When I walked into the pub Rachel hollered Bee! Bee! Will you make out with me and ruin our friendship??

I laughed and said No!

During the course of the evening she inevitably seized my phone to send racy text messages to faraway friends. Then to make things really interesting she called a friend in California to talk about the penis of a mutual acquaintance.

No, the two ladies have never met. And I doubt either has direct knowledge of the penis in question.

In her texts Rachel informed assorted people that we were having sex in the bathroom which is of course a blatant lie; somebody else was, but not me! I care about hygiene. Just so you know.

How did I contribute? Hmm. I seem to recall telling the wealth of Williams about a dinner party that ended in a conquest for a certain academic…. and my storytelling skills were sufficiently graphic (and loud) that it cleared a strip of tables around us.

Though I disappointed Rachel with the fact that I have no local scandals or gossip to relate since even the most wicked of the crew have been behaving since she departed.

When I wished everyone a fond goodnight Rachel surveyed the evidence and exclaimed You even have a hot ass!

I retorted I have a hot everything! Then flounced away toward the river.

As Sarah always asks, how exactly does that girl get away with so much? Quite a mystery. Though Cambridge is way more fun when she is in town.

I’m in Rome, staying just off Campo de’Fiori, and have been zipping around in a fog of bliss because I love this city so much. Why did I wait six long years to come back?

Though I have been here three whole days and nobody has whistled at me. Pondering the fact I decided that this is because I am no longer cute (my preferred explanation). Though, alternately, it could be down to the fact that Jody evokes the bouncer archetype. I asked his opinion and he replied The latter, presumably.

He could be right – the only time I get unsolicited and unwanted attention from random strangers? When I am wandering around with Gabriel or Gordon.

One of my academic friends suggests that I should do an empirical study of whether people whistle at me when I am alone. That of course involves paying attention – so I will have to practice.

Tonight I took myself out to collect data but admittedly only as far as the grocery store to buy a Kinder Egg. I suspect I will need to go somewhere featuring, erm, other people. If I want to test the hypothesis.

On the way back to the hotel I stood about admiring the feral cats of Largo Argentina and it occurred to me that Gabriel is at heart a courtesan and as such, while he is always charming and adorable, he also enjoys his little schemes. Around me this often means pushing the edge of my inherent chaotic obliviousness just enough to force me to see a situation in a new way. While this often creeps me out, he finds it amusing.

I heart Gabriel. Gordon, on the other hand, has no clear mandate. I suspect he is either a trouble or a freak magnet.

My mother wrote to inform me that my home county has been declared a disaster area and that Gorst (aka the site of the first commercial airline in the NW, and the town where my paternal great-grandparents had a dairy store built on stilts over the bay, though memorable to real life friends who listen to my stories for more disturbing reasons) is under water.

This is indeed remarkable – I have never known the place to be so comprehensively destroyed, not even when the Hood Canal Bridge blew away. Major good wishes to those in the path of the weather.

Triangulating from various suggestions I attempted to make butternut squash pie (total failure) and then locate an alternate source of, well, anything.

One of the mad scientists had a rare practical glimmer of a thought and asked the caterer of the Death Star harvest feast where to purchase the raw goods. We hit on a fairly obvious solution the same approximate second – Waitrose!

For those not from ye olde world, this means Insufferable Yuppie Grocer, located at least favorable faraway point.

Today I went pillaging in yonder distant village to find comestibles. After quite a stark panic attack I found that which I was seeking…. and I was so excited to locate Libby’s canned goods, I literally batted them off the top shelf.

Twelve cans of pumpkin delicious goodness rained down on my head, and I hopped around with glee! Short-cut, yes – so be it. Whatever! I am covered with flour and egg and generalized goo and it is 1:45 in the morning and the fourth pie is in the oven.

The smallest facts are often the most important. Thanksgiving has arrived!

I’ve been talking to the farmers and they tell me there are no pumpkins anywhere in Cambridgeshire.

Oh no!

Yesterday I was on the boat gleefully poking yet another hot crackling fire when Gordon called to chat. He somehow manages to extricate all sorts of secrets, scandals, and rants that are normally never on display – perhaps because he is the only person who ever calls?

More critically, he informed me that he is going to throw me a birthday party. Hmm. Reviewing mental files. That would make him (excluding family)…. the first person in my entire life to do so!

Despite, I might point out, incessant moaning about the issue. Jody actually beat him to the offer, but I can’t handle Seattle in the dark months. California wins by virtue of offering sunlight!

Instead, Mr. Wilson and I will go to Italy for a week to celebrate our sad winter birthdays. Right after that I take off for San Francisco, then Colorado, then San Francisco again. . .

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my friends?

Thanksgiving is of course an arbitrary day plucked from all the rest to celebrate a specious and historically inaccurate event.

It is also a harvest festival, and a time to celebrate those gifts that we fail to actively acknowledge. One of the greatest for me is the liberation from home and hearth.

I left my country of origin on purpose; I didn’t want to, but it was harder to stay. History and politics are complicated. I appreciate and sincerely love the place I grew up, and all that implies, good and bad, without feeling any fealty to the landscape or those who created me.

I may never again have the option of an extended family Thanksgiving; my mother visits for a month every year and I go to see her whenever possible, but it rarely matches public holidays.

This does not mean that I ignore the traditions altogether, it just means I replace them with a truthful equivalent.

For the last seven years my Thanksgiving centered on dinner with friends (originally just Stella and Al), building up through the years to massive feasting. Last year I hosted thirty or more adults and an unknown number of teenagers and children.

Since the day itself has no meaning I always throw my party on a nearby weekend to coax Londoners and other scattered people to attend, and this year I won’t even begin preparation until December.

When I ask the assembled expats what they are thankful for, do you know what the most common reply is? Health care.

Beyond that, of course, we celebrate friends and family, the active experience of creating community, making food, talk and laughter, the sheer genius of everyday life.

Happy Thanksgiving to those who choose to celebrate!

Yesterday I went to see Helvetica, a documentary well worth the price of admission just for quotes like Bad taste is ubiquitous and People confuse legibility with communication. Though there were also many voices in support of the font.

Earlier in the week I attended an Imperial War Museum screening of archival films under the title Occupation and Resistance. These were a mixed lot, with the perspectives of both sides represented, particularly the German occupation of the British Channel Islands.

The scenes of the evacuation of Strasbourg were eerie, the images of British police driving and saluting German command hilarious. Le Journal de la Resistance was on another level altogether, and should be screened more widely. It is a short film shot from behind the barricades (without staging) as the Resistance took back Paris.

The IMW version is narrated by Noel Coward and is simply stunning. Very few war films or documentaries capture the reality of the action in all the gritty small details. I started to cry in the opening credits and didn’t stop until I was out on the street.

Rachel just accused me of being predictable! I would normally agree but must lodge a protest, as yesterday I went to the shoe store to buy ugly orthopedic elf shoes …. and came home with knee-high leather boots that lace up the back! This is quite a shock. I haven’t worn high boots since 1989 – the year I could not be parted from psychedelic miniskirts and peacock sunglasses! Shivers.

Back to normal programming: I also discovered a web site that sells eco-carts. How exciting!

I ordered a cart at eight last night and it was cheerfully delivered to the boat at noon today. I stood about in the mud, hands clasped in rapture, watching as it was installed. Then I biked around gathering all the items I need for winter on the boat!

Today I was standing in Fopp waiting for my daughter to select some merchandise.

Bored, I picked up a book called Punk House. Not expecting much at all I flipped the book open…. to a double page spread of Anna Ruby in her bedroom at 19th Street House!

I shrieked with delight and commenced to jump about madly. Then I paged through, staring at photographs of the equally beloved Chicken House, the pink trailer STS sleeps in, stoves that have provided endless cups of tea and shared meals, beds I’ve slept in, Chorus friends, and and and….

My companion passed by again and I wailed I want to go home!

The reply? Shut up! Portland is not your home!

Good point. Though my eyes were leaking as I stared at the image of a refrigerator, hunting for my kid’s old school pictures buried under all the stickers and show posters, the detritus of a life that has moved on without us.

I miss the old neighborhood.

I miss my disreputable, falling down house, with spray-painted stencils on a porch crowded with chairs and toys and people.

I miss my own wee triangular bedroom in the doghouse dormer, empty save for a mattress, with white shiplathe walls and battered shipmetal gray wood floors.

I miss the magical thing-breeding basement, safe refuge for those who needed it, costume cupboard to all.

I miss Chorus practice, and puppet shows, and all the parties, even if I would still refuse to dance.

Most of all, I miss my friends.

I just ordered recycled firewood. I am so excited! I love my boat. Also, guess who stopped by to visit?