Enzo speaks

It's awfully embarrassing to find oneself in a lovely wooden bed, in a little white room, under a yellow seersucker duvet, with the seagulls squawking & the clinking of masts at the jetty outside on this magical island in the Oslo fjord, crying so hard  that ones eyes are like two blue pearl buttons swimming in a sea of pinkness.  Massive heavings of my chest and back, throat full of choked sobs, face red and wet, nose running, the heels of my hands rubbing my swollen eyes -- I don't remember the last time I cried so hard.  It's an attractive look, I can assure you.

And the reason:

The Art of Racing In the Rain by Garth Stein was a book given to me by a friend (Wendy) a few months ago, and sat by my bed until I threw it into my carry-on bag for our epic three-plane-one-car journey to Norway.  If I'd seen the NY Times description (it lays at number 8 on the best-seller list) -- "An insightful Lab-terrier mix helps his owner, a struggling race car driver" -- I probably wouldn't have packed it.  But are there, really, any mistakes? If you talk to your dog and believe he can hear you, read this book.  Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.

That which you manifest is before you.

-- Enzo

And meanwhile, we survived our journey.  Left home in Los Angeles at 5am on 7/20. Arrived at the cottage on Tjome at 4pm on 7/21. Total journey time: 27 hours. Total sleep: 2 hours.

Pale blue skies & watery sunshine met us as we drove in yesterday and my mother, with tea and boller and the blue ocean.  I dived in, determined to start the trip as I meant to go on -- full of vim and vigor, being true to my Viking heritage.  (Well, I didn't exactly dive, as my hair is particularly good at the moment -- a new straight, bob -- and you know how I love my smooth, blown-out hair.  Like the lunar eclipse, it happens so infrequently I must savor it and toss my head appropriately.)  So I ventured gingerly down the steps at the end of our jetty, held my breath, and start to swim out into the cold, salty water.