Ten years ago David and I got married. It was a very lovely affair in downtown Portland, and we celebrated our anniversary by a night in downtown.

First, we tranferred the children to friends of ours, who we really owe big time for having a total of five kids overnight. Kids with more energy than a Jack Russell on a grande latte, and no intention of going to sleep anytime soon. Maybe ever.

Then, we went to a day spa where I got haired and made up. They did a very nice job, but I’m not used to wearing much makeup and it made me feel quite comfortable with not being made up. I yam what I yam. If I have an eye itch, I just want to rub my eye and not worry about looking like I got into a fight and lost. But nevertheless, it was kinda fun for a night.

We got to the Governor Hotel downtown (above), a beautifully renovated historic hotel. We found out that a better room was not booked and asked if we could be upgraded. They didn’t comp us, but gave us a good price for the upgrade and we took it. We ended up in the Governor Suite in the penthouse. Whoa. Nicest room I’ve ever been in, in terms of quality, craftsmanship, and beauty. It had a large terrace with a stunning 180 view of the city. Big-screen flat panel TV over the fireplace. Cushy pillows. Complementary shoe-shine.

We walked a few blocks down to Typhoon! restaurant, which is, duh, Thai food. I’ve heard a lot about it for years and does it ever live it up its rep. The pad thai, which they told me I could order vegan, was the best pad thai I’ve ever had. David ordered pineapple rice, which was very yummy, too. I asked if they had a non-alcoholic cocktail and the server made me up a delicious mango-lime concoction just for me. Excellent service.

On the way back to the hotel, we passed Hotel Vintage and went inside to check it out and I found a grand in the lobby, so I sat and played a little piano — a bit of CPE Bach Solfeggieto and a bit of Michael Nyman’s The Promise.

Later — I fell asleep in a bed and linens that felt like a cloud. The only bad note was that the occupants next door decided to have a party and kept coming in and out of the room at about 0300 and kept letting the door slam. David went out and caught two very young women in the hall and told them to knock it off. Which they did. For about an hour, and then it started up again about 0400. In the morning, David called and complained to the manager who soothed our wounds by comping us the upgrade, which was nice — and fair.

We walked to Everett Street Bistro for breakfast and at first it didn’t look like anything a veggie like me could eat, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that the homemade fruit and nut granola was delicious and they served it with soy milk upon my request. David had the pomme frites, which were the best French fries I’ve ever had.

Happy Anniversary, David — it was a wonderful night. I love you!

 There’s a lot of people who fly a lot. Every week and sometimes every day of the week. I’m not one of them. Generally, I fly once a year on business. Occasionally twice. This year, I’ve flown more in the past three months than I have in the past few years. I’m getting to know certain airports way too well, specifically Portland, Phoenix and San Francisco — but there have been others.

I enjoy the people watching. In these days of the blue tooth, people walk around the airport, holding conversations with the voices in their heads. This is a handy development for those who hear voices in their heads and don’t own blue teeth or cell phones at all. These people can purchase a fake over-the-ear receiver and talk to their voices all day and no one cares. Although content of conversation does tend to tip one off.

Years ago, I was exiting the subway beneath the Twin Towers (yes, those Twin Towers) and a man behind me kept saying, in his New York accent, “gotta find my cah, gotta find my cah, gotta find my cah.” This would not have sounded more normal if he had a blue tooth, although the only mobile phones back then were the size of a shoe box. Perhaps he didn’t want to forget where his car was parked, and I’ve certainly done that, but my chant is usually along the lines of, “Blue Lot Row 3, Blue Lot Row 3, Blue Lot Row 3.”

Much has been said about the size of airline seats. In April when I flew to Austin, TX, each connecting flight was smaller. I think this is part of a greater plan, to gradually force the human body into a size and shape most efficient for eventually packing us into crates. The flight between Austin and Phoenix was the worst. It was an Air Bus 320 Shrimp, or something, and there are only four seats across from window to window, in about an 8 foot space, including aisle. Passengers over 5′11″ had to stoop to get down the aisle.

I sat in my window seat and a tall and wide man sat next to me and promptly fell asleep. Feeling cramped and claustrophobic, I reached up to open the air vent and when my arm jerked to a stop at two inches from the vent, I realized that the large guy was sitting on my suit tail. I pulled and pulled, to no avail. Fortunately, I was barely able to reach the vent with my opposite hand.

To make matters extra horrible, the seats in that airplane were designed by the Humpback of Notre Dame or someone similar. There is zero lumbar support; actually, the seats are very concave, made worse that someone brilliant decided to add head rests that force the chin to the chest. So basically, it’s the fetal position. Maybe it was designed that way on purpose, so as to put one in the ideal position for weeping. So I spent the two hour flight hunched over my tray table, overheated, and stuck under a large businessman.

My last flight was two days ago and I’m glad to say that my next known flight isn’t for three months. By then I should be able to unfurl.

For the last comments (specifically lostgirl, pudgy, Fred and David) on my last entry, I attempted, about three weeks ago, to reply. I made these lengthy comments and hit Submit Comment — and everything I wrote was lost in ether. I tried one more time and same thing happened. Since then, it’s been fixed, but I developed a grudge against my blog for several weeks. I think I’m over it now, and I haven’t resorted to counseling. But I apologize for not replying to your comments. I did. Really.