Clarence on Vacay: Ajaccio, Corsica

We’re back!  Our vacation was kind of beyond decadent and awesome.  We ate ourselves stupid, saw lots of amazing stuff, and got along rather famously. Let’s be honest here: B and I are a new couple. I think both of us thoughts of this trip as a bit of a litmus test of our relationship. We totally passed with flying colors. By the end of the trip we had an arsenal of inside jokes that I suspect couples who have been together for years would envy. I can safely say I like him even better than when we left, which I didn’t even think was possible. For your benefit, he patiently photographed his food and spent hours carefully recapping our meals in his perfect script in my food log when I got too lazy and bloated to do so. I’ve been a bit lax about blogging about our trip because of this heat wave (which I’m sure all you Americans have been experiencing in much more stark terms than I have, so I’ll shut up about it pretty soon). B bought me a oscillating fan, filled a bucket of ice water for my feet, and told me to get my ass to work. So thanks, B! You’re the best, really.

Starting from the beginning, let’s just say that nothing gets me hotter than packing for a vacation.  There’s something creating this perfect object-world in which all my clothes match and all of my cosmetics can be housed in identical, 100-milliliter Muji containers that makes me feel as though entropy can be staved off after all. I was especially obsessive about packing for this trip because I was bound and determined to conform to easyJet’s barbaric carry-on policy of one bag – not one suitcase and a “personal item” (a semantic evasion that I take considerable liberty with when flying) – just one bag. I “mock packed” several times in the week before we left, much to the bemusement of both B and our friend BC, who seemed especially horrified by this particular OCD flare-up. But B is a sucker for saving money, so he seemed pretty pleased when we waltzed through security without having to pay an extra fifty euro to check our bags. While I do think we packed really well, this does mean that we were both sporting some pretty smelly threads by the end of our two week trip.

I had grand plans that of getting a good night’s sleep before our flight, but that was thrown out the window when I noticed that Raidd Bar had erected a giant soundsystem and rack of spotlights, strobelights, and confetti-expelling machines on the street by mid-afternoon the day before we left.  I gradually realized that it was Fête de la Musique, a day in Paris where music is played outside everywhere. While this originally meant that there would be various kinds of pleasant folk music played in the streets, Raidd Bar has apparently turned it into an annual, pre-Pride street block party extravaganza.  By 8 p.m. or so the street beneath my apartment looked like this:

The Live Hot Shower Show dancers were given truckbeds to flaunt their exceptionally well-honed bodies and ass-jiggling skills.  My favorite dancers were these guys, who rhythmically faux-fucked the windshield of the truck for the better part of the evening:

I witnessed this collective hedonistic outbreak with BC, with whom I had gone to dinner and retreated to my place when we realized that the best view would be from my living room windows. I realized that it was a pretty great party when the entire Marais began to sing along to Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance and I looked over and saw anti-establishment, South-Dakota raised, no-pop-culture-nonsense BC hitting the chorus at the top of his lungs. B arrived after fighting his way through the crowd for nearly an hour, and the three of us got drunk and threw several hundred paper cranes that I had compulsively made in the past six months into the crowd.  It was a pretty amazing night, and I’m now convinced that for better or worse, I live across the street from the most happening bar in Paris.  Or at least the one that can throw the best party.

Exhausted after only a few hours sleep (let’s just say that nobody wanted the party to end on my block that night), we arrived in Ajaccio after an exceptionally unstressful flight from Paris. We only spent 24 hours there, but we managed to cram in lots–a pretty comprehensive survey of Corsican cuisine. We passed the first travel-compatibility test admirably when we both took one look at the long line of hot and haggard tourists waiting outside of the Napoleon Bonaparte’s house of birth, shook our heads, and decided to get lunch instead.  The destination:  U Stazzu (1 rue Bonaparte), a shop that sells award-winning charcuterie, cheese, and other Corsican delights.  Here is a furtively shot picture of their vaguely cavernous interior:

I was particularly excited about the Lalique Prize-winning sausages produced by A Bucugnanesa, a charcutier that distributes their products exclusively through U Stazzu.  This is the real deal, people.  A Bucugnanesa has been raising pigs locally for five generations.  Their heirloom hogs (is there such a thing?) are born and romp through their short lives in the high mountain forests of Corsica, eating chestnuts and acorns.  At the ripe young age of 25 months, they are dispatched and transformés into a variety of amazing dry sausages, all of which are aged in natural rock caves.

After sampling their glorious products, all of which were explained by a very helpful saleswoman, we purchased a smallish salamu (6€) and a round of Bastelicaccia cheese (12€), a slightly sharp, slightly crumbly, altogether perfect sheep’s milk cheese.  Next stop was Boulangerie Galeani (3 rue du Cardinal Fesch), a four-generation old artisinal bread and pastry shop that specializes in Corsican baked goods (more to come on that subject). We picked up a baguette and made a mental note to return there for breakfast the next day.  A quick dash into a souvenir shop for a pocket-knife adorned with the Moor’s head that is the symbol of Corsica and we were ready to sit on the sea wall and eat our feast.  B proved himself to be an able knife-wielder:

It doesn’t look like much in that shot, but oh man was it good.  As a first meal went, it was a wonderful introduction to Corsican food, which as far as I can tell runs rather under the radar in the United States.  Sated and tired from our trip, we hit the beach underneath the citadel. I got a taste of how delightfully New Wave and louche he looks while sunning himself in black Wayfarers, cigarette in hand.

After a lazy afternoon, we wandered over to the Le Grandval (2 cours Grandval), a great little bar mostly populated by locals. The owner appears to be a kind of unofficial historian of Ajaccio and his collection of vintage photographs of the town make for an interesting browse.  Even better:  our first taste of Corsican beer for our first aperitif on our trip:

Pietra is a chestnut-tinged, medium brown ale.  It’s not just drinkable in the “Oh, hey, we happen to be in this place and this is their local beer, isn’t that fun?!” kind of way.  It’s drinkable in an “Oh man, this is really good!  Do they import this outside of Corsica?” kind of way.  I’ve since seen it in Paris, so you Frenchies can get your fix. I don’t know if they import it to the States, but you ‘mericans should really look for it with at your local booze megastore (god, I miss those places). Pair it with some dry salami and some olives and you’ve got yourself one hell of a way to while away the early evening.

We then headed to the much-lauded (and rightfully so) U Pampasgiolu (15 rue de la Porta).  The name means “The Poppy” in Corsican, a language that made my Indo-European-languages-obsessed boyfriend scratch his head in etymological bewilderment with every sign.  It’s a great stop if you are unfamiliar with Corsican cuisine, as the specialty of the house are these huge tasting platters that allow you to sample lots of different dishes in small portions.

B took advantage of Corisca’s great reputation for seafood and ordered the planche de la mer in an effort to scratch a deep culinary itch he’d been having for a while. His meal contained–among other things–a rouget cooked in a creamy fennel sauce, stockfish cooked in a highly acidic balsamic-vinegar sauce, a swordfish carpaccio, and a seafood soup that made him make a series of rather inappropriate but rapturous noises. I had the planche spuntinu, which was comprised of old-school Corsican classic dishes. Despite the killer fishing off of Corsica’s coasts, just a few generations ago the perpetually-invaded and beleaguered Corsicans (like the Sardinians) were forced to live inland for safety. This means that classic Corsican cuisine is mostly pork, lamb, and sheep-based.  The Planche spuntinu had a classic meat-stock soup, a veal daube served with creamy polenta, eggplant à la bonifacciène (basically a hybrid of ratatouille and eggplant parmesan, but better), a selection of charcuterie (including Corsican lonzu, a dreamy salted and cured filet of pork), a Tomme Corse with local fig jam, and a slice of savory tart with Brocciu and wild mint.

What, may you ask is Brocciu? Only the best thing ever. Brocciu is the national cheese of Corsica and was kind of a religious discovery for me.  I guess you could liken it to ricotta, though it’s so much more delicious and versatile I’m rather loathe to make that comparison. It’s made from the whey of goat milk, and is available from December to June (the season in which goats are lactating). Serving or selling fake Brocciu is a serious offense in Corsica and can result in your restaurant or shop being shut down. I’d actually go so far as to say that you shouldn’t visit Corsica any other time of year than during Broucciu season. It’s that good and they put it in everything. After our huge meal at U Pampasgiolu, we wandered to a small gelato shop and ate Brocciu ice cream. The following morning, we went back to Boulangerie Galeani for the best breakfast ever:  beignets de Brocciu (tender doughnut holes pumped full of melted creamy cheese and rolled in sugar).

Some of our favorite lunches while we were hiking and traveling in Corsica consisted of bastelle filled with Brocciu, spinach, and wild mint.  Think of this as my Ur-Hot Pocket:

One such hike brought us to Pointe de la Parata and the Îles Sanguinaires.  The view the islands from this Genoese tower was probably one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen:

Next stop:  the doldrums of inland Corsica!

An appeal to the hivemind and a parting nod

Tomorrow B and I leave for a few weeks to visit Corsica, Sardinia, and Sicily. As we lead an incredibly stressful life here in Paris, we are both looking foward to this much-needed vacation. Obviously I’m joking about our respective stress levels, but we are pretty excited for a change of scenery. I’m a bit of a beach junkie, so the idea of sunning on white sand beaches and hiking to swimming grottos has me pretty psyched. We both will also get to indulge our inner geeks — B will be able to survey some serious Etruscan, Greek, Roman, and Phonecian ruins and I’ll be able to see a lot of the towns that ole David Herbert spent time in during his travels. We’re also planning to eat ourselves stupid and have been spending most of our time reading aloud to one another about various regional organ meats that we can’t wait to try. I’ll promise to take tons of pictures and post the yummiest ones here when I return.

So here is my appeal to the hivemind:  If you happen to have visited Ajaccio, Sartène, or Bonifaccio in Corsica; Oliena, Bosa, or Cagliari in Sardinia; or Palermo, Cefalù, Catania, or Taormina in Sicily and have any recommendations (especially food-related ones), would you mind posting them in the comments? Must-eats? Must-sees? We’re two adventurous eaters, eager museum-goers, and wouldn’t mind a serious hike if it yielded us a serious beach. Thanks in advance for any ideas!

I won’t have my computer with me and I suspect that Italian internet cafes are still as expensive as I remember, so it’s going to be lights out around here at Keeping the Bear Garden in the Background for the next few weeks. As a parting gift, let me leave you with David Herbert’s impressions of Mount Etna, which B and I intend to climb (!) on our final day.  That is, if we haven’t eaten ourselves immobile.

Why can’t one sit still?  Here in Sicily it is so pleasant: the sunny Ionian sea, the changing jewel of Calabria, like a fire-opal moved in the light; Italy and the panorama of Christmas clouds, night with the dog-star laying a long, luminous gleam across the sea, as if bayaing at us, Orion marching above; how the dog-star Sirius looks at one, looks at one!  he is the hound of heaven, green, glamorous and fierce!–and then o regal evening-star, hung westward flaring over the jagged dark precipices of tall Sicily: then Etna, that wicked witch, resting he thick white snow under heaven, and slowly, slowing rolling her orange-colored smoke.  They called her the Pillar of Heaven, the Greeks. It seems wrong at first, for she trails up in a long, magical, flexible line from the sea’s edge to her blunt cone, and does not seem tall. She seems rather low, under heaven. But as one knows her beter, oh awe and wizardry! Remote under heaven, aloof, so near, yet never with us. The painters try to paint her, and the photographers to photograph her, in vain. Because why? Because the near ridges, with their olives and white houses, these are with us. Because the river-bed, and Naxos under the lemon groves, Greek Naxos deep under dark-leaved, many-fruited lemon groves, Etna’s skirts and skirt-bottoms, these are still our world, our own world. Even the high villages among the oaks, on Etna.  But Etna herself, Etna of the snow and secret changing winds, she is beyond a crystal wall. When I look at her, low, white, witch-like under heaven, slowly rolling her orange smoke and giving sometimes a breath of rose-red flame, then I must look away from earth, into the ether, into the low empyrean.  And there, in that remote region, Etna is alone. If youwould see her, you must slowly take your eyes from the world and go a naked seer to the strange chamber of the empyrean. Pedestal of heaven! The Greeks had a sense of the magic truth of things. Thank goodness one still knows enough about them to find one’s kinship at last. There are so many photographs, there as so infinitely many water-colour drawings and oil-paintings which purport to render Etna. But pedestal of heaven! You must cross the invisible border. Between the foreground, which is our own, and Etna, pivot of winds in the lower heaven, there is a dividing line. You must change your state of mind. A metempsychosis. It is no use thinking you can see and behold Etna and the foreground both at once. Never. One or the other. Foreground and a transcribed Etna. Or Etna, pedestal of heaven.

Why then must go? Why not stay? Ah what a mistress, this Etna! with her strange winds prowling round her like Circe’s panthers, some black, some white. With her strange, remote communications, and her terrible dynamic exhalations. She makes men mad. Such terrible vibrations of wicked and beautiful electricity she throws about her, like a deadly net! Nay sometimes, verily, on can feel a new current of her demon magnetism seize one’s living tissue, and change the peaceful lie of one’s active cells.  She makes a storm in the living plasm, and a new adjustment. And sometimes it is like madness.

– Sea and Sardinia, 1921

Sounds like quite the drug, and I can’t wait to experience it.  I’ll catch you, dearest reader, on the flip side. In the meantime, I hope that wherever you are, you are enjoying these long summer nights.

To one swell guy

I don’t know if you’ve met my dad, but if you haven’t you really ought to.  He’s one fantastic dude.  I’m actually one of those kids who suffered because her parents were a little bit too cool, rendering me a stick-up-the-ass teetotaler in my teens and early twenties.  After all, I figured that the only way to rebel when faced with too cool parents is to be a square.  Fortunately I got over that phase and realized that my dad isn’t just somebody who is all the things a great father ought to be, he’s also all the things that a great friend ought to be.  And that’s a trickier balance than you might expect.

I was a lucky kid in that I got to spend a lot of time with my dad growing up.  While I occasionally referred to him as a “fun fascist” because of all of the activities—skiing, snowboarding, camping, mountain biking, hiking, windsurfing—that filled our family weekends and vacations, I’m now grateful that he instilled in me that being active and spending time outside will do wonders for one’s outlook on life. My dad was also pretty devoted to reading to me when I was a kid and he spent many long hours every night reading aloud stacks and stacks of books to me. I know that not everybody is fortunate enough to have a lot of quality time with both their parents—especially when both of them work—and I feel really blessed to have had the kind of childhood that I did.

As an adult, I’ve come to discover that my father is a really tender, non-judgmental  listener and dispenser of good advice.  I’ve come to rely more and more on his wisdom in recent years. My father hasn’t led a very traditional life – his decisions have more often prioritized living to the fullest in the present moment. Perhaps on account of this he doesn’t always resemble other men of his age or generation.  He also often seems to be one of the happiest and sanest people I know, so maybe we should all take a lesson from him.  I deeply admire his enthusiasm for even the smallest things in life, his voracious appetite for all things fascinating and new, and his tremendous capacity for generosity, both with the people he loves and complete strangers. He’s also hands-down the most fun guy you’ll ever meet and I doubt anybody that knows him would argue otherwise. His vigor and kindness are contagious and I know that the corners of the world that he inhabits are much the better for his presence.

So here’s a rather sappy shout-out to my dad – I miss you today and sure wish we could be spending it together.  Happy Father’s Day!

The muttering retreats

Before I start complaining, here’s a treat:

M. Starik has put up some great new work from her trip to Rome!  I suggest you check it out, preferrably while sipping a nice cup of coffee this afternoon.

* * *

So it’s starting to look less and less likely that I’ll be able to afford a trip back to the US this summer. I’m still hoping that the cost of flights will go down a bit when the airlines realize that charging people obscene amounts of money is unlikely to be a good strategy for recuperating their volcano-related losses. I’m sad I won’t get to see my parents and friends for a while, and I’m especially sad to be missing the wedding of some people who are exceptionally dear to me. But fifteen hundred dollars for a plane ticket is highway fucking robbery.

Moreover, I’ve been getting a little edgy with Paris for the past few weeks. The brusqueness of the city has been getting to me. I’m tired of being run into on the street or in the market, apologizing like any normal human being, and being stared down like I’m some mal élevé punk. Today at Monoprix a guy swung around suddenly and slammed his shopping basket directly into my babymaker (sorry for that) and I winced slightly. “Pardon!” he barked angrily, as if it was I who had suddenly changed vector and injured someone in the process.

In another tale of Francophone frustration, all of the loose change under my bed amounted large jars of one, two, and five centimes (as well as a handful of pennies and some krone). Like any normal American, B wanted to sort the change, take it to the bank, and exchange it for cash. I laughed aloud and said that there was no way in hell you could do that at a French bank. He scoffed at me, carefully sorted and counted the change, and then left to prove me wrong (hoping to end up thirteen euro or so richer for his trouble). Poor guy. Apparently the people at my bank looked at him like he was raised in a barn when he came through the door with some jars of change. Not only did they refuse to give him any coin sleeves to sort the change, they claimed that they have no cash on the premises (coin or paper). At a bank. Not a 7-11. At a financial institution where people store their money with the idea that they will someday probably want to have access to it. B, daunted but not broken, visited three other banks with similar accounts of their incomprehensible place within the socius. One teller suggested B visit a currency exchange bureau, which still fill the streets of Paris despite the fact that nobody uses traveler’s checks or carries cash anymore as most people rely on ATMs to obtain foreign currency while traveling. B quickly discovered that these places are now just havens for pickpockets, who were blithely unloading wallets filled with diverse currencies on the counter of the bureau. Will a currency exchange bureau happily exchange piles of obviously stolen currency? Yes, yes they will. Will a currency exchange bureau exchange coin for cash, even for a fee? No, no they will not. Do said currency exchange places own change sorting machines? Yes, yes they do. Is France an entirely nonsensical country? You be the judge. B returned to my house two hours later, chagrined. I suggested that since it wasn’t really our money in the first place, we should just give it to a homeless person. Frayed to his last nerve, B said tartly, “Nice.  Now where exactly do you think that homeless guy would take it to turn it into cash?”

* * *

I finally kinda lost it today when we were running errands and decided that it would be nice to pick up a rotisserie chicken for lunch on the way back to my apartment. We walked right by the rotisserie place and the guy was out front with a dozen or so chickens and those yummy potatoes that they make in the drippings. As we had some other errands to run, we decided to swing by when we were done. A mere half hour later when we arrived back at the rotisserie place, we found it shuttered.  At 1:30 p.m. On a weekday. Upon further inspection, we read that the store was closed everyday for lunch from 1-4 p.m. Because of course one needs to take a three hour lunch every day. Of course.

Look, I’m not the person who is going to knock how the French do things. I get it – these are just basic cultural differences. Frankly I don’t always love how nicey-nice Americans are to strangers, or how the ridiculous lengths to which American service industry goes to because “the customer is always right,” or that a lot of people I know in the States take fifteen minute lunches and scarf their sandwiches at their desks. But sometimes being here makes me just feel achingly, frustratingly American.

* * *

Finally, we’ve been rewatching Arrested Development the past few weeks (even better than I remembered, BTW) and the streaming video site we are using has been doing these completely brutal Chipotle banner ads.  By “completely brutal,” I mean that they make me want a Chipotle burrito so bad that I actually hurt with frustration. B shares my despair that the closest we might be to American-style Mexican food of any iteration this summer might be Dolores in Berlin, so we both moan loudly whenever the banner ads come up. We’ve been fantasizing like jackasses about how awesome it would be to go to a generic American suburban shopping center for an afternoon to go to Target and eat at Chipotle.  Seriously, if I went into a Target right now my brain would probably explode from consumer glee.  Perhaps it’s better that I stay away for a while. Go eat some Mexican food for me.  Better yet, send me some refried beans or pickled jalapeños and and I’ll send you something delicious from France.

Spring cleaning

Me:  Yes!

B:  Whatcha doing in there?

Me:  I just found the nozzle attachment for the vacuum cleaner!

B:  Awesome.

Me:  No, really!  Now I can clean the vacuum cleaner with, well, itself.

B:  Oooh!  Does it become self-aware when you do that?

Me:  I’m not sure, but it does start to make a sound like a crying infant.

* * *

Honestly, this already bodes to be the most boring, self-indulgent post I’ve ever put up on my blog.  I’ve alluded here before to the pure, unadulterated bliss that cleaning and organizing tends to bring me.  I was raised by a closeted clean freak who came from a family of flat-out OCD nutjobs, so it isn’t surprising really that these personality traits have become more pronounced as I’ve gotten older.  My extended family’s OCD tends to lend itself to compulsive home cleaning and extreme paranoia about the cleanliness of public spaces. I have an uncle who won’t eat in a restaurant unless he has personally inspected the kitchen. I have an aunt whom I’ve never seen touch a single surface in a public restroom without a tissue in her hand.  These are harder things to accomplish than you might think.  I’ve generally veered more toward the organizational, “isn’t it just so much nicer if everything is at a right angle?” brand of OCD, the kind that always annuls my desire to have a sort of  casually off-kilter, bohemian-looking home and personal aesthetic.  I don’t really do casually off-kilter.  I like straight lines, matching, and a-place-for-everything-everything-in-its-place.  My apartment in California was a OCD dream – it was brand new when I moved in, so in my demented head, that meant that all the super-stressful things like dust and hair were somewhat less stressful because I could mentally trace them in origin to my own body or the bodies of the people I knew. As I lived alone and thought I would be in California indefinitely, I let my organizational fantasies run wild.  While I consciously understand that the Container Store and Real Simple Magazine are designed to prey on people who are overwhelmed by their crap by convincing them that what they need to do is buy more crap to organize the crap they already have, on a more primitive level I find the container-for-everything strategy to be a profound ontological relief.  I literally feel a sense of warm serenity when I enter the Container Store.  Real Simple, with it’s wooden prose and strategies for how to deal with your mismatched paperclips is probably my favorite magazine.  It’s sick, and I know it, and I’m working on it.

Nothing is better for such recovery than moving into a 400-year old apartment filled with 20 years worth of other people’s trash, mid-renovation.  In lieu of the carefully constructed object world that I built for myself in California, here I arrived to a pile of junk covered in three inches of construction dust.  Ah, the joy of renting furnished apartments!  You get the pleasure of trying to live with all the shit that your landlords and previous tenants held up, examined closely, and said, “Nah, this is awful.  Let’s just leave this here for the next guy.” When I arrived in France I was so exhausted and grossed out by the mess that I sorted out what things I thought I would actually need in the apartment, and then shoved everything else under the bed.  I hadn’t yet found the vacuum cleaner or any cleaning supplies, so I told myself that I would get to it eventually after the dust had settled.

Somehow nine months passed and I never even thought about what was going on under the bed until recently when I started sneezing all the time and suddenly had some kind of spider bites all over my body.  I’m not sounding like a real true blue clean freak here anymore, am I?  The thing about these kinds of neuroses, though, is that they are always somewhat incoherent.  I had an ex-boyfriend who was loathe attend potlucks because he couldn’t handle the idea of eating food prepared in the home of someone who he didn’t know, as he couldn’t vouch for the cleanliness of their kitchen and preparation methods.  But he positively lived for these pre-prepared burritos that are sold out of coolers by enterprising guys outside the bars late at night in Denver (they are usually excellent).  When I pointed out to my ex that he also had no idea what the kitchens and preparation methods of these burrito guys were, he shrugged and said it didn’t really bother him.  In the same vein, the growing ecological hazard that has been brewing under my bed the past nine months didn’t really bother me.

Until yesterday, when I tried to extricate a suitcase from the rubble and nearly developed asthma from the dustcloud that erupted in my bedroom.  I was on the way out of my apartment to see Uccellacci e uccellini (I’m knocking down my Pasolini checklist like a pro this week) and suddenly decided that I had to clean out the mess, right then, or entropy would take over completely and all would be lost.  B arrived at my apartment to pick me up and found my apartment transformed by heaps of dusty crap – non-functional telephones, chipped dishware, a set of moldering decorative wooden spoons, huge jars of loose change, a single rotten slipper, two broken radiators, and a John Wayne coffee cup that appeared to have been stored with a half inch or so of coffee in it.  I was mid-panic attack when he located me in all the dreck, short of breath and mumbling about how impossible things had suddenly become. He picked some dust bunnies out of my hair and insisted we go to meet our friend The Londoner for the movie, as we were already going to be late. But I was so stressed out about leaving the mess that by the time we arrived at Notre Dame I was in a full-fledged panic attack and had to sit down and hyperventilate between my legs, heartbroken, yet again, about entropy.

To B’s credit, he didn’t run immediately for the hills, but instead comforted me and promised to help me clean when we returned back to my apartment that night.  And clean we did, hauling everything down to the street for the most efficient recycling program known to man, a.k.a. letting bums haul off all your unwanted crap.  After a few hours I was finally able to vacuum my entire bedroom for the first time in nine months. I fell into a blissful sleep as if something had been internally righted.

Today I get to indulge the unfettered joy of sorting all that change. It’s the little things.