Not doing much this year because I need to finish cleaning up. Housesitters arrive tomorrow, and we leave on Monday! I have the pumpkins lit, though, and am giving out candy. Frankie helped me greet the last bunch of kids. I picked him up for them to pet, and one of them -- ten years old at least -- said, "I never petted a cat before." This made me sad.



If I'd known the smiley one was going to come out looking so much like Ernie, I'd have gotten a football-shaped pumpkin and made a Bert one too. Or is it just me?

I'm sitting on the sofa buried in cats, preparing to unearth myself so I can go make a cat chart for our cat/house sitters. Do you see a pattern here?

While exploring this tantalizing site, I learned that the Netherlands' current, conservative government apparently wants to make it illegal for the coffeeshops to sell cannabis to foreigners. There's a stereotype of the typical pot tourist: they're usually young males from the UK or another European country; they come for the weekend, stay in a cheap hostel, get wasted on beer and cannabis, maybe have sex with a prostitute, and go home without having spent significant amounts of money (though it must add up). I wonder. Surely there are others like me and Chris, older travelers who appreciate the wonderful weed but also love other things about the city, who spend money on restaurants, museums, and shopping as well as high-end (pun intended) cannabis, who know how to behave ourselves reasonably well, who don't fall in the canals or get arrested or have to have ambulances called for us because the weed was too strong. If you're such a traveler, this might be a good time to plan a trip to Amsterdam. Maybe we can make a showing. Codgers On Cannabis (COC), dammit!

On a lighter note, I was amused on that same site to see people (at least facetiously) betting on who could smoke the most weed. Uh, that would be me, and if there really is serious betting anywhere, I might have a new career on my hands. I have been occasionally matched but never surpassed.

About half of me is already in Amsterdam and I find it hard to concentrate on anything that doesn't have to do with the trip. Which is probably just as well, since I have at least two weeks' worth of stuff to do to get ready for it. A tendril of depression tried to creep in yesterday -- maybe you won't have as much fun as you think you're going to, you never know, it could happen -- and I booted it right back out, then went and bought some plants to keep myself cheery. Purple petunias, mint, curry, and cauliflower. Planted all of them today, and am feeling it badly in my legs and back now, so I will end this and return to my heating pad.

(ETA: Reading Rembrandt's Portrait by Charles L. Mee, Jr., an excellent biography that also paints a vivid picture of the seventeenth-century Amsterdam art world. Recommended.)

I've spent most of the evening drooling over my new Amsterdam guidebook (new coffeeshops! New restaurants! Much more!). Also got Frommer's 21 Great Walks in Amsterdam, even though we usually have a good time just wandering aimlessly. And I just ordered our tickets for Museumnacht, a wonderful event we've been wanting to return to since we happened across the first one in 2000. I can't wait to find out if the ancient cycads in the Hortus Botanicus are still having sex. They had been doing it for three years when we last saw them.

Twenty days until we get on the plane. Twenty-one until we touch down in the city we've been missing for nine years. Three weeks. 504 hours. But who's counting?

Amsterdam has always represented various types of freedom to me. I first traveled there in 1994, after attending a horror festival in the suburbs of London. Yes, I admit it freely, I went for the pot, and I smoked great sticky green delicious gobs of it ... but I also found a city in which I felt more comfortable than any other besides New Orleans, and that had a lot to offer besides good, (sort of) legal drugs. I can't really tick off a list -- "art, music, flea markets" -- though it has all those things and more. It's the feeling a city either gives you or doesn't, the ability to live in a place for a little while instead of hovering tentatively on its fringes. To use the word the Dutch use, it's gezellig, a word I've seen variously translated as cozy, comfortable, laid-back, easygoing. Amsterdam is all those things, or at least it was just shy of a decade ago. One of my strongest memories of that first trip in '94 isn't of the girls sitting in windows in the Red Light District or the first legal pot I smoked. It's of sitting in my favorite coffeeshop (Goa, on Kloveniersburgval) at the golden hour that sometimes lingers in Amsterdam between winter daylight and full dusk, realizing I was free to be here simply because I wanted to be; I had come here to this city entirely under my own power, earning the trip with my own work and money, and had found a place I loved. (This was also the first time I had traveled on my own, something I urge everyone to do at least once in their lives. It helps you realize what you're capable of.)

I tried to visit at least once a year between 1994 and 2000, sometimes alone, sometimes with Chris. Then money got tight, and my work went in a direction that didn't inspire European publishers who'd previously marketed me as a bleeding-edge horror queen to fly me over on press junkets* anymore. What with one thing and another, nine years passed. And now it's our twentieth anniversary, and we realized there was really nowhere else we could go, nowhere we'd been happier together or laughed more or had purer fun.

Over the last few days, as I started to get excited about the trip (terrified too, but never mind), I realized Amsterdam now represents another kind of freedom to me, seemingly small but very significant when you have chronic pain: the freedom to go anywhere in the city and do anything I like, for as long as I like, without having to worry that pain will drive me back to the hotel. When the pain comes (and it will, as we like to do a lot of walking), all I have to do is duck into one of the coffeeshops that are on every other corner and partake of one of the world's safest, tastiest painkillers.** As long as you avoid big fratty/chavvy tourist joints like The Bulldog, most of the coffeeshops are relaxing places (if not always quiet ones -- though the exposure to young people's music of today will be educational, I guess). It's impossible to overstate how happy this makes me. For once, we won't have to curtail our fun because I'm tired and hurting. I get so sick of that shit. Most of the time, when I try to "go out" and "do something," I can't enjoy myself as much as I want to, and I feel like a killjoy even though Chris would never treat me like one. Long before I'm ready, I stop having fun and start thinking about my everfucking spine and sciatic nerves. That won't have to happen on this trip.

My dear, sweet, honest-to-a-fault mother does not understand our Amsterdam trips. "All you do is sit around and smoke marijuana! You could do that at home!" Yeah, but doing it here can make it hard to do anything else. Also, the difference between even the best available here and the varieties available there is like the difference between your corner-store beer cooler and the world's finest purveyor of liquors and liqueurs, in terms of both variety and potency. In Amsterdam I can (I hope) have something resembling an able-bodied person's vacation. We will walk and look and laugh and eat and go to museums, and I will not have to hurt much or think much about hurting.



*Except my French publisher, Au Diable Vauvert, who has supported the Liquor books wholeheartedly and only wishes I would return to Paris to help promote them. I'm sorry, ADV! Maybe this trip will help me get over my terror of traveling to places I can't immediately get home from.

**In my essay "Nobody's Fault But Mine" (2000), I stated that, as much as I liked pot, it had few or no painkilling properties for me. This, of course, was the result of my being hooked on Vicodin at the time.

I was dismayed to hear from greygirlbeast that Livejournal is "on life support" because of newer, shinier social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter. I'm no longer on Facebook, but I've been having way too much fun on Twitter (as @docbrite, if you didn't get the memo). Obviously I need to get my ass back here more frequently. So here, for old times' sake, is a stupid LJ survey. It's called "The Self-Esteem Meme," and I picked it because the phrase "self-esteem" never fails to amuse me.

( I feel good about ME because I'm the best ME I can be! )

Well, that eases my mind considerably, even if I did have my first oh-my-God-I'm-leaving-my-home-and-my-cats-and-my-city-and-going-5000-miles-away-soon panic attack today.

First of all, a thousand apologies to foodie readers, but I didn't take a single picture of the amazing-looking and -tasting food at Alinea. I enjoy seeing other people's food pix, but I just can't do that in fine-dining situations ever since I once saw Chef Pete scowling at a diner who was happily clicking away, and anyway you can see better pictures on their website.

I did, however, manage to take a few goofy camera-phone pictures of me and Neil:



This one is blurry, but I like the contented, slightly dazed look on Neil's face, which pretty well represents his expression throughout the meal:



And here's Neil in the photographic style of Nick Rhodes (yes, I was enough of a Durannie to buy Nick's incomprehensible photo book):



Here's a Magnificent Mile skyline near our hotel:



Mr. Beef from the outside:



Mr. Beef from the inside:



And the winner is ... Portillo's!



(I know I said I hated taking food photos, but Mr. Beef was empty and nobody notices what stupid touristy shit you do at Portillo's.)

In keeping with its Richard Bachman theme, this scary scale in my hotel bathroom weighed me ten pounds lighter than I weigh at home despite my having consumed a 23-course meal the night before:



Garden photos coming soon, I promise.

And when I got back, the city and my street and my house and everything were right here where I'd left them. This sounds like an obvious statement, laughable even, until the alternative has happened to you. I am glad to know I can travel. This trip was very much a baby step but still scary, and I'm not planning to go jetting off on a regular basis, but at least I know it's possible.

Ah, but I do love Chicago. Apart from the food, which I believe to be as good as anywhere in the country, I never seem to hear anyone talk about what a beautiful, welcoming, walkable, generally user-friendly city it is. Obviously that changes some in the winters, which I have not yet dared since Neil says I would need special clothing to avoid death or at least severe frostbite.

I want to extend a special thank-you to Elyse Marshall, Neil's publicist at Harper Collins, who took the incredibly generous step of arranging to stay with Chicagoland friends so I could have her room for the night. She looked very much like most of the publicists I've had over the past several years -- young, female, and gorgeous -- but, unlike the majority of them, I know she must be better than competent or Neil wouldn't have her. In addition to the hotel room, Elyse, you have given me a shot of new hope for the publishing industry.

HOME. I have now traveled outside Louisiana/Mississippi and returned successfully with no deaths and only two panic attacks. On the second leg of my return flight, despite my having requested all aisle seats, I got a middle seat next to a young man with extreme B.O. I could just about take it when he was still, but I almost passed out any time he moved an arm. Luckily he slept through most of the flight. I'd nearly forgotten all the reasons I so love to fly.

It was a fun trip, though, even if it had its moments of trauma, and it was a good baby step for me. Thanks so much to Neil, The Fabulous Lorraine, and publicist Elyse Marshall for making it happen.

Well, I did it. I flew 927 miles from home, only really freaked out once, had a truly lovely dinner with Neil (more details later, or see his journal), and am now at O'Hare waiting to please God fly home. Before coming to the airport today, I had time to conduct an important taste test: half an Italian beef sandwich each at Mr. Beef and Portillo's. I'm sorry, Chicagoans; I know you think it's fast food, but Portillo's is about a million times better.

I'm at the gate posting on my iPhone. Nolagoraphobia fairly well controlled by -pams. The fuckers at security made me toss not just my $1 hairspray, which I didn't care about except now my hair will be all floppy at Alinea, but also my expensive tea rose perfume. Yep, I could have taken out the captain with that shit. Thank you, "terrists."

As of today, The Green Goddess officially has its liquor license! Swing by 307 Exchange Alley and have a Green Fuse, a Sultan's Dream, or one of their many other delicious specialty cocktails to celebrate. If you do not imbibe of the grain and the grape, they have lots of virgin cocktails too.

Me, I'm off to eat "transparency of raspberry and yogurt" and "black truffle explosion," along with twenty-one other tiny fabulous things.

Just to clarify: It's not the flying I'm scared of. Commercial flying is an intensely unpleasant experience because the airlines and TSA make it so, but I don't find it scary. It's the idea of being away from New Orleans in a place where I can't hop in my car and drive back in a couple of hours. It's the memories of the big electronic signs on the I-10 that read NEW ORLEANS: CITY CLOSED. It's the fact that outside the city limits, the true heart of darkness begins.

A few years ago now, I made a bet with Neil that I could build him a helicopter that wouldn't crash. I lost. Thankfully, Neil survived the disaster, and ever since then I have owed him dinner at Alinea. It turns out that he will be at some big book thing (American Library Association? I think that might be it) in Chicago this weekend, and I'm not busy, so I am flying to Chicago to pay off my bet. I'm greatly looking forward to seeing Neil and eating at Alinea again, but aside from that other little trip to Chicago when we were still in post-K exile, just to see civilization again, this will be my first trip outside Louisiana/Mississippi since 2005. I'm certain I'll have a good time once I get there, but I'm also certain that the only thing that will compel me to get on that plane will be the thought of my dear friend's disappointment if I don't show up. Scared. I'm really doing it and I am flat-out dead-eye Jesus-praying scared, even though I'm only staying overnight. Oh well, it will be good practice for the Amsterdam trip in November ...

(By the way, anyone who wants to see an actual display of courage, as opposed to my whining about a four-hour jaunt, should go to Alinea's press page and read the second story from the top, "Burned" from Chicago Magazine. It's a grueling and fascinating account of 33-year-old Chef Grant Achatz's battle with stage 4 cancer of the tongue, of all things, his insistence on individualized treatment, how the experience has changed his already complex food theories, and his journey back to taste, which is still in progress. May God and all the saints bless him.)

If I didn't know faustfatale and I were destined to be BFF before, I realized it when I found out we had both enthusiastically bought and read the wonderful book Washed Up: The Curious History of Flotsam and Jetsam by Skye Moody, though others scoffed at our "goofy" reading. But right now I use the phrase because I have many little skritty bits of subjects to write about, nothing worth a full entry. Chris and I have booked our 20th anniversary trip to Amsterdam, our second-favorite city in the world, which makes me very happy. We'll be there for our actual anniversary (November 5, Guy Fawkes' Day) and for Museumnacht, a wonderful event we stumbled across on our last trip in 2000.

Gardening goes well; as you know if you read me on Facebook (hey, don't be shy; I'll friend anybody except ex-stalkers), the milkweed I planted attracted a monarch butterfly, the first I've ever seen in my garden! Actually, I made a whole little butterfly garden with purple and white coneflowers, black-eyed Susans, and Queen Anne's lace as well as lots of milkweed, a Golden Trumpet esperanza, & three kinds of salvia nearby. I also have a big passionflower vine for the Gulf fritillaries and plenty of parsley and fennel for the black swallowtails. I found a caterpillar on each one, and I'm betting our black swallowtails from this spring came back and laid their eggs here. We got grandworms!

Later this week I must return to my doctor and discuss whether the Vilify Abilify is actually, er, abilifying me any. I have kept a log of possible side effects which I present to you here:

Overall -- increased use of -pams; intermittent twitch in eyelids (though this is something I've had off and on for years)

6/21 -- bug crawling sensations (I did spend a lot of time in the garden that day and once there really was a bug on me)

6/22 -- a weird euphoria in the AM but it went away

6/25 -- could not concentrate on reading; jumped from one book to another unable to settle on one (this virtually never happens to me -- I finally gave up and read some Carson McCullers, as it's almost impossible not to become absorbed in "The Ballad of the Sad Cafe")

6/26 -- major mood crash; feeling of utter futility & hopelessness -- lasted about 12 hours

6/27 -- still no appetite; price of meds is actually raising my stress level

6/27 (11:30 pm) -- sudden dizziness & extreme nausea -- lasted 20-30 minutes (?), then headache

And that is my flotsam and jetsam for today.

Until today, due to Internet avoidance issues, I hadn't looked at my gmail account in about two weeks. I'll try to get to the many messages there soon.

One of the things I was avoiding was a post-Frankfurt Book Fair e-mail from my agent about the French launch of the Liquor novels, and how my publisher Au Diable Vauvert would still like me to come to France. It's hard to explain without sounding ungrateful to people who have faith in me that, at this point in my life, it would be impossible for me to go Be The Author at the bookstore down the street, let alone overseas. Sometimes I barely remember how to act like a human being, let alone a Famous Writer. Now that I'm cruising at least somewhat sanely after the craziness of the past three years, culminating in the series of horrible, dangerous choices I made last winter, I'm not going to force myself into anything. I'm going to help keep vigil at the church and tend my garden and read a lot. If I take a notion to spend a week by myself in Amsterdam in January, well, I just might do so. But a big splashy public week of interviews and signings in beautiful, delicious, kind, but (to me, always) utterly terrifying Paris ... I wish it weren't out of the question, but for now, it is.

Why, O why does the Amsterdam of my dreams always include a fictitious museum district between the Red Light district and the outer canals? And why, in my recent dreams of the place, is my mother always there? (I like traveling with my mom, but I don't think either of us would much enjoy a trip to Amsterdam together.)

The paper didn't come again this morning. I had to cover a 9am-11am shift at the church, so I was up too early to notice the quality of my coffee. I did manage to compose this ditty, with deepest apologies to Dorothy Parker:

O life is a comforting, cushioning pad
Whose days seldom offer much drama;
And love is a thing that can never go bad,
And I am Michelle R. Obama.

Oh, and happy birthday to Neil. Take me birding on your Jet-Ski in my dreams again soon, OK?

I miss London, Liverpool, and all of Australia, even the parts I haven't been to yet. As if I could contemplate that plane ride. Maybe if they did like when Carson McCullers visited Ireland toward the end of her life, taking seats out of the plane and wheeling in a big bed ... of course she had money, though I've never quite understood how ... not that she wasn't great, but she wasn't very prolific. Of course she was a Serious Writer and got all kinds of grants and stays at Yaddo and other things unavailable to us regular hacks. (I don't even deserve the title of "hack" anymore, since to be a hack you must hack something out.) But she deserved it all.

Angry voices outside window -- could be nothing or could explode into gunfire in 10 seconds ... you never know.

I am cranky and sad because Chris is going back to work tomorrow -- only part-time to start with, but I've become spoiled by having him around constantly, which at one time would have driven me crazy. I've even caught myself feeling jealous of Lafcadio Hearn, who -- despite the brilliance of Chris' menu and my pride in the publicity he's gotten for it -- I consider a vastly overrated writer. Not terrible, or at least not usually terrible (I found "Chita" so purple as to be almost unreadable), just overrated and nowhere near as important to New Orleans' literary/culinary history as people like to make out. However, literary tastes are one thing that Chris and I never have shared very closely.

In happier news, William is feeling much better and eating like a fiend again. The Doxycycline did the trick for now.

For the past couple of nights I've been wandering the Amsterdam of my dreams, which contains at least two locales that don't exist in the real city. One is a coffeeshop in an area that looks a lot like downtown Athens, GA. It's not an especially pleasant place to hang out, being decorated in the style of a particularly sterile American '50s-style diner, but it sells some of the best weed in the city, so I am always arriving on late flights and trying to get there before closing time. The other is an exotic, twisting covered alley full of fabulous little curio shops and authentic Asian food stalls. It's sometimes known as "Lazarus Lane" or "Little Lazarus Lane," but more often it's nameless, and I never seem to have any trouble finding it no matter where I start out.