Be Past . . .

. . . but this Free People tutu dress is tellement mignon, n'est-ce pas

Le Tweet Tweet

This is what happens when Twitter is en francais.

I'd like a tshirt with this s'il vous plait. Or perhaps a totebag. Merci.

uh huh. mhmm. gonna get along without you now.

i did it again.

le oops.

at least zooey deschanel exists.

gonna find somebody that's twice as cute 'cause i didn't like you anyhow . . . so long my honey, goodbye my dear.