Is there nowhere on Earth you can escape Rod Stewart?

For the last five years or so the airports have had a new program to detain me at every possible opportunity. I’ve experienced seemingly every new development in airport security as it comes up. I was among the first to have my cuticle scissors confiscated, remove my shoes to have them carefully searched for hidden wiring, drink from my flask to prove it didn’t contain lighter fluid, have my computer dusted for chemicals, have my bra hand-searched for hidden explosives, remove my underwear for chemical testing, do the required gyrations to shake loose any wiring attached to my person. All that stuff that’s become a standard part of travel in the U.S.

Anyway, I’m happy to do it. I’d rather be delayed for fifteen minutes than face the gradual erosion of our belief in the basic goodness of humankind. Or, you know, death.

A few days ago, we flew through Dallas, where I learned of a new security development. It’s a machine that looks like an elevator compartment with glass doors in the front and back. When you’re one of the select few who gets to step inside, it blasts you with a series of air “puffs.” They’re supposed to blow chemicals off of you to see if you’ve been mucking around with nitroglycerin lately.

These “puffs,” are surprisingly forceful. When you’re not expecting them, it’s a little like being blasted with twelve mini fire hoses. Except, you know, creepier and more invasive.

Anyway, I passed. We’ve been in Argentina for a week or so. I’m on steak number 73.

I had to stay home and work this weekend, but Bryan and his sister worked at the Dalai Lama’s meeting with several religious scholars in San Francisco. I spent the morning writing, and walked over to meet them. The hotel lobby was filled with people in festive dress and a few long-haired guys in trance states. Bryan ushered me through security, and opened the ballroom door. And there, right in front of me, was the Dalai Lama. My life is weird.

One of the most surprising things about turning thirty is how my pulse no longer quickens when I pass an H& M. I feel like I need to fortify myself before entering, the very idea of it exhausts me.

The only way I can now face this store is with a Power Bar in my pocket, and a machete to clear a path through the racks of anemic hippy cotton. I wander from item to item, tilting my head at a blouse, trying to figure out how it fastens, or recoiling from the exact multi-tiered ruffle skirt that I wore in my Welcome to the Dollhouse days. I spend three hours there and emerge with a pair of earrings and a pressing sense of disquiet.

What went right:

-We woke up early, got dressed, and went outside.
-It was sunny and warm for the first time in ages, and the New York Times was on the stoop.
-We climbed in our little orange car, and drove for breakfast in the Mission.
-There was a metered parking spot right out front.
-We didn’t have to plug the meter, because it was Sunday.
-There was no wait for the table.
-The coffee came right away.
-There was melted cheese.
-In amongst all the grape jellies, there was one strawberry left.