The one where everything goes wrong

Two days in Miami, valet parking, good food, the beach, and my SO came to an abrupt end.  The morning of the change started with luck no worse than usual.  A stop at Starbucks turned complicated when his card was declined, both at the register and subsequently at two atms.  Our drinks were already made, my card was five blocks away at the hotel, so I ran back.  Everything resolved itself and the day could only get better.

We stopped at a Cuban walk through for a breakfast burrito, which was too hot to eat.  Waiting for it to cool, we walked back to the hotel, where we tried yet another ATM.  This one froze in horror at our audacity.

Pepe had a terribly long conversation with the only polite automated bank teller I've ever heard.  Granted, the conversation was in Portuguese and the auto man could have been spouting out the most horrid of curses, but I'd rather think he was pleasant.  The conversation ended with the realization that his card had been blocked, since Pepe was out of the country.  Apparently, the bank doesn't understand that an international card is supposed to work internationally.  The card would be activated, given time.

Pulling out of valet for the last time, there was a horrid crunching sound.  I ignored it.  Once in the car, traffic began immediately and the grinding we had noticed only got worse.  Before leaving Miami proper, we were reminded by hideous yellow signs that there was a toll ahead.  A toll that only took the cash we didn’t have.  Toll one, we were able to find change for, change that included a Canadian quarter and a quarter-sized dirham coin from the UAE, but change nevertheless.

On the turnpike, we got off at the first travel plaza, where we fueled up, and both atms were out of order.  With $8 dollars of tolls in our future, we were told to continue until the next travel plaza, where the atms would hopefully work.

Before merging onto the interstate, while still in the parking lot with windows down, I noticed an odd sign, offering windshield cleaning.  This was not optional.  As we drove past, water cascaded into the car. 

But that was funny.  Enjoyable.  Unlike the next travel plaza, where Pepe’s card was declined (still not activated, give it 24 hours) and mine had a balance of $3.87.  Not exactly enough for tolls.  At this, I called my father, who didn't answer and Pepe started walking around, looking for fellow Brazilians.  I called my mother, who offered to transfer money in, once she found internet.  Pepe, on the other hand, had managed to find Brazilians.  A group of them proudly sporting some Brazilian soccer paraphernalia I didn't understand.

He explained our situation.  They gave him looks.  He asked if they could trade reais for dollars.  The agreed and we left.  One the road again, this time winding up the windows for the windshield cleaning, my father called.  After explaining the situation, he transferred my latest paycheck into checking and we were set.

The Disney music was blaring.  The traffic had disappeared.  Then, the car stopped.  Completely.  Looking back, there were signs.  The radio had stopped working ten miles outside the travel plaza.  Lights had been flashing on the dash.  My poor little Beetle stopped, miles from I-95 on the Florida turnpike.

Every bad thought ran through my mind.  In the two hours it took for roadside assistance to show up, I sat desolately on the ground.  Finally, Pepe convinced me to get back in the car, where I sulked, and he, starving (remember, no breakfast) ate Nutella out of the jar, with his tongue.

Looking sheepish

We started to see the humor in everything and sat back, watching The Middle on the iPad until the tow truck showed up.

Lightening up, despite the circumstances.

Deliverance, after hours in the suffocating and unairconditioned heat of southern Florida.

Sven the Pocket Squirrel

In lieu of studying during my two hour break last Thursday I ate with Sigma Tau Delta, talked with a friend, and chased a squirrel.  This small pitiful fellow laying in the sun next to Old Main.  Something was wrong.  As I approached, he threw a baleful glance my way.  As I drew closer, he stood and scurried off, slowly.  Around and around we went.  I would corner him, he would hiss.  I would follow (read chase) him, he would confuse me by circling a pot, or climbing the stairs.

I finally gave up.

After fifteen minutes, I finally gave up.  Class called.  Hours later, after finishing half of a rather horrific paper regarding duality, I walked up the pathway, bouncing a tennis ball nervously.  To my surprise, as I rounded the corner to Old Main, there he was.  My squirrel from before.  He hadn't moved.

I walked up to him.  He walked away.  Now though, he didn't have the energy to run, or climb the stairs.  I threw my jacket over him.  Terribly surprised, I picked up the little guy.

Equally shocked at the turn of events.

Squirrel slept in my coat the entire ride home.  He slept in a box in my closet all night.  He tried to escape in the morning.  Finally, he settled into life on the sun porch.  He had a water fall and a box and a towel and a t-shirt.  Still though, he wouldn't eat.  He was a sick puppy, with a face full of blood and snot.

Day One, or was it Two, ended with my father hand feeding the squirrel walnuts, which the latter quickly tried to bury into the bricks and towel for later.

Friday morning, squirrel became Sven the Pocket Squirrel, as he gleefully slept in my pocket.

The little guy loved it.

Sven slept all of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, before finally rallying yesterday morning.  He darted to and fro in the sun porch, ignoring the intrinsic property of glass' solidity, in favor of ramming it with his nose.  Recuperated, it was time for Sven to go.  He did, this morning.  We let him out at home, hoping that he will come back in to sleep.

At first, he ran right past the open glass door, darting behind a box and onto the dog bed.  He missed it again round two, but finally exited, slowly at first, then with building excitement.  He ran to the ferns.  He jumped up the steps to the pool.  Smelled a bush, stood on his back legs to look around, before finally beginning to dig up the strawberry patch.

Checking out...

Everyone is currently checked out.  Students and professors alike.  Instead of focusing on the horrors of The Painted Bird or adequately discussing multi-modal projects, all my attention is invested in thinking about the drive to Florida tomorrow.

It has parts.  From home to Columbia, from Columbia to I-95, from I-95 in South Carolina to Georgia, through Georgia, into Florida and I'm almost home.

I have the plan organized.  Yesterday, I went to Autozone to get fuses for my outlet that and a bulb for my headlight that has been out for weeks.  Then, I changed the fuse, something I'm rather proud of.  Later today, I need to go back and get oil, which I have no great amount of.  But this is logistics.

I woke up early this morning and decided to pack, discovering too late that morning packing doesn't work.  It was less of a packing experience, than an all out frenzy to grab every piece of clothing that smacked even the slightest of summer.  My new cutoffs, dresses, tank tops, a sarong.  My one bag quickly became two, this without including my yoga clothes.  This is unlike me, the person who went to Brazil for two weeks with only a carry on.  But I'm embracing it.

On the drive down, I'll listen to a book and to music, until it gets too hot to drive with my windows up, then I'll be left to my thoughts, which will most likely revolve around food.  I have all sorts of food adventures planned, from the authentic Italian restaurant in Orange Park to my oh-so-favorite Columbia in St. Augustine.  I really cannot wait.

The Italian place, where the espresso is thick and the chef sings opera in the kitchen.

Add to the normal excitement of going home my quick jaunt down to Miami, where I'll pick up the boyfriend and get to spend a day in South Beach, and the next dozen or so days are complete. 

A didgeridoo player on the streets of St. Augustine.