Just Can't Shake That Feeling

I had a feeling it was going to be One of Those Days.

All started well and sprightly. Sam was in good spirits. Mum had had a good nights sleep. Breakfast was smooth. Sun shone. I suppose really that feeling of the planets being ever so slightly misaligned started after Cedric, who had kindly, once again driven us up to the commune - sorry nursery - in the woods turned to me as we got out and answering my question about whether he might be free to pick us up and take us home he said, with his broad immaculately white toothed Trinidadian grin, "You know I will be here!" I closed the door and fought off that shifting feeling of uncertainty.

There we were, some hours later, boy and I sat on a log happily munching our apple after playgroup when I have Cedric on the phone explaining he would not be able to get to us till after 12. It was 11.10 at this point. We were fairly in the middle of not too much-ish and a foresty trek to the nearest bus stop. I had agreed to jump around with my friend Beth at 12 back at the ranch. "Ok," I say trying to hide my disappointment and steadily rising frustration seeing as we had, after all, made an arrangement (its a hormonal time of the month, more on that later). Rising into intrepid explorer I saddle boy on my back and we pretend to be Andean mother and child braving the South American wilds in search of bus number 1, which my too-clever-for-its-own-good iphone tells me is leaving in 5 minutes from quite a ways uphill away...

I am a sweaty mama by the time I have power walked to the stop. Sam has been instructed, somewhat forcefully I might add, to stand perfectly still on the muddy bank by the bus stop (where did the nature loving free and easy mum go who looked a lot like me back in the playgroup go?!!!!). Taking a moment to sigh - a little loudly - my frustration away we begin our meditation on waiting for buses in neighbourhoods you don't know and opposite forest. It is a nice day after all. Could be raining. Or thunderstorming. Or hurricane-ing. "You happy mum?" he asks. No better way to keep your demeanour in check than a three year old lookng at your frown and making you realise what a mountain you are making of a missing bus induced mole hill. No sooner had I surrendered to the wait does a car pull up.

When the window winds down I realise that it is the handsome couple from playgroup, Deidre and Otis and their beautiful little daughter Zealand (yes like the country, I never did catch the full story). Minutes later Sam and I are ensconced into the back of their car being driven back to the city, and I am enjoying hearing the story of their romance. Having met at high school, they are now respectively a Doula and Pastor. Two deeply nurturing souls and their young daughter is a testament to their talents. They ask me about ou rjobs. I explain our plans and alittle of our itenarary. I tell them my official title for the year is Blogger-novelist apprentice - and - green-card-applicant. Oh yes and Mum. And wife. And P90X student. I also warn them not to take offence at the fact that I affectionately refer to our playgroup as the commune, just in case they do have a look at the blog....

Perhaps I was a little hasty on the whole planet alignement thing. From experience I have found this thought state to be a brutally self fullfilling prophecy. Just ask old Macbeth he'll vouch for me. So, there we are, witnesses to the kindness of strangers, back safely at home and I am poised and ready to sweat when I realise I barely have time to run an errand of a "feminine kind" at the store (as are, I am told, most of the women in the troupe. We are now officially a pack). I dash down to the deli on the ground floor of the hotel and head to their sundries cabinet. Quickly I realise I cannot reach the top shelf for what I am needing. It soon becomes apparent to the man mixing a take away salad that we are about to enter into a somewhat awkward conversation in which he has to sell me something I would rather buy discreetly at a supermarket amongst my groceries. Exchanges about size pass between us and I don't care for the look that sweeps across his eyes when I tell him which packet I need. Rumble number two.

A little sweat does a world of good though, especially when the boys join us - Cory with his white t-shirt tied up high to reveal his ample belly and Sam sporting his father's dance belt over the top of his trousers. The four of us pump out the last half hour of a seriously army style cardio session with belly laughs in between. That room has never been witness to such a motley crew nor will it again. I'm sure the security folk on the cameras upstairs must have enjoyed the comedy.

Off we then leave for the streets and the search for a suitcase for Sam. Turns out a small carry on is not enough for him after all (remember how everyone spoilt him on his birthday?!). We find a suitable receptacle in a cut price store, though the numbers on the tag don't seem that cut price to me. Victorious after our search we jump in a cab and head for France, aka Bonaparte's bakery down by the old harbour. It stands looking out over the water, tables on the cobbles outside, inside all classical music and fat tea house chairs reproduced from those of 19th century studies. Cookies, croissants and coffees all round. Turns out my body is craving just a little more sugar after losing half it's weight in sweat a few hours ago. We laugh, we put the world to rights. We generally give thanks for these precious moments of ease and joy in each other's company. We ponder on the fleeting nature of time and space and reality. On the decadence of the chocolate in the chocolate almond croissant I don't really need to have another bite of. We take in the 4.30 afternoon sun. And then that little pang. Its a familiar belly whack which our little unit seems horribly accustomed. Once again, we have left belongings in the cab. Namely case and pushchair (stroller). It becomes my mission to get both back home by the end of the night. Cory, in vain, tries to remind me that a case, is not, a son, but I will hear none of it. Its the principal.

Perhaps I should spare all the tedious details. Suffice it to say that cabby number two gives us cab office number. After four, yes four, calls to them (three of which I apparently talk with a breathing automated response unit) I finally connect with a lady who actually asks the relative questions (hormonal surge number two abated) and a message is sent out to all drivers. When I miss two calls in my room three hours later - I hadn't realised it was our phone unaccustomed to it ringing as I am - I ring front desk. They tell me no-one has called for me. I explain about the cab and the possibility that it may be someone calling regarding that. They say they cannot help. I am awoken at 9.30pm (the bedtime story even put me to sleep) by our driver from earlier on the room phone who tells me he has tried to call twice and left his number behind the desk for me to ring and verify it was indeed my baggage in his car. After another 15 minutes of two and fro-ing with the front desk who seem reluctant to send my belongings up in the lift with somebody seeing as I can't leave the room with Sam alone, the driver himself eventually does the job. I hand him a beer and what I thought was a handsome tip. Later my husband explains that double what I gave him would be the acceptable sum. I am, it would seem, still English after all, despite the new haircut and the dreaded transatlantic twang seeping ever so slightly into the end of a few worrrrds. Round two of the kindness of strangers. I send a quick prayer of thanks to the working wheels of the universe.

Then came the email. It was exciting at first. Some news from immigration. I click it open with anticipation. Scanning the message the words "held up" and "request for evidence" ping off the screen. Mr or Ms. Immigration Officer needs more proof. Nothing to worry about I tell myself, most likely they don't have all of the five hundred and one things the lawyers asked us to prepare. I quickly forward the email to the lawyers office to keep them abreast. I have learnt my lesson from november when for three weeks they failed to chase us on immigration office fees and we assumed they had charged our card. The delay they caused in this action (You can be sure if it was their fee we owed they would have been hassling me everyday) has made me take on the role of chief nagger. Just as one does back home say, when dealing with solicitors and buying a house, who always seem to take on too many clients and slow down the process for all parties involved. I am terrier number one. Top dog. The one they can't wait to get green-carded so she will stop sending messages and questions. I receive a reply some moments later, from our lawyer himself, explaining that whilst communication is important he does not have time for this "back and forth" dialogue with all his clients. In other words get off my back. I did not reply. I will wait, obediently, as he requests, for the letter to reach his office in which the USCIS will tell him what they need. I can't promise I won't resume my bee in a bonnet behaviour after that however. I must get to my best freinds wedding in May you understand. This is my underlying motivation for pestering. All prayers and good vibes on this are most welcome...!

It seemed that the night held unsettling vibrations for others in the troupe also. Anne, who plays the blonde bombshell Inga, was taken incredibly ill with what appeared to be food poisoning. She spent the night in the ER. Whilst she and Beth were there (they are sharing a room in the hotel this stay) they found out another colleague was at the hospital also. Jen, who is a dancer and plays a number of parts in the show and has been travelling with her father whom she looks after. I mentioned her some months ago, in awe as we were by the fact that she was taking on the role of nurse during the day with her father having been left somewhat dependent after his stroke a few years ago. Her husband is touring the country with another show and between them and the hired help of professional nurses they took their roles on with impressive fortitude.

It can as a deep shock to learn that her father passed away this morning. He didn't recover after a seizure. Turns out they were a regular occurrence, but when the one this morning seemed to be going on longer than usual an ambulance was called but he had passed before they arrived. Jen was surrounded by colleagues when it happened. Lara, a fellow dancer offered some comfort, words which stick in my head, "You can close the door of this bathroom Jen. You will never have to see this again. You are not at home where the memories will linger in the air. You can just leave." And so she has, for a few days at least. The girls packed her cases and trunk. Head of hair, Jeff, fixed her locks before she left, literally helping her paint on a brave face. The touch of caring hands are priceless in times of stress. Everyone rallied around and all are in various states of shock. Cory rang just now from the theatre at intermission to say there are gremlins running around stage. Props are being dropped, actors are tripping up or falling. Perhaps that funny feeling wasn't so far off after all, though how it affected my day and it's little irks obviously pail into insignificance compared to Jen and her family's plight.

I lit a candle for Jen's dad. I never even met him, only managed to send him some sauce back in Chicago as a meagre offering of support. Apparently only a few days ago he met up with an old friend and enjoyed a couple of burgers and beer with him, reminiscing, living it up a little. He had a happy time here in Charm City. I know she will return to the troupe and find the travel a tonic. We will all cry for her in turn. When death touches one we know a deep human need for empathy makes it near impossible for it not to flood you with memories of loosing your own loved ones. I wonder if we ever allow ourselves to stop it feeling so very recent? Is this our true source of comfort? Perhaps a more painful sense of loss is our eventually relinquishing the grief. That seems far too final. More so than death itself.

Our jobs may be deemed pure escapism of sorts but living a life on the road with a host of different people and their converging lives the business of show feels intrinsically real.

R.I.P

Watery Wanderings and Wonderings

I am in a reflective mood. Something about meandering around fish for the best part of the day at Baltimore's aquarium can do that to you. How can you look at the breathtaking elegance of a school of silver fish swimming purposefully but without tension through "moonlit" waters without letting your brain wander up into a meditative plain. The jellyfish alone in their watercoloury translucence began the ride into otherworldly ponderings. You can't look at one of those magical entities without it challenging your reason d'etre surely? How blissfully purposeful and purpose-less they are. We are.

That last bit is going to have my dad fidgeting in his seat when he reads it I can be sure - I can hear him mumble (loudly) at the screen wanting me to get to the bit about the city. And so, for the sake of peace, and my tenuous grasp reality, it is here I shall begin. Our day started with surprising efficiency considering the somewhat early call. The up side of little fella waking around 7 rather than 8ish/9 is that I get to take in the glorious Baltimorean sunrises over the past week. We are on the 34th floor with a view of the harbour. The sky, once again is wide. No offence meant to Washington, but it is good to see the world from a different perspective again. The calibre of my coffee making was surprisingly good (this I find is always a good omen for the day's outcome or at least my likely reaction to it) and I was more than pleased with the Peruvian blend we had bought yesterday at Federal Hill's coffee joint. Turns out I can find places such as these after all. The one in question sis Spoons. It is all wood and mis matching chairs and bare brick. We plonked our behinds on a red velvet sofa so that we could enjoy our smooth espresso whilst keeping an eye on the Sam man who had thrown himself heart and soul into the easel and toys laid out by a small area cordoned off by wooden sleepers, "I need to do some art," he had explained to the "barrista" who handed over the markers. So, there we are, Sam all train driver, me all happy coffee slurper when we are graced with Cory's weary but good humoured presence. Its a treat in our household to spend the mornings altogether. Like old, unemployed times eh?! Careful what I wish for...

So anyways, with both boys ensconced after food in a puppet show of great complexity I took the opportunity to hit the streets and find me the immigration office down the road. Last night, I received an email from our lawyers with a date for my biometrics, which happened to be the day after we are due to arrive in Atlanta. Here's me re-arranging flights in my head, adding up the possibly horrendous costs and so on, when, with some heavy influence form Cory, "I" come up with the marvellous idea of heading down there in person to see if they would pretty-pleas-with-a-cherry-on-top see me another time. Today perhaps?

And so it was that I arrived on the second floor of the Bank of America building on South Charles Street Baltimore at just past 9 in the morning and very politely, with the most unthreateningly demure english accent I could muster asked the clerk if she would consider allowing me to be seen today? She asks to see my itinerary for the Atlanta trip, I explain my situation. She sends me to her manager barely looking me in the eye. In I tip toe, mild but trying not to appear too meek and seek help from the higher power - in more ways than one. I clock framed family member portraits on the manager's desk and try to subconsciously tap into her maternal side. Without much ado she agrees she will see what she can do. In under five minutes I had even beaten Jesus to the post, and he had been there when I arrived (no pun intended), along with several others. I made a quick scan of the international crowd. Where did I fit in? Somewhere between Jesus and his mexican cousin and the young Korean woman infront of me perhaps? Writing my "alien" number on the top of the form I felt a bit overcome. I look up at the clinical flourescent lit blue walls and catch Obama smiling encouragingly down at me, "I've been to your house," I smile to myself. Suddenly my number is up - 315. I take this good omen number two because it is Cory's area code. 315-ers are passionate about being so. I am half way to being native asmy mobile number begins with these three auspicious digits. I am met by Ms. Efficiency. She has got the immigration attitude down pat but something about her touch tells me she is actually a big softie. It is her job you see to give me a hand massage - least that's what it felt like - whilst pressing each of my fingers on the scanner to get reading on the computer. It takes all of two minutes. Technological Ellis Island. Next I am told to sit on a chair and remove my glasses. "Look here." she orders. I try, but, without the glasses am not sure where I should be focusing. I move to stand up, "Stay on the chair!" she barks. I then look in the approximate direction of where the camera is and within a second or two she has taken a photo of my eye and my information and I are riding the computer highways back to an office in Chicago where a nice Immigration officer is waiting to give me the a.ok. Least that's the scenario I have chosen for us. I walk back uphill to our home with a skip in my step, having shaved a week off the process with a little proaction.

It was in this state of mind that we found ourselves the fish. It all makes a little more sense now I suppose. After a quick pit stop at the cafeteria (I had the fish, for the sake of irony you understand) and another hour of watery wanderings we headed for Fells Point. An area of cobbled streets greeted us, nestled on the harbour but a little further up from where we had just been. Brick terraces stretch out off the main strip which is dotted with cafes and pubs. Following our snack ready noses we came upon Pitango's and feasted on their delights which included Pennsylvanian Quince and Chocolate Orange sorbets and Sicilian Almond gelato. This was topped off with decadence in a cup a.k.a marrochino; Single espresso topped with rich Italian hot chocolate and whipped cream. Hanging tenously to my nutritiona regime, I skipped the cream and topped up my caffeine levels with a double of the strong stuff instead. Pure deliciousness on a spoon. The chap behind the marble and wood counter knew his stuff and was almost as passionate about the creamy offerings as were in trying. Almost every one of them I might add. The area has become a hub for artists, attracted to the large warehouse spaces and lower rents. When we left the ice cream den we found the "oldest running theatre in America" run by the "Vagabond" players. I know me some of them I thought to myself. It was closed unfortunately but its premises, a double fronted Georgian brick number was very appealing. So too were the quirky antique shops that lined the neighbouring streets. Sammy methodically posted imaginary post into almost every door and I imagined what might be behind the, mostly, closed shop fronts. One in particular, a black wooden framed double fronted antique shop with lace curtains hiding its wares but for a pair of multicloloured glass mosaic lanterns hanging in the window. It seemed the kind of place you would seriously think about going into if you wanted to find a wardrobe that you could get inside and it would take you through to other lands. Sounds strangely familiar....

I am starting to realise why the title of "Charm city" has not sat uncomfortably with the place. Between this neighbourhood and Federal Hill which we have visited over the weekend you have an expanse of characterful brick homes that line historical streets with food and shops to match. Those cobbles saw some serious Raven fan action last saturday when we were out with my cousin's celebrating the eldest's boyfriend's birthday. The super-bowl is looming and the local team was playing arch rivals the Colts. I am not going into sporting history right now, suffice it to say the Colts used to be the local team but skipped town over night for Indianapolis some years back leaving fans and stadium deserted and betrayed. Only days earlier, prior to the covert operation had the team manager publicly rebuffed rumours that they were leaving. Baltimoreans it would seem have no desire to bury their hatchet for the time being.

We found ourselves a seafood place - Maryland and Crab go so beautifully together - and whilst we slurpped seafood the game build up was being blasted over us so much so that conversation was almost reduced to syphons after a while. It was delicious though. So too was the banana cream pie from the aptly named "Dangerously Delicious" pie shop where we were served by the peppy "Krismas with a K" and her modest ring through her nose. It was my P90X night off.

By the by, talking of changing waistlines and triceps that can be seen and not just heard, it would appear that the program's fever has taken over an ever growing number of the troupe. To date I think there are about 6 of us trying it out. By the end of the run I will be organising class schedules and we will send Mr Tony Horton group before and after shots! I now have a "workout" buddy in the form of the lovely Beth who, in her own words is all "pumpkin coloured hair" and Californian sunshine. Picture her: tall, limber, athletic, indefatigable, next to me, a foot shorter, wider and minus the faint shadow of an eight pack. We pack a comedic punch and I love jumping around with her. Besides she is in love with my son and being with me is a close second for her. Anyone walking by the little gym room would have enjoyed the sweaty randomness of our moves. As the fellas did who walked by me air punching and heavy breathing into nothing the other day. There are worst things.

Like the eery alarum that sounded yesterday whilst we were playing the relative balm of a 15 degree day (thats 50ish Farenheit to Yanks) over from the harbour up to reach us on Federal hill playground. It was like the last scene of "happy" life near the beginning of a post apocalyptic film tale, sounds of the children's laughter drowned by the unstoppable onslaught of terror. Gees. The green card anxiety really has got my imagination into over drive. Friendly Dad whose kids were befriending a deeply exciteable Sam explained that it was a regular occurence (the apocalyptic visions or the alarm? I thought to myself). No sooner had the little fella clocked his kids did he turn to his dad and, almost apologetically shout out, "I must go Dad! I have friends!" Familiar feelings of concern about Sam being lumbered with us two loons as playmates for the time being wash over me. They dissipate as quickly as they manifest. I know we are hitting the playgroup rounds again tomorrow you see. He even asked me to pretend to be Karen, the leader, during our bedtime stories. I think it was a ruse come to think of it, especially the bit where he asked me if it was time to "play with the toys?" Luckily Karen has a matriarchal leadership about her and was able to steer him towards the soporific stories instead.

Cory is sweating out on a stage somewhere right now, whilst I didle daddle on our machine. My favourite story he has brought home to me so far is of the local sound engineer. It seems this job attracts men with history - most definate capital "H". On his little station lay a couple of thick wads of photos stacked amongst what I imagined were an army of impressive looking buttons and l.e.d's. It is a truth universally acknowledged that soundies pride themselves on their knobs. "Take a look at the old days" he swung at Cory gesturing him towards the first stack of memories. Not wanting to seem impolite but really having come into the area to watch the basketball game on the tv at the time, my husband took a glance over them. After the third picture of Michael Jackson with the "soundie" in camera operator guise came up, the game was finally eclipsed. Sound man then went into a brief history of his time which had involved several circuits around the planet on the as the sound and visual operator for several music mega stars. "But the best thing I ever did?" he turned rhetorically to Cory,"was making my wife stay home with the kid. Yeah. Sure was the best thing I ever did was that." Mini feminist discussion ensued at home. "Best thing he ever did?" I asked the grinning Cory-man. Both he and the long grey haired eccentric who worked the circuit boards of Chicago, a millionaire with a secret passion for writing and publishing hiking books share a deep characterful streak that is attracted to the likes of Cory. I am looking forward to what Atlanta might offer us in this light.

On the subject of sound, Cory will be aired live nationally tomorrow on one of the country's radio channels. It is a phone in and interview with himself, Roger (Dr. Frankenstein) who plays the creature in the show and the lovely Brad Oscar who turns in a fine Officer Kemp and Hermit. A good threesome I feel, all blessed with sublime instinct for comic timing and a natural flair for precision. Son and I will be sat round the wirelss eager to hear. Till then I have but to finish my book (whoever knew it took sooooo long?!!!!!) and ponder on one "xcondon@yahoo.com" who has written to my agent for a signed autograph. In his forwarded email he has also envoked Jesus and his chariots of fire to bless me and my family. He lives in Vermont apparently. I am suddenly glad I have written the blog under my real name. Ok, so Vermont is not exactly Maryland but still. For someone with an overactive thyroid, sorry I mean imagination, 2 + 2 is always just over 4 if you know what I mean.

Perhaps it is time to return for a consultation with the fish.....

Make My Coffee a Red Herring

In Cedric's taxi this morning - a wizened retired Trinidadian who gets most of his work through the doormen at our hotel - the talk radio show was airing local's views about the tragic Haitian disaster. As Sam, myself and my unintentionally Victoria Beckham hair (thought Candice did a rather splendid job of it down in Italy the Little until I saw a picture of Ms. "Posh" earlier today) got ourselves situated I caught the tail end of a caller's rationale; according to he, the Haitians had clearly sold themselves to the white devil and this was punishment from God. I opened up the discussion with Cedric, with many interjections from Sam who was desperate to relay every detail about his real and imaginary life to the patient driver. In Cedric's view - yes we are on first name terms because a. he has a cool name and b. we have jumped into his cab a number of times now - the caller's views were far from the truth, "God does not punish," he said, "He does no ill, sends no bad to people. It is Satan who does this." Conversation stopper. On my part anyhows. I didn't feel like ruffling the feathers of a man who was driving my fella and I back from the commune - sorry nursery - especially after he had been so personable to Sam and having educated me on the merits of living in Trinidad - free health care and a handsome retirement pay of $2000 a month. "Is it difficult to emigrate there?" I asked quickly, "Goodness no!" he laughed back at me, "Stay there for a few months, apply and that's that." I have booked our flight.

Come now, what could possibly tear me away from what the bench down the road quotes as "The Greatest City in America." I am still on the fence on this one (or bench?), but then I haven't been here for even a week yet. Other quotes of note that punctuated our journey into the woods this morning included a billboard telling me "Married people earn more. Marriage Works." And if, as a married, I should let this go to my head and use all my new found earning for crime I need but drive by the prison on Freeway 83 headed north because a banner hung by the inmates tiny windows will remind me to "Drop the gun or pick a room." Also good to know. And, just for good measure, health campaigners here are eager to tell young Baltimoreans that Virgin is "not a bad word." in graffiti font for cutting edge city urban d'ya ge me yeah?

Up a winding forest lined road we went and at the top we reached Baltimore's Waldorf school. Mention of these establishments have dotted my blog so far, because, for a few months before we came over we had taken Sam to several sessions. Even if the pastel pink and hippy silk scarfness of it brings a wry smile to my face both the little chap and I enjoy the tranquility of the spaces and the general good feel about the playgroups. Also, most of the places we will be stopping in have such schools and in a few hours I am able to connect with local parents and Sam can mop with little friends to his hearts content (they have a home area with mini mops and wooden cooking stuff). Barbara, our teacher here, has long greying hair that reaches down to the bottom of her back, turquoise and coral silver dangly earrings and hair clip to match and big been-to-Woodstock blue eyes. Her mother was a Waldorf home schooler and her sister is teaching at such a school in Hawaii. She led us in bread making and songs at the end which we all mimed building a Snow woman. Whenever I need a dose of Liberal america I always know where to come. I'm sure it will be a tonic when we reach Texas in June...

So. Played out, and Dad all happily lied in, and then mum all P90x'd (shoulders, biceps and triceps workout number 3 people, come on keep up) we were all ready for a jaunt about town. I had googled coffee roasters earlier in an effort to sniff out another bohemian corner of the city. Noticing a theme here? We had cut it fine regarding time so we hopped in a cab whose driver told us about his by-pass his break of a 3 packet a day smoking and over drinking and his trip to the Punjab tomorrow. Yes, we had the time, I forgot to ask the phone how far the place was, and $20 later we stepped out into Greektown. A sea of white and blue flags flapped on the wind dotted with little Greek delis and Kafeinon with men drinking small cups of tar and playing cards. We walked along taking in the antique manequin dressed in Greek folk dress outside a heavily curtained restaurant with stickers on the door boasting its rating from 1962 and the music centre shop next door with plaster statues of gods and goddesses still covered with their cellophane and flanked by plastic red roses. Onward we went trying to find my haunt. It was about ten minutes later when Cory turned to me with that face coinciding with the realisation I had sent us on the hunt for a coffee roasters, that, well, just roasted coffee, somewhere.... We never even found it in the end. We got as far as an abandoned factory and some glass littered rail road tracks before we called off the search. There was nothing about the street by the dilapidated warehouse that said, "hey, come and hang and have a coffee friends!" Nothing against highway 83 or anything but its not really our idea of a pleasant wintry Baltimorean walk. Still, it led us onto South America. Suddenly, after the rumbling overpass all the shops and restaurants were emblazoned with colombian colours, mexican flags, the inviting smell of pungent barbecue. The air heavy with roasted chicken and cakes. We were, however really pushing time now and weary of getting caught in rush hour traffic. I just had time to take in the bridal shop with green sequined puff ball shoulderless bridesmaid dresses (must let Gabby know) and black and white lace layered bride gowns before Cory scrambled all of us into cab number two. It took us only a split second to realise we were being asphixiated by the smell of patchouli and curdled cheese. Nobody spoke. We just put our tongues to the wind from the hurriedly rolled down window like thirsty dogs till we were back home. Turns out tea at in room 3403 was the best bit of our little trek today....Perhaps we should have just gone up the road to Red Emma's an"anachist" joint that offers propaganda and coffee to, mostly impressionable students from what I can gather. A worker-owner collective it is both a bookstore and drinking hole.

Now I am about to whip around the room and hurricane like make it presentable for my cousins who are visitng from New Jersey tomorrow and before you get any fanciful ideas, they are not those sort of New Jerseyans. They were born and raised in Niagara Falls on the New York side, turns out only a few hours from Cory's home town. Our grandmothers were sisters, on my mother's side, from Sardinia. My grandfather had been tempted to follow suit and search for a new life here in the states but at the last moment got cold feet. I like to think the clan made to America in the end though, and it is special to be in contact with my lovely cousins especially since their grandmother and mine were so close. They wrote to each other regularly, I'm sure each were a source of great strength to one another, especially when small town living must have made it hard to confide in people wholeheartedly. It was forty years before she made it back for a visit, with my aunt Pat, who had become a nun. I remember meeting over here for the first time at the convent's beach house in Long Island. I had packed the most high necked wear I could find, not knowing what the protocol for beach and nuns was exactly. I remember ringing the bell of the cottage and the door swinging open with my white haired aunt Pat bear hugging me with all her tiny frame her face in a broad warm grin and then her offering me a cold beer from the fridge. "Happy fourth of July indeed I thought to myself." That was the beginning of the rekindling of our connection. Since then she and her brother, my cousins father, and the cousins have visited Sardinia and London and we swap allotment anecdotes and tips. Cultivation is in the blood there's no denying that.

At this moment though, my head is still jangling from our son's last surreal ramblings before his mind and he agree to relinquish to sleep. Today's comma-less patter (takes after his mum obviously) went something along the lines of this:

"And then my tree has happy faces on it and and and thumbs and it walks like this and theeen Blue Ian and Silver Ian and Green Ian come in and a dog not a bitey dog a nice boy dog its a boy and a dog come in and then in my show there is a door and it goes down and up and then up up up up up up and I crash into it and so does Bo Bo and Maggie and aaaaaaalllll my actors in my show because I have to do a show.............read mum. Read."

Ah, I though he'd never ask.

I suppose even a son of mine can't dream up a story for twenty minutes without a breath. Try as we both might. It would seem that whilst his parents tour Sam has been developing work of his own. He's not going to be a kept man. No. He is going to be Mr. Gee. He asked me to make a top hat the other day for his show. He pushed the cardboard creation (didn't do 9 months on CBeebies for nothing you know!) down hard onto his head, stripped naked, put on his sunglasses and jumped into a frozen pose yelling "Abraham Lincoln!" I, of course, have accepted responsibility for the lasting effects of mixing american travels with theatre. It is after all a heady mix for even the most laid back three or thirty three year old.