MONTANA 001

The peripatetic scramble subsides for the moment, as I curl up at the foot of the Montana Bridger mountains. Although it should be known that I have received a tentative cat-sitting offer in Paris for mid-April, confirming my suspicion that if one hangs about long enough a suitable métier might just pop into view.

The most dispiriting news is that on return from France my cheese was confiscated, not by the ever-vigilant U. S. Agriculture police and their olfactorilly-advanced canines, but by French security. It seems in France fromage falls into the “liquids and gels” category, particularly, I suspect, if your larder is bare and you don’t want to be inconvenienced by a detour to the fromagerie on the way home from security detail.

Protestation was (predictably) to no avail, and a request to speak to a supervisor was met with a blunt and smirky “non.” I then offered my bagette to M. le Cheese Police, reasoning that he could hardly enjoy the dairy without the wheat. “Non, zees cheese goes wis ze garbage,” he replies, and I respond “yes, I know, that is why I wanted you to have the bread.”

His English was quite good, advanced enough in fact to catch the idiomatic slur, and I trundled off in haste lest La Belle France insist on extending my stay under circumstances far less attractive than the Marais from which I had just departed. But I fret over the dangerously slipshod application of French security measures, considering that I have passed unmolested with similar contraband at least a half dozen times in the past several years (I was assured that the “no cheese” policy had been in force “for many years”).

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I had occasion to pass several hours today in the local community hospital. I consider it an odd phenomenon that in our citadels of wellness and healing the majority of its practitioners and staff are overweight, some grossly, others morbidly. Not to mention those clothed in whites or scrubs huddled in freezing doorways puffing on Sir Walter Raleigh’s gift to England and all the civilized world. I am certain that this observation has offended one or more of you, and so I add my standard disclaimer “present company excepted.”

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I am attempting a noble but daunting experiment. My current digs are tubeless, devoid of the vast electronic wasteland. I know that Blitzer, Cooper, Matthews, O’Reilly, Olberman, et al will survive nicely in my absence. Less certain is how this former news junkie will fare. One day at a time…

I do have a new library card, an interesting experience for one (correctly) described as a “reluctant reader.” But my lack of literary knowledge has already gotten me into trouble. Thinking I was checking out “Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten,” I somehow ended up with “Running with Scissors.” I am now faced with the task of inventing a new English-language word to describe the book. All suggestions appreciated.

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I attended (but did not participate in: I'm working at getting back into shape) a local 10-k race this past Saturday. It highlighted yet another difference between the civilized Coasts and the wild west. All the races I have attended (mostly in the east) were surrounded by masses of flags, cones, police cars re-directing traffic, ambulances at critical junctures, water stations, mile markers, communications vehicles ready to detail any possible disaster, and so much more.

This event was run partly on snowy, muddy trails, with not a single official vehicle or personage in sight. A teenage volunteer with a ratty handheld “Stop” sign attempted (mostly without success) to limit traffic near the finish, and small children ran into the path of exhausted runners to cheer on Mom or Dad in their final 50 paces.

Oh, and the race ended at a pub. Each runner got a free beer. I love this place.

…the adventure proceeds apace…