Trail of Crumbs

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I won’t be traveling much between now and the end of the year, so posting will be rather slow until early January. I’m still doing a lot of writing, but it’s being channeled into some side projects, as well as the Travel Guides, which I intend to launch in early 2014 (stay tuned!)

In the meantime, I find myself home in Seattle, with little to report. But before I say goodbye to this year, I wanted to share with you a few photos from the last couple of months (all of them are courtesy of Rand’s cell phone).

Times Square, September:

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Addressing Wil’s team at the end of the week.

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Philadelphia was hard on Rand.

Don’t get me wrong: it was well worth it, and he was grateful for the experience, but damn it, it was hard.

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The thing about being married to a nine-year-old-boy who’s trapped in the body of a 34-year-old man is this: you are the only one that really knows him.

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See, he’s done a pretty good job concealing the fact that, at heart, he’s still nine-years-old. He’s been hiding it from everyone for the past (counts on fingers …) TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. There are people who he sees, each and every day, who have no clue. To them, he’s Rand FancyPants-Does-Something-With-Computers-Maybe (?? note to self: find out what husband does for work).

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View out our porthole window, the Maritime Hotel.

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Do you ever have those moments where you pull something off (a meal, an event, a project), and it comes together so beautifully, and was almost effortless, that you are tempted to think, “This is my calling. This is what I was put on this earth to do”?

I totally haven’t, unless you count cake eating, which I’ve been repeatedly told is not a calling.

Usually I have quite the opposite feeling: I’ll try something, and it will be such an epic disaster that I am able to say definitively that genetics and the universe clearly never intended for me to carry out these tasks.

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It’s cute how excited he is for lunch.

I know him.

I know everything about him, really.

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Some days, you go for a walk.

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Sometimes I will grab my husband, usually by the head, mash up his cheeks in my hands and say,

“Your face. Your STUPID face. I LOVE YOUR FACE. I’m … I’m gonna eat your face because I LOVE IT SO MUCH.”

I assume that all couples who have been together for more than a decade behave this way, expressing their affection through threats of cannibalism.

The thing is, though, I really do adore his face, every (tiny) crease and freckle and even the errant chicken pox scar on his forehead (that is almost, but not quite, a mirror reflection of one I have). To quote one of my favorite movies, “It’s … it’s a good face.”

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I will probably forget the name of the brunch place we went to in Marais. I’ve forgotten it three times already, each and every time you told it to me, until you finally emailed me with the message “Don’t lose me.”

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You meant the restaurant name, of course, but somehow I read it as a request from you, personally. “Don’t lose me,” you said. As though that were even possible. You’re on my mind even when I’m unconscious.

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