…of many different peoples and worlds.
For me, traveling is a concerted effort directed at achieving what often turns into an underwhelming experience of more of the same old world. All of this I embrace for the delight of the occasional unexpected discovery and the calm pleasure of encountering a part of the world that is home to somebody else. I learn so much about myself in the concentrated drama of travel that can be lost in the slower undulations of life at home.
Charles, fearing lest he should gain a reputation for the peripheral things about his personality that I so dearly love to write about, suggested that I should write about he, his brothers, and airplanes... something interesting, he said, not meaning the brothers but the airplanes.
Part of the problem with the garden started when I was so excited to have a garden in the first place. Charles was agreeable about the plan. The garden was supposed to save us a lot of money.
My father is the only person I know who routinely buys things like pickled quail eggs. Additionally, he is the only person I know, who having bought the quail eggs, thinks everyone else will want to try them and might want a jar of their own. He might also buy a case of jars of pickled quail eggs to hand out to anyone who can be persuaded to try one.
To us, a dog was something that lived outside, required no maintenance, and was left to enjoy itself which it usually did in a most voluptuous and unreserved fashion. To the dog, the family was a geographical location, a general vicinity to which it belonged... and I do mean general.
...I am quite used to thinking of myself as adventurous... Yet somehow Charles continues to throw me into paroxysms of lady-like terror and complete unwillingness to partake in his activities.
graymatters.org 