A Shot in the Arm

After a several-day stay at Chez Moseman, Kris Kolden is driving back home through the immovable mental block that is I-80 Iowa. I do not envy him this task. Aside from the sheer drudgery, there's also the setting sun searing in your eyes for the last hour or two.

We had fun. He came up for the wedding of an old friend who also happens to live in this idyllic little lakeside city. It has been a rarity in the last year of my life to talk for hours over wine and snobbish dinner or beers on the porch. It was a welcome re-encounter. For the sake of my liver and my sleep schedule, however, it is a right and good and proper thing that Kris and I do not live in the same town. That allows for periodic revelry, such as us tearing up Madison Friday not, and also for lots of recovery time. For two nights of no-nonsense drinking, I was not hungover at all. I credit this to cycling.

Best moment, of a weekend of good moments: eating deliciousness at Kabul, the Afghan and Mediterranean State Street restaurant, our server was a very Scandinavian girl named Olga. Bizarre. And adorable. When she smiled and said "vegetarian struuuudel," we both melted.

Now I hang out for two more days of work, and then...move. There will be weddings and hours and hours on the road and old friend time crammed into too little time. And then I have to get serious. I believe I can. I mean, I'm listening to "Summerteeth" for the first time in ages. It was a visit very much needed.