Forbidden Island

My recovery month has been pretty cool. I mean, side effects are that I'm moody. I second guess ordering a cheeseburger but never ice cream. "I feel bloated" is a catchphrase. I can't sit still, but I'm exhausted. Surprised to find that I actually like weeding. Hypothesize on the next training cycle, vacationing in Belize and always coffee. I've been biking a lot and sans crashing, though I'm sure that's imminent.

It's unnerving to get back into a running cycle; I did have a wonderful re-entry with Al & Nikki over the weekend, running in the nuts. After a muggy run last weekend Nikki made us apricot cinnamon rolls with honey goat cheese spread, which we cherished over coffees outside a cafe downtown.

Red & I bike to our eating adventures, which consumes me with a deeper, more glorious hunger, which makes the burgers, fries, rice bowls, beers all delightful. As is, the buzz on the bike on the trail on the way home.

 

The other day Red & I went to a Forbidden Island themed party on the San Juans. We stayed at the Juniper Lane Guest House, which was an incredible compound, where, at the feet of the estate lay a field in Ireland green, undulating into other fields. It all felt so natural, not imposing, as if we were, or I was, exactly where I should have been right then. The interior's decor was zippy and organic and relaxing. Blue bathroom tiles like a European bathhouse, skylights to stand beneath, urban, exotic bedding and pillows, a silver platter on a bedside table with a glass milk bottle of water and two glasses. 

Dressed in mid-century, sipping champagne from flutes in our room before leaving for the party; the invite of which held an old naval photograph, a poem about drifting and finding oneself finally happy, with dried starfish and shells.

With a hundred people dressed dapper, in fur, with canes, with caps & veils, tits abound, tattoos, gauges, leis, fire dancers, drag queens, men talking shop, talking roofs, pipes passing, servers in maid costume with silver platters of finger chicken, finger pretzel, finger deviled egg adorned in lavendar buds. The bar was open, beneath a straw roof, two men in suits serving mai tais (delightful), martinis (dirty), red, white and rosé. We perched the Ritz cracker and spray cheeze table, devouring squirted piles of cheddar and half eggs so the liquor would have something to dance with. 

Sat by the fire, feeding it. Ate a dinner of rice and meat and mac'n cheese. Watched the drag sing, fire dancers swirl balls of fire, light their nipples on fire, hula hoop fire. A vat of grease sat bubbling in a corner, where a husband/wife duo dipped balls of dough, frying donuts and dunking them in a bowl of powdered sugar. I followed the donut couple like a moth to light. After, we went back to the Juniper, to the "Green Tea" room and passed out. Sometime after 4 am we rounded our 50's things & spent the morning laughing, grabbing button-pressed coffees from the ferry which sent off across the blue to anacortes where we'd both be workers on the grind once more.