I remember, I remember

The flight was as smooth as one could really ask for. (Translation: there weren't any actual hold-ups, and while I might wish it had been faster or that I'd had more leg room, or I'd been able to sleep more on the Boston-Amsterdam leg, those would have been pleasant extras, and I should be grateful that I got here in one piece, on time, and with all my luggage.)

Though thank heavens for the "comfort" area in Amsterdam airport. For all those poor economy flyers who can't take refuge in the private airline lounges, there was this area with recliner-lounges, and they were so comfortable. I have no words for it. I joined a lot of other people stretched out on them and dozing very happily.

What do I remember? I remember seeing a hummingbird out of the window when we were having breakfast in the diner at San Francisco at Yaoicon. I remember the expression on the artist's face when I recognised a Shin Angyo Onshi bookmark -- it's not translated into English, ergo, a certain lack of recognition among a lot of viewers. I remember the packed Swap Meet (frankly, I think we've reached a point of diminishing returns there, everyone wants to sell and nobody wants to buy). I remember Iron Yaoi Writer and the greased tumescent weasels, and the sheer fun of everyone competing. I remember the writing workshop and the Pocky 12-inch demonstration. I remember reading joasakura's copy of Steal Moon and making a note to investigate it more later. I remember the madlibs. (Must keep the full script of those.)

I remember the convenience of having some spare Cadbury's chocolate to hand out as prizes. Must do that again.

I remember knitting in the corner in the video room while doing volunteer duty there.

I remember the early morning taxi to SF airport on Monday morning, and the fun of being selected for a random bag search/check. (I think the searcher was more amused than anything by the number of books in there.) The traditional time spent in the changeover airport in finding the bookshop and going through it -- not that I ever really expect to find anything that I want, but you never know. (They never do knitting magazines, either.)

I remember New Hampshire, and Beth and Walter and Iolanthe, and the autumn (sorry, fall) trees and leaves. I want wool in those shades. Wait, I have wool in those shades. Drat you, Beth.

I remember the fun of hitting bookshops and craft shops with a fellow enthusiast.

I have the scarf and handwarmers from Beth waiting for deeper winter.

It was cool when I got back here; I had the radiator on a little earlier this evening, just to take the chill off. I checked my post, once I'd got my bags inside, and then I walked down to the nearest open local shop (there's a very convenient small Tesco Express about five-ten minutes walk away) to get stuff like milk and apples and tomatoes. And I unpacked. And there's currently a pile of damp laundry draped on the drying rack. Drape drape drape.

It was a marvellous holiday. But it's a good thing that I have tomorrow to recover in.

And yes, there will be photos later.

---

A Song On the End of the World

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world will there be,
No other end of the world will there be.

-- Czeslaw Milosz, translated by Anthony Milosz