I deliberate whether to write about today or should I just document it somewhere else. I have decided to post in the sound confidence of mutual friends, and in this case, fellow SitDiary members. Hear me out. I have been packing for Seattle and tying up loose ends since December 20th. I am ready to zip up my suitcase! Dad confirmed the flight with USAir tonight, coaching me through buffer times, security checks, etc. Apparently the entire dynamics of airtravel has changed since 9/11. Red heads get tagged for extra security more often? Or so Jowers tells me. He's also six feet tall, purrs at random strangers, and likes to wear a doo-rag in public. I picked up the phone around 1:13, it's Greg and he wants to get together. So of course, I oblige. I have not seen his face nor heard his voice since a chance rendez-vous at Atlanta Bread Co. last year, exactly. Astonishing? Yes sir. I drove over to his house. His little brother, Reese, named my camera "Steve". Using Steve, I obnoxiously took several shots of Greg which I will later make into a collage needed for Photography 2. Their house is cabin-style, with a pitched A-line ceiling so while it appears to only be two stories the house is slanted on a hill, thus actually, is three stories: upstairs, downstairs, basement. On the walls were stretches of canvas paintings- Costa Rican scenes, others Kafkaesque blurs of oils. Greg sold me on visiting spring break. His parents invited me to the annual family Christmas party. Not wanting to encroach on their plans, I almost said no. But they re-invited me and I went. I drove Greg and I to his grandparents house. Earlier in the day, when his dad was making venison wrapped in cream cheese and proscuitto with jalapeno peppers, we walked through a connective trail to his grandparents home. His grandmother was making wassail, the vapors were still in the air an hour later. They told me about two Russian basketball players who lodged under their roof. (Zhanna and Ohana?) Very tall.. 6'4, surpassing Greg by one inch. Apparently, I'm "in the picture". Greg's grandfather Bob, quite the photographer, sets up family portraits of each child on the stairs... I was included! I awkwardly smiled, Greg's arm around my shoulders. It felt right. I mingled with his cousins- all under thirteen... in the yard, we played three rounds of Bocce (petanque for the frenchies), flag football, and occasionally his cousin Sara would snap photos with her instant Polaroid camera. I also met Mrs. Pomphrey, who teaches English III at the high school. Her major was French, so we spoke en francais... until we realized everybody else standing in the kitchen waiting to steal some venison could not translate as fast as we were speaking. On my way out the door (Susanne and I were going to a movie at 7:30, Nans wanted to wish me farewell before we went to the cinema) his Aunt Sara patted me on the shoulder "Good job, with so many people you did a great job" Haha. I succeeded in feeling comfortable at a Christmas party of strangers. I certainly am not the self-concious nervous wreck group-a-phobe I was last year. Now I'm an overzealous socialite? Not quite. I just felt familial. Greg's mom suggested I hitch a plane south of the equator destined for Costa Rica. Maybe, wishful thinking. Job=Money=Ticket. I hesitate to post precious moments. I feel as if I rob my memory bank of unpronounced value by plastering them in plain view. If not here, where? Greg and I drove back to his house because their mutt from Costa Rica (Ollie) had followed us to the party and his grandfather is not pet-friendly. We said goodbye with a flavorful kiss. I almost drove off with Ollie in the backseat. He was as docile as the Dalai Lama, so Greg had forgotten about him back there. Good excuse for another quick goodbye and hope-flooding hug. Deep down in your ribs. Seattle or bust!