Snow coat / no coat

To anyone who's flat-broke and living on rice noodles and frozen peas, a few bucks feels like a windfall. A 20-dollar bill means groceries for a week (chips, salsa, accoutrements) and $50 is a very merry un-birthday with every bit as much cake, singing, adrenaline, and boxed wine. The relative nature of whatever happens to be my current status in life-- the role of perception-- is never more clear than when I'm suddenly bereft of things I once took for granted. These things are not always financial; right now, for instance, I'm plenty well-fed and have a safe-and-sound roof over my head, but countless times since my arrival in Anchorage I've been slapped in the face with the reality of life without access to a great number of things. The availability of authentic Mexican street food comes to mind, as does the availability of Indian cuisine, boba tea, hookah lounges, nightlife, daylight, rent-by-the-hour karaoke rooms, movie theaters, tapas bars, evidence that any building or dwelling or cultural feature existed prior to 1955*, and wildlife that doesn't thirst to harm me.

I bring this up because, of all the ways Alaska has shifted my perception and my expectations, none have been more drastic and brutal than the forcible readjustments I've received regarding climate.

I now know the True Meaning of Winter. I know it deep in the marrow of my bones since coming to Alaska.

And yet...

Last night, I walked outside for 5 minutes and did not need to zip up my winter coat. Droplets fell on my head. DROPLETS. Not flakes. Not ice pellets.

Today, I woke up, checked the weather, and saw a miraculous sight:

No filter.

Is this real life? I wondered, dazed by irrefutable evidence that I have a fighting chance at surviving the winter after all.

"Is this real life?" I texted Matt, along with the screen capture pictured above. There was only one way to find out. I ate breakfast, watched Friends (priorities, after all), and bundled up to face the brave new world. I cautiously, mindfully bundled less than I usually do and took my first tentative steps outside.

I was assaulted by spring.

The sky was bright blue-- but not cold blue, as it so often is, blue because there is no insulating cloud cover to keep the frigid breath of outer space from wafting down on the barren land. The sky was warm blue, brilliant with sunlight, radiating on the wet earth, on the melting snow, on the slickening, watery ice that now covered the streets and sidewalks. More maddening than the warm sunlight, though, was the smell. The air smelled vernal. It smelled of thaw and freshness and dirt and leaves. It made me feel wild to my core.

I used to think Los Angeles had a dry climate, coming, as I did, from Portland. It was positively tropical compared to Alaska. Here, every inhalation draws sharp, cold, scentless, bone-dry air into my nostrils and lungs; I've taken to dabbing coconut oil in my nostrils to combat nosebleeds, and I have an eternal rasp in the base of my throat. These nuisances have only exacerbated my seasonal depression, a condition I rarely experienced after moving to California but which I correctly assumed would worsen in the lightless winters of Alaska. I take it for what it is and I cling to my vitamin D and sunlamp.

When I stepped outside into the warm blue day and breathed deeply of the damp, earth-scented air today, I felt myself powering up like a solar cell. Over the course of my walk, my mood elevated more than it has in the whole time I've lived in Alaska; I felt stress and sadness fall away in layers as I picked my way gingerly over the impossibly slippery ground.

And I quickly found, to my surprise and delight, that the relatively light bundling I'd done was too much. The winter garb came off by layers in brisk intervals. Before long, I was hatless, gloveless, and coatless; my winter jacket was tied around my waist, leaving me plenty warm in just my long-sleeved fleecy shirt. Round-trip, the walk was almost 6 miles long, and my hands stayed warm throughout. I had my headphones on and listened to the whimsical rock 'n' roll of Jack White's Lazaretto, thinking fondly about the 6-mile walks I would take last year to this album, from Hollywood to Burbank, over the hill, under the oak trees, along Cahuenga and Barham, working up a sweat in my tank top with my hoodie tied around my waist. My life could not be more different now from what it was then. But I still love the adventure of going for a long walk with music in my headphones and seeing what my own two feet can accomplish.

Everywhere, I saw evidence that thaw was imminent and winter might in fact end. This bench was very nearly visible!

So was this car!

Enough snow had melted around the base of a blue spruce tree to reveal ACTUAL, LITERAL, REAL LIFE GREEN GRASS.

Not pictured: My ecstatic incredulity

I happened upon a tree whose branches were laden with fuzzy buds that looked like enlarged pussy willows. I squinted at them to block out the snow and pretended it was April in the woods of Oregon. I nuzzled my cheek against them and felt how velvety soft they were. I took a picture of a branch against blue sky and imagined spring.

As I walked down a sun-drenched street flooded with rivulets of snowmelt and shielded my eyes from the light reflecting off the glassy shine of the road, I reflected how 45º in Los Angeles feels like the bitter end of the world. In a balmy land of near-constant summer, temperatures in the 40s seem aggressively foreign and unknowable, like a dark abyss nobody has the courage to peer into. On the deepest winter nights when it's occasionally dropped to the low 40s in Los Angeles, I've shuddered and wailed in terror and dismay and cried, "I did not move to California for this!" In the land where now I dwell, with snowfall in May and routinely subzero winters, 45º has me shedding my coat and singing for joy.

The cold will clench its fist again before this long winter is over. The ground will freeze, the melting water will turn to treacherous ice, the blue sky will lose its warmth and once again become the death rattle of the universe breathing down on the wizened mountains. But now I know what is to come. I've smelled the earthy air and I've seen the matted grass and I've felt the fuzzy pussy willows against my cheek. I've walked outside in February without a coat, and I've lived to tell the mighty tale.

Come back if you must, winter. But I'm warning you-- I'm hip to your tricks now. And I'm losing my patience.

*(Alaska Native people and culture, have, of course, existed in the area from time immemorial, though historical Alaska Native villages and structures are not evident in Anchorage. On the basis of superficial aesthetics alone, Anchorage appears to have been conceived and constructed sometime between 1950 and 1980 by utilitarian-minded homebodies.)

Snow globed, not stirred.

You know how, when you shake a snow globe, it's charming and picturesque but really it's just a bunch of glittering confetti swirling all over the place and bears no resemblance to actual meteorological phenomena?

Today, I had to unlearn everything I know about snow globes.

The saving grace about this part of Alaska is that it is so infrequently windy. The lack of strong wind keeps the tree branches laden with snow weeks after a snowfall (which is beautiful), and also slows the rate at which I am (surely, most definitely, eventually) perishing of hypothermia. Sometimes, breezes blow around sunset (or, what would be recognizable as breezes were they 50º warmer), but strong gales I seldom see.

This morning, I heard a deep, swooping murmur outside my window. This window rests directly behind the head of my bed; it is the only one in my bedroom, and it is a window I fear and respect. This thin sliver of glass protects me, just barely, from the harsh and cruel Alaskan midwinter that rages ravenously outside the walls of this house like a churning sea lapping hungrily at the porthole of a rickety ship. I keep my drapes closed at all times, because if they are open even a crack, the ghost of winter slithers invisibly through the transparent glass and haunts me with chilly goosebumps. When I heard the sound this morning, it came to me without a picture. It sounded like a cloudburst. It sounded like the rumble of sudden rainfall as I often knew it in Portland, when the house sounds like it's bracing itself against the storm. I parted the drapes, peeked outside... and saw wind! Treetops were bouncing against each other as armfuls of snow were swooped off their branches. Gusts swept along the eaves of the house, sucking powder off the roof. The wind whisked the icy crystals into the air, and against the pure, thin winter sun, flurries of glittering confetti cartwheeled up and down and side-to-side in the frantic wind. The backyard looked exactly like a shaken snow globe.

Alaska continues to prove itself an alternate reality.

Last Sunday, I went for the first time to the Eagle River Nature Center. Before Sunday, I thought I had a pretty good grasp on "nature centers." Nature centers are pleasant but tame. Nature centers ask you to stay on the path and not harm the native flora. Nature centers are where non-outdoorsy types go to "hike."

Clearly, I had never been to a nature center in Alaska.

The Eagle River Nature Center has many paths that are maintained to various degrees. It contains a portion of the original Iditarod dogsled race trail. Its network of trails go through forest and meadow, through marsh and stream and hill and valley. Visitors are not required to stay on the trail. Visitors are not required to do much but survive, not be idiots, and not eat the berries when they're in season. Hell, there are yurts-for-rent by the river where signs essentially say, "You want firewood? Go gather it yourself in the woods." The Eagle River Nature Center is a vast, frolic-at-your-own-risk playground, and it's my new favorite place in the whole greater Anchorage area. Californians, picture Joshua Tree, but smaller and in Middle Earth. It's like that.

The drive TO the nature center is cartoonishly flawless enough...

...But then the view from the trail hits like a snow globe to the face.

Bam.

There are delicate birch and aspen branches, frosted with snow, forming a canopy over the trail.

There is a partially frozen river flowing intrepidly through a crystalline marshland; leaning over the boardwalk to stare into the glass-clear water at the river bottom, I saw hardy tufts of green, growing vegetation with fronds waving gently in the current of the arctic water.

I saw what was clearly a set piece for an elaborate production of The Nutcracker Ballet; I can't be expected to believe that this exists in nature.

Waltz of the Snowflakes

I found a new winter dwelling to live in with my godson.

It's feasible.

I saw a whole bunch of this.

And when I got back to the car, I saw a whole bunch of something I had hoped not to see for another 20 years:

No makeup, no mercy

My hair was shot through with shocks of frosty white! I got a glimpse of my future as I gazed at the silver hair framing my face. Actually, it looked pretty cool, and I'm glad to know that I'll make a scrumptious silver fox one day. (Can women be silver foxes? I aim to be one.) But I was glad to be back in the warm car, unthawing from my afternoon of once again surviving an encounter with the most beautiful killer of them all: Alaska.*

*James Bond is the second most beautiful killer of them all.

Trek Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself

There is a land so much more elaborate and mystical than Wal-Mart.

A land with a damn near decent gluten-free-foods section.

A land where hothouse peppers and tomatoes spring eternal.

A land more than 3 1/2 miles away from where I live-- in other words, a land only a true adventurer would have the gumption to walk to in the dead of winter.

This land is Fred-Meyer, and on Thursday, I journeyed by foot to this land.

The trek began under mysterious skies, as a low grey fog over the peaks hinted at snowflakes to come. I, bundled to the teeth (and beyond) and armed with cough drops and tissues against the sharp air my Los Angeles lungs and nostrils have not yet fully adjusted to, set off into the night (it was in fact midday, but still far darker than my Los Angeles eyes have yet adjusted to) seeking adventure.

My initial goal was somewhat more manageable. My initial goal was a little coffeehouse about 2 miles away from home, which would have been a 4-mile round-trip walk and a good little workout. To get there, I followed the footpath through the woods. I crossed a semi-frozen creek.

You're nailing this winter wonderland thing, Alaska.

I came out of the woods where the path rejoined civilization and soon was near the coffeehouse. I realized that I was still highly caffeinated from my morning latte (I may have mentioned that there is an ESPRESSO MACHINE in this house) and that I was still feeling rambunctious enough to keep walking. My phone's map informed me that in just 1.7 miles more, I would be at Freddy's. Did I need anything at Freddy's? NOPE! I needed a destination! And I realized that, if nothing else, I could check out the sweet chili sauce and kimchi situation, in case there is ever a kimchi fried rice emergency (highly likely). 

On the way to Fred Meyer, flakes began falling. I was delighted, until I passed a sight that threw my surreal life into harsh perspective:

I can't.

The snow fell on this icy kingdom as I peeked out over the top of my turtleneck (which was pulled up to cover my nose) and under the brim of my fleecy hat (which was pulled down low over my forehead) to see a nursery advertising LEMON TREES in the brightest colors it could muster.

Toto, I've a feeling I'm not in Hollywood anymore.

What is this land? What actually IS this land of Alaska?

In Fred Meyer, I slowly defrosted while I browsed. It turns out that the sweet chili sauce is far more pricey than I'm used to, and the kimchi "selection" is a jar of spicy and a jar of regular by the same brand. I really hope there are no kimchi fried rice emergencies in the near future, because I was too disheartened to buy supplies. You never know, though, when an emergency is going to strike. In the wise words of Winnie-the-Pooh, you never can tell with bees.

It's a good thing the Wal-Mart view is so breathtaking, because as you can see, the Fred Meyer parking lot view is boring as heck-- nothing but ridges of pine-covered foothills rolling up to a fog-shrouded, snowy peak. Lame. Lame like the rest of the scenery in this state.

Eh.

It had snowed a good deal by the time I got to the woodsy part of my walk home. 

It's Narnia.

And by the time I got home, I was tuckered out from having walked 7.5 miles in full snow gear. I barely left the house on Friday (it's possible I didn't leave the house at all). But on Saturday morning, I woke up to see that it had snowed through the night, and the backyard was blanketed with a whole bunch of raw crafting material. Well... I saw snow; Matt saw the picture I sent him and challenged me to sculpt an octopus rather than the customary snowman.

Do you all know about Matt? Matt lives in Los Angeles. He wears cool boots and has perfect hair and sings songs and plays a keyboard. He loves jalapeno kettle chips and he has one tattoo. Matt is my favorite boy and I used to have a lot of adventures with him when I also lived in Los Angeles.

Matt and me, having an adventure.

I accepted Matt's challenge and, without hesitation, got out of bed, bundled into snow clothes, and went to the backyard to build a SNOWPHALOPOD. It was hard work, because the snow was so fresh that it was basically dry powder. It would've been great for skiing; it was less great for sculpting, since it barely stuck together. Either a slightly wet snow that falls when the temperature is just below freezing, or a snow that has been sitting around for a few days and has seen a little sunshine, is best for making snowballs and snowfolk. I became so daunted as I tried to assemble the mantle and ocular area of my snowctopus that I nearly quit and resolved to try again after a few days. And yet... I managed to assemble a nice bulbous mantle and eye ridge. Surely I could power through and sculpt some legs?

It took me at least an hour, but by George, I finished my snow ceph and it looked fantastic.

Very proud of self.

I came inside to a fresh, warm latte and discussed cephalopods with the curious boys while they ate breakfast. Then I cleaned up my hard-workin' artist body so Melissa and I could go to Anchorage for brunch. I was very excited about brunch. Brunch to me means the same thing it does to all Los Angelenos: Endless mimosas. Mimosas for days. And, y'know, food.

The transformative snowfall had turned every branch of every tree into fairy-worked filigree, and the drive to downtown Anchorage left me breathless as the road wound through an endless forest of perfect white-lace sylvan beauty.

While Melissa and I waited for our table, I trotted across the street for my first clear view of Anchorage Harbor. What I saw instead was clearly identifiable as Blackwater Bay in the land of Westeros. The grey water stretched out before me in a great expanse that mirrored the soft grey blanket of clouds overhead, broken by a long band of sunlight low on the horizon, perfectly highlighting a misty, mystic chain of frosty mountain peaks looming like a mirage across the water. I don't mind living in an obviously made-up place-- "Alaska" is a fairytale told to the rest of America because they'd never believe the truth, that this is a fantasy fairy-kingdom whence sprung all the great folktales of wild lands and wilder beings-- but it's downright confusing to wake up in Middle Earth, journey through Narnia, and be in Westeros by brunchtime.

We brunched, we Costco'd, we grocery shopped, and, after dinner that night, Dan and Melissa and the boys and I made wishes on dried-out Christmas tree branches and threw them into the fire. I inhaled the earthy, smoky scent of the blaze, sat close to the hearth to warm my skin, drank deeply of pinot noir, and prayed my wishes would come true-- the voiced ones and the unvoiced ones. After the kids went to bed, my grown-up roommates brought out the massage table and the lavender oil. I ended the night with deep chuckles at "Monty Python Live (Mostly)" on the TV screen, 3/4 a bottle of red wine all to myself, a delightful back massage in front of the fire, and a bowl of fresh-grilled pineapple (cooked with butter and sugar in a dutch over over the embers) with vanilla ice cream. THAT, kids, is how you win at Saturday.

Yesterday, Sunday, I walked with Dan to take my "Welcome" sign down from the bridge so I can keep it. I mentioned that I was keen to visit the banks of the river for which this town is named. There was a way, Dan said-- a way I could come to know that very afternoon, if so inclined-- but he warned me that it would be quite the trek, and I would be so killed to death by the end that I'd need to cancel my workout plans for the next three days.

Of course, I couldn't wait. "Oh please, let's go!" I begged.

So Dan and I gathered the children, bade Melissa farewell, drove the boys to their Grandma's house, and began our hike. The sun was shining-- which meant that it was COLD. The absence of insulating clouds dropped the temperature to under 0º Fahrenheit. I was bundled to within an inch of my sanity; much more clothing and I wouldn't have been able to move. Still, ice crystals formed on my eyelashes and eyebrows and my breath formed frost on my neckwarmer. The payoff was the brilliant sunlight and water-blue sky crowning the snowy woods and mountains.

We finally reached the frozen river, where gashes in the ice showed where water still flowed and the faint trickling sound floated above the snow-muffled surface. 

We walked through the woods along the bank, passing animal tracks (jackrabbit, ermine, moose) and making our way through a thicket of branches until we came to the wide, flat, open place under the bridge, where the river ran in earnest and steam rose from its surface. Then we headed back toward our greatest challenge: A 40º pathless slope straight up a mountainside to get back to suburbia. I was already jelly-limbed and weak-legged from having hiked a couple miles in foot-deep snow by the time we got to the base of the wooded slope. It was so cold that the water bottle in Dan's pocket was rapidly freezing. My face was covered in frost. My gluteus was aching. My lungs were working overtime. But we had a mountain to conquer. So, using our gloved hands and snow-panted knees and booted feet, we crawled up the side of the hill, one trembling limb after another, pulling ourselves upward to the patch of sunlight that was so close and signaled home. I noticed dead birch trunks with fat round fungi growing on them. I noticed crimson berries decked in hoods of snow. I noticed how much pain I was in. Pausing only when necessary, we crawled ever upward. It couldn't have been more than 15 minutes before I was wheezing and pulling myself up over the lip of the hill, standing almost upright as I dashed as fast as my slowly liquefying legs would take me to Grandma Karen's backyard gate. I walked with Dan to the front door and, immediately upon entering the warm house, began shedding my myriad lumberjack layers. I felt more like a cephalopod made out of snow than the one I'd made the day before. I revived with a mug of hot chai; then we gathered the boys and all our clothes and headed back home.

Last night, I slept nearly 10 hours.

And today, I haven't so much as attempted to get a lick of exercise.

I am a champion!

Wal-Martial Law

On Monday night, I fulfilled a lifelong dream to encounter paramecia. Dan and Ian and I looked at old Christmas tree water with Ian's microscope, and it was teeming with quick-moving microorganisms I couldn't identify. While I gazed at the bustling slide, a lone paramecium smoothly waltzed right into my sightline, flaunting its curves, and then passed out of view. Then another did the same. And another. Ecstatic, I waited while the magnification was raised, then refocused and bided my time. I had to wait a while. I tapped the slide, trying to get an ideal paramecium-gazing pool in view. Finally, my patience was rewarded with several close-up, unobstructed paramecia minding their own business and just gliding on by! I could see their organelles clearly. Finally I decided to give my godson a turn with his own microscope and retired to my room in a giddy swoon.

Now then.

If in the course of existence you find that Wal-Mart has become the focal point of your daily living, it may be time to mindfully rethink certain aspects of your life. In my case, the centrality of Wal-Mart to my existence actually stemmed from mindfully rethinking certain aspects of my life. I was happy enough to live Wal-Mart-free in Los Angeles; making the heady (and headstrong?) decision to uproot and transplant has led me to a semi-civilized frontier land where the local Wal-Mart serves as a first line of defense, a last resort, an arbitrary destination, a faintly echoing call from the Lower 49, and a necessary oasis on the windswept arctic tundra.

It all started with my need to walk. On a practical level, I need to walk because Dan and Melissa work during the day and I don't have access to a car. On a deeper and more desperate level, I need to walk because I feel housebound and stir crazy if I don't walk, especially in this frigid place where the sheer ferocity of the natural world-- its deadly cold and its bloodthirsty fauna and the vastness of its largely unpeopled wilderness-- threatens to encroach on the house and terrorize me into staying locked in my room with all of the blankets forever. Cabin fever is not for me. Walking is for me. Exploring is for me. Unfortunately for me, the only viable destination within 3 miles, the only hub, the only place of human exchange, is Wal-Mart.

Granted, it is, as previously noted, the most ruggedly beautiful Wal-Mart ever crafted by the hand of man.

Yet Wal-Mart it remains. And being a Wal-Mart in Alaska, it has its... peculiarities.

This sign rests over one of the entrances:

So, there's that.

Wal-Mart has a program whereby bush pilots will fly supplies anywhere in Alaska. This is crucial, because bush planes are the ONLY way to reach most of this made-up state. (I'm becoming less and less certain that Alaska is a real, geographical place; it shows many signs of being a catch-all fantasy land of the Tolkien/Lewis/Le Guin/Martin variety.)

Perhaps the necessity of bush pilotage explains another feature of Alaskan Wal-Mart: The dismal lack of fresh green vegetables. To be fair, this may actually be a feature of Alaska in general, and maybe I should instead be impressed by the presence of ANY vegetable in a land where it's always winter and never Christmas.

Like Narnia.

But I hail from the land of Los Angeles, where tangerines and avocados straight up drop onto the ground from heavy-laden trees, and farmers' markets run year-round with bountiful produce grown under the radiance of the eternal California sun. The relatively limited supply of vegetables to be found in Eagle River, AK is one culture shock that will take time and struggle to adjust to. In the meantime, I find myself in scenarios like the one that played yesterday, as I desperately search the gravely limited produce shelf for signs of (recently ended, vegetal) life, spotting a stack of Napa cabbage and almost weeping tears of relief at the sight of the frilly green fronds and the word "Napa," picking up one of the giant bunches and cradling it against my snow coat as I walk around the store.

Now, the real question: What does the cashier make of my purchase of 1 eighteen-piece bunch of plastic hangers, 1 giant head of Napa cabbage, and 1 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sweatshirt from the Juniors' department?

The whole point of walking to Wal-Mart is walking. When I walk, I get exercise and bracing lungfuls of fresh mountain air. Unfortunately, Alaska is fairly hideous.

#underwhelmed

It offers so little in the way of visual stimuli.

Unless you're actually into this sort of thing.

Sometimes, of course, while walking to Wal-Mart, the sun shines dazzlingly upon every frost-covered surface, which is in fact every surface, creating an indescribable iridescent effect, and the little ice crystals suspended in the air that drift slowly down from the pure-blue sky are so illuminated that it looks like silver glitter is dancing on the breeze. In that moment, you remember incredulously that you were once content to live a life where glittering ice crystals didn't dance in the winter sun that peeked out from behind the Lonely Mountain in its wild and ancient majesty, and you thank your lucky stars in their Aurora Borealis-bedecked sky that you live in such a mysterious land.

But then, later that night, you're just trying to walk down the hall from your bedroom to the bathroom and you get inconvenienced by THIS totally lame sunset going on.

Oh please.

How rude.

The Call of the Wildlings

On Saturday morning, I was in the kitchen (with Dinah, strummin' on the ol' banjo... but that's a story for another time) with the roommates, looking out the window, when fluffy flakes started sprinkling from the sky. I was ecstatic to experience my first Alaskan snowfall and ran outside in my slippered feet to be snowed upon.

Here is a driveway with actual fresh snowflakes.

In the early afternoon, Melissa and the kids and I drove out to Fred Meyer for some grocery shopping. With a little trepidation, I checked the price of avocados and jalapenos and... was not as dismayed as I had feared I would be. Yes, they're a little pricier than the ones in California; yes, the selection is hilariously slim in comparison; but considering that this produce had to cross land and sea and another whole country to arrive in Alaska, I'd say Freddy's has done pretty damn well for itself. 

In the parking lot, I saw my first Alaska raven up close. This raven did nothing to dispel my theory that Alaska is in fact Westeros. I looked at this raven and instantly thought of Lola, a surly cat I know. This raven was roughly the size and shape of Lola. Lola is beautiful but she scares me a little, just like this raven did. Have you ever seen a cat-sized raven? I had not. If you have, you probably live in Alaska. The raven was mesmerizing and majestic but it could definitely take me in a cage fight (just like Lola).

Back at home, I went for a walk. Brisk walking has always been one of my favorite forms of exercise, and I can't get my fill of the dazzling and ferocious scenery in my neighborhood.

Look one direction and it's all Last of the Mohicans, where-is-Daniel-Day-Lewis?

Look another direction and it's all NIGHT GATHERS AND NOW MY WATCH BEGINS

I was listening to music while I walked around. Mostly I was listening to "Mandolin Rain" by Bruce Hornsby because it's soaring and majestic and heartbreakingly beautiful, just like the landscape, and sometimes you forget how much you love a song until you listen to it while watching the sun set over the wilderness.

Which is a sight I highly recommend, by the way.

For reasons.

In the evening, Melissa and I had an outing together, resplendent with Moscow mules in copper mugs and prosciutto-wrapped Alaskan black cod and two silent films backed by an orchestra. It was my first time in makeup since getting sick, my first drink since getting sick, my first seafood since getting to Alaska, and my first playdate alone with Melissa in years. It felt good, folks. Really good.

Know what else felt really good? Looking at
this noble salmon ice sculpture in the plaza
outside the performing arts center.

Yesterday morning, Melissa and I watched the episodes of Girl Meets World I've missed because of traveling while I made a massive pan of chilaquiles for the 3 grownups in this house. Chilaquiles are a happy food I used to make with Matt back home on lazy weekend mornings. Girl Meets World is a show I used to only watch with Matt. I missed Matt. I felt a little wistful for L.A. Luckily, Dan and Melissa and the boys had a surprise for me. We all got into snow clothes and went for a walk. A SURPRISE walk.

This is the sort of monstrously beautiful BS you can't avoid
seeing on any ol' stroll in Alaska.

We walked to a bridge. A pedestrian bridge over a highway. A bridge where tattered remnants of banners and signs littered the chain link. And on this bridge... Dan and Melissa hung a huge-ass banner they had made. It said WELCOME TO ALASKA NICHOLE. I was delighted! We walked down so I could see it from the front and get some pictures. Now it greets me on the drive from Anchorage to home. Spectacular. 

What can I say? I'm a boss.

Have I mentioned the out-of-control natural beauty around here? While we walked yesterday, the Alpine peaks, creamy white and frosty as storybook mountains, were butter-yellow and pink and blue from the colors of the setting sun, and a silken cloud hovered around the summits like steam. I tried to take pictures, but they gave a piss-poor representation of the scope and brilliance of what was actually going on.

Use your imagination.

In the evening, I used the steam wand on the espresso machine to make a cardamom-vanilla steamer that tasted so righteous it made angels cry and had foam so luxurious I knitted it into a cashmere sweater. I haven't lost my touch.

Today I went into Anchorage town. It was foggy and foreboding, which I loved, of course. I finally saw the ocean. It's the Pacific, just like the ocean in California. But it's a different animal. This ocean means business. This waterfront is lined with shipping containers and cranes and rocky piers and industrial docks, and the water is grey and choppy. It's like Long Beach with a Boston attitude. I want to get to know it better. The fog was too thick today; I'd have been a fool to wander alone along an unknown shore. The fog steadily dissipated on the late-afternoon drive back into Eagle River, settling into the valleys and leaving the frost-coated trees exposed. Have I mentioned that the scenery here does not bore me to death?

Guerilla pic of the hazy fog out the car window.

And on the way home, I passed a familiar sign.

Well I'll be!

Far over the misty mountains cold...

I live in Alaska now.

When I say "I live in Alaska," I mean that I don't not live in California anymore; the vast majority of my possessions, friends, roots, and spiritual ties still reside soundly in the Golden State. It feels surprisingly heartbreaking to say, "I don't live in California."

But I do live in Alaska. I reside here for the time being.

The journey through Middle Earth began last night, Thursday, January 15:

I should've known the flight would be a wild and wooly one from the moment I stood in the airport, inside, at my gate, where I should have been snuggly as a bug, with actual rain dripping on the precise location where I stood from a leak in the roof. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, I walk into the single leaking spot in PDX. I shook it off in every literal and metaphorical sense and took a PDX-carpet selfie-- possibly my last one ever, as I hear our tenderly loved green carpet, one I've known most my life, is about to be ripped up.

Farewell, carpet so noble and true.

At this point it's worth mentioning that I was sick as a dog that day. A certain young man who accompanied me on the drive from Los Angeles to Portland left on Tuesday morning to fly back to La-La Land, but he very kindly left behind a time-activated invisible germ 'splosion device that was set to go off in the middle of the Annie remake I was in the theater watching that Tuesday night in order to very deservedly punish me for viewing such a pointless film. (I think that's how these things work.) By Tuesday bedtime, I was feeling super ick, and the beast is still clinging to me. (I deserve this punishment; Annie was a terrible choice and I accept the consequences of my actions.)

So when, in the midst of the flight to Anchorage, the two intoxicated reprobates sitting across the aisle from me commenced to spew forth the loudest, crassest, most arrogant and offensive and self-congratulatory tripe I have ever had the poor luck to overhear on a flight (which is an insult to tripe, by the way; tripe is delicious when fried and eaten in a tripas taco), I was too emotionally and physically exhausted, and too fuzzy-headed, and too clouded with general malaise, to lean across and politely backhand them with well-aimed words. A flight attendant named Gene approached these odious individuals, reminded them that we were on a family-oriented flight and cautioned them that they would be escorted off the plane upon landing if they didn't simmer down. For the next half hour, the prize specimens proceeded to bitch about the fact that Gene had had the nerve to speak to them, using homophobic and sexist slurs intermixed with their general outpouring of tasteless words and frequent exclamations of, "I paid $500 for this ticket!" By the end of the flight, at least 2 other passengers had told them to knock it off, but I was too miserable with infirmity and dehydration and heartsickness to care about anything but getting off the plane.

My fortune improved almost immediately. Dan accosted me before I even got to baggage claim and thrust a thermos of hot ginger-lemon tea into my hands. He strong-armed my bags (3/4 of which were overweight, one of them by 34 lbs because of vinyl records) and led me to the parking lot. On the way I found some arctic taxidermies. There was a snow fox, a quizzical-looking mountain goat, a bear, and some yaktivity.

Technically, it's a musk ox.

In the parking lot, the first thing I noticed was the film of dust and salt caking most of the cars. It's a sight I haven't seen much of since I lived on the East Coast, but it was familiar. The unfamiliar stuff started happening pretty rapidly. Dan forced my giant luggage into his tiny car and drove me to my new home with him and Melissa, about half an hour away in Eagle River. Diamond signs of the "Deer Crossing" variety lined the highway, but these had pictures of moose. Dan explained that the long fence containing the giant military base has moose gates-- similar in structure to crab traps, allowing moose to pass through without getting stuck on the highway. To my right, I could see the pale, faintly glowing outlines of snowy mountain peaks in the dark. I got to my new home around 2 a.m. and was greeted by my smiling sweet Melissa and my cozy new room.

And today, I went exploring.

The first order of business was to seek bacon. Once bacon had been secured (along with a latte; there is an ESPRESSO MACHINE WITH A STEAMING WAND IN THIS HOUSE, PEOPLE), I set about unpacking my stuff and making some headway in setting up my room: Almost Famous screenprinted poster from that night in Hollywood Forever Cemetery when Cameron Crowe introduced the film and I sat on a blanket in the grass with my friends, drinking champagne in the dusk and watching one of my favorite films projected onto the wall of my beloved Rudolph Valentino's mausoleum; Mrs. Carter Show World Tour poster of Queen Bey from the concert I went to with kid sister in 2013; photograph of Sophia and Sis and me from 20 years ago; heartthrob-style pull-out poster from the boy's last album with the ocean and some piano keys and his hair.

Then it was time to wiggle into some new snow clothes that milady Melissa had gathered for me. These included a pair of purple snow boots, and a pair of fleece-lined socks. The feeling of these socks is indescribable. However good you think they feel, picture that but with the addition of kittens gently rubbing their fluffy bodies on your feet. That's how they feel.

Very little face showing due to presence of illness and absence of makeup.

I'm still sick, so I couldn't do much rugged exploration. But I did walk half a mile to Wal-Mart. Have you ever seen a ruggedly beautiful Wal-Mart? I'm here to tell you that I have:

Never before have I lived in a place where, if someone came to visit, I'd immediately say, "Want to see something really beautiful?" and take them to Wal-Mart. Yet here is another shot of the same Wal-Mart parking lot:

I rest my case.

Did I mention that I basically live in Westeros/Middle Earth? This is my neighborhood, NBD:

Not the kind of Smaug alert we get in Los Angeles.

 I spent this evening sledding with my godsons on a big snow heap as the day turned (very early) to twilight and the ring of white peaks opposite the Lonely Mountain were thrown into milky relief against the darkening periwinkle sky while a copse of birches silhouetted the sunset.

Now Melissa is making this homesick Californian some real, authentic carnitas tacos for her first dinner in Alaska. Not a shabby first day in a new place, kids. Not shabby at all.