The Ghost Log

When we went to Portland, OR, during the second leg of our trip, we stayed at the Edgefield, a former county poor farm that has been converted into more or less a resort hotel located in the suburbs of Jerry Garcia's mind. From the hallway walls to the steam pipe caps in our room, the place is slathered in murals that nod to its history as the residence hall for that poor farm, then a nursing home, then a squat complete with real live anarchists, at which point it was rescued and refurbished.

When you walk up the stairs to your room, there's a huge painting of two gleeful old ladies riding a silo as a rocket ship, followed by beatific and bald angels in wheelchairs. The fuse boxes make heads of Shiva-like gods whose many arms are playing with yo-yos. Chagall-like brides and grooms fly around on the third floor. For the duration of your stay, you are living inside some art.

Our first night there, all three of us had nightmares. Mine is just too scary to relate; my husband's involved both running from something and running after something. Our son just said "Bad dream." When I went down to the front desk the next afternoon to ask a few questions, I hung there for another minute, wondering whether to maintain the appearance of a normal person or just go for it. I went for it.

"Can you tell me," I asked the nice lady, "do people often have, uhhhh, intense dreams when they stay here?"

She smiled this potent smile, a blend of kindness and absolute what-the-f*** spooky I've never seen before, and said "Would you like to see our ghost log?"

She handed me one of those marbled school notebooks, filled with handwritten stories from guests and employees about their various experiences over the years, from thumps to dreams to full-blown non-existent people standing right in front of them.

I sat in the lobby, having some of the best coffee I've ever had in my life -- and free! -- pondering the ghost log. I'm not sure what this has to do with this blog, other than that the universe has some very interesting nooks and crannies, and travel is one of the only ways you can ever stumble upon them. That, and that I sometimes expect that asking for all of these things is going to have an inevitable backwash in the form of nightmares and ghost logs. To get the miracles, I worry you have to pay a price.

Yay, Or Who Am I To Know What I Need

I got back in touch with an old friend from college yesterday and we've been pelting eachother with emails like it's a snowball fight. Now that the flurry is dying down, I wondered rather stupidly -- did I ask for this? Did I need this? I know I never sat in meditation and said "Hey, universe, can you make sure so-and-so gets my email address?" But another little window of joy in my heart just creakily slid open, so I'm just going to say yay.

Another thing. I was writing my friend about recent travels and I found myself saying "You know, we go to San Francisco every year to visit family and friends and after that it's hard to travel anywhere. Well, we do visit family at the Jersey Shore every year. And in Vermont. And last year we stayed on a houseboat in Paris for two weeks, but that was just an opportunity that came up to celebrate my friend's birthday."

Here I am, judging my own fantastic experiences, because they just sort of happened to me as opposed to me getting to plan them. I'm complaining about my own serendipity; I'm complaining about my good fortune; I'm complaining about, perhaps, the gifts I'm being given by the universe.

I'm like this with everything. It is very stupid. I shall stop now.

And should you ever get to stay in a houseboat on the Seine, pack sweaters and cough syrup, it gets bone crushingly cold at night. Sometimes the heat won't work and then the most gorgeous strapping blond electrician in the known universe will show up on his moped and fix it for you, which ain't so bad. Oh, and also, enjoy every damn minute of it.