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.