A small smile

December 2

Dear Wichita,

My insomnia is back, the fitful sleep and the unwelcome sunrise seeming to mock me and my futile attempts to rest. I don't know if you knew I was a periodic insomniac. I didn't sleep last night after I got home and I'm wide awake after my shift at the bar. It's like I'm on speed again, just waiting for the crash to come. It will. Speed or insomnia, the crash is remarkably similar, but you won't hear the feds tell you that in their war on drugs. Say no.

Anna came to the bar again tonight, she seems to be a weekend regular. We chatted a bit on my break, she seems to have her act together. I like to think I am a good judge of character. That's not to say I always hung out with the cleanest crowd around, but I always seem able to judge what kind of character a person has, good or bad.

Anna seems decent, certainly not hard to look at. She has bright eyes that dominate her face, pools of inky blue. Blond and short, the total opposite of Mary.

Shit. I can't even think about another girl without Mary floating through my head.

Anna works at an accounting firm, as an account administrator, whatever the hell that is. Probably looks better on a business card than my credentials would. She says it is "an okay job, for now."

I think I am starting to realize just how impermanent our modern lives are. No one stays at a job for forty years anymore. No one has a ten year old car anymore, unless you are poor or a college student. Always looking for something better. Maybe that's why I'm looking at Anna-Marie. Anna.

"Where you from?"

"What makes you think I'm not from Seattle?"

"Your accent, it isn't west coast, its middle America. Plains. The land of railroads and wheat."

"Kansas. Good job Detective Anna. Gold Star."

A small smile.

The One AM Bus

December 1

Dear Wichita,

I am writing this on the bus ride home from the bookstore, where I worked the late shift and where Amy's ex showed up, causing her to cry, contemplate, cry, and finally decide to get back together with him. He looks like a decent guy, I dunno why he wants to be with a headcase like Amy. Maybe she's good in bed. Whatever.

Anyway, it is just past 100am on the #43 bus route and there is only me and some homeless guy riding the bus. He looks pretty disheveled, even for a homeless guy. His clothes are held together by prayers and tape, his grey hair is snaking out from under his grimy white snowhat, and there is a noticeable odour coming from his direction. He is staring hard at the grooved floor of the bus and his head bounces like he is fighting off sleep.

The saving grace about my bus route is that it doesn't pass any college or high schools, so I am saved the agony of listening to girls gossip about one another and guys telling each other lies. I get a semi-professional crowd, middle management types, with the odd blue collar worker thrown in for good mix. Mind you, I only see these types on my way to work. Not too many secretaries riding the bus at 100am. Just the homeless and the twitchy drug addicts. And me. I travel in good company.

I lock into my headphones and my book when I ride the bus. It keeps the conversations to a minimum. I don't want people to think that I am looking for social contact, I get enough of that at work. I always sit on the aisle seat near a drafty door or window, my backpack in the seat against the window. No one asks you to move, they only ask you to move your bag. And I never make eye contact. Nobody makes eye contact anyway, everyone is lost in the grooves or wearing a distant stare, the passing buildings blurring unseen.

I watch people though, as we all ride the bus to our little responsibilities. I watch the forty-something lady who has too much makeup on try to talk to the balding forty-something guy who smashed into the glass ceiling a few years back and has simply accepted his fate. I watch the professional with hungry eyes scope out a pretty little secretary who is ten years younger than his wife. I watch the tradesmen take a swig from his flask. I watch them all because each one has a story to tell of how they ended up on this very bus at this very time. Ever since the trial I have become rather obsessed with coincidences and chance, the idea of being at the right place at the wrong time. Or vice versa.

I am becoming quite good at being alone in a crowd.

Daniel.

Anna-Marie

November 30

Dear Wichita,

I woke into a bad mood today, a fighting mood if I wasn't so hungover from trying to erase memories. I went in to work, at the bar, and didn't say much of anything to anyone, including the customers. You want a beer, you got a beer, no small talk.

"You in a bad mood today D, or what?" asked the boss, a woman named Cheryl who had spent too much time in smoky bars. Her skin was lined, her eyes weary. She was on the downside of 40 but hanging on to youth with every treatment known to man.

"Yea."

"Mind me asking why?"

"Yea."

"Fine, I don't care. Look just don't be a prick to the customers ok? That's all I ask."

"Yea."

Cheryl was mad now but she would get over it. I wasn't important enough in her life, a life of social events and casual encounters, to matter. She walked back into the kitchen and I turned to face the crowd waiting for their soma.

"I'll have a Bud," said a jock-looking guy. He had a jarhead haircut and not a whole lot of neck. I figured he had butted his way to the front of the line.

I looked at the pretty girl standing next to him. She was wearing a tight black tank top and wore her dyed hair in a flexible way. It was done up bar-style tonight, a Friday night.

"Hey I said I want a Bud," the jock said, his jaw clenching slightly. I looked at him with a rather withering stare, just brief enough to let him know I truly didn't care what he wanted.

"What can I get you?" I asked the pretty girl. I figured that she wasn't with him, she seemed smarter than that.

"Hey, what the fuck man? I was here first," stammered the jock.

"Dude, ladies first, have you no class?"

Silence.

"Plus she's better looking than you."

His buddies howled at that one. He even smiled a little. I enjoy calling a musclehead ugly and not getting my ass kicked. Definitely not in Kansas anymore.

"I'll have a rye 'n' ginger," she said, smiling slightly, her brown eyes dropping to the floor.

I poured her a generous one. "That'll be $3.25."

She handed it over, a small tip included.

"Thanks."

"Thanks."

"Hey," I stuttered, suddenly awkward, "What's your name?" Awkward.

I wasn't supposed to 'fraternize' with the paying customer, but Cheryl was in the kitchen, probably berating Julio, the illegal immigrant who we called a cook. Poor Julio, but Cheryl would make it up to him later. So said the rumor mill. Fuck it then. I asked.

"Anna-Marie. Most people call me Anna."

Jesus.

Marie.

"Nice to meet you Anna. I'm Dan."

"Nice to meet you Dan."

Best,

Daniel.

Amy vs. Dan, Part 1

November 29, Part II

Dear Wichita,

Amy the English Lit-chick asked me what I thought about Bush listening to our phone conversations.

"I suppose it would matter if we had anything at all worth saying."

"It matters you know." She was mildly indignant.

"Yea, I'm sure it does. My world is shaken."

"If you don't pay attention you can't complain."

"Can I still complain about you?"

"Fuck off Dan."

A Little History

November 29

Dear Wichita,

I can't help but think of Mary lately, especially after paying for that girl's bagel. The promise of youth, yet to run the gauntlet of risks that life entails, so ignorant of the game of life, a game of chance.

You know Mary didn't mean to hit those kids right? I know, I know she was drunk and high and probably couldn't find her way out of an empty room. I was amazed that throughout the whole trial no one ever wondered who started the car in the first place. I guess it wasn't a big deal, the end result was the same. Who knows, maybe Mary managed to start the car herself. I doubt it, but then again.

It is that fragility of youth, that shattered persona in a crowded bagel shop, that can go either way, into the abyss of meth or the ivory towers of college. Even so, I don't think anyone suspected Mary's downfall. Girls like her aren't supposed to end up serving time and carrying guilt. They're supposed to marry and have two point five kids and a minivan to go to soccer games and PTA meetings.

I knew that she was into it pretty good, we all were. All those weekends that slipped into Wednesdays. Maybe that's your fault Wichita, not giving us options but giving us unrestricted college freedom. It still feels better to blame someone else. That's how my generation is, you know.

I still have flashbacks, old pictures of Mary that run through my head even though it has been over a year since the trial. Mary swimming naked in the river, laughing in the moonlight. Mary sweet talking the cops, getting herself or someone else out of a jam. Mary studying, her blond hair falling about her face, her brown framed glasses reflecting sunlight onto her tanned arm. Mary standing in that fake-wood docket, her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, eyes wet from tears. Looking pale as the victim impact statements were read aloud. All five of them.

Mary being led away by the bailiff, the sacrificial lamb for our hedonistic ways. The brief second of eye contact we shared, holding a moment in time where we knew we were over, everything was over and would never be the same again.

Mary on the front page of the newspapers, looking destroyed.

I thought about Mary yesterday as I watched that girl carry her bagel to a corner table.

I wondered what path her life would take, what kind of friends she hung out with, what kinds of pressures she was under and how she would cope with them. I wondered if she would have to move to a different city to find space and a sense of anonymity. Or if she would be ok, a picture on her mother's mantle.

I looked in the mirror last night, not for any sense of fashion or togetherness, but for my soul. I wondered what kind of boyfriend let's his girl go driving when she isn't even wearing shoes. I wondered what kind of guy shifts himself into the shadows while his supposed love is bathed in the harsh light of tv cameras. I wondered what kind of college dropout stands idly by as his girl takes all the blame. The same kind of guy that rides a three AM bus out of town, wearing a low hat.

I looked away. There aren't too many of us that can stare ourselves down in a mirror, but I guess I'm one of them.

The sky outside is dark and misty, casting odd grey light into my apartment. I'm laying on my twin sized bed, staring up at the ceiling, through the ceiling, a thousand yard stare. A siren in the distance sends a little shiver down my back.

If you can, Wichita, tell Mary I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the whole fucking thing.

Tell her I'll write her sometime.

Christ. I shouldn't have gone here tonight.

Daniel.

$5

November 28

Dear Wichita,

Patience isn't much of a virtue in a big city where people are consistently wet and drink too much coffee.

I was waiting in line for my bagel, en route to the bus stop, and there was a girl, maybe 13 or 14 ahead of me in line. Her bagel was sitting on the counter, ready to go. She was digging through her purse, looking for money. The search became more frantic and soon it was obvious to all of us in line behind her that she didn't have enough money.

She wasn't street kid or nothing like that. She looked middle class, probably just spent one too many dollars on the latest fad sweeping through her junior high. Her face was growing red with embarassment. The man behind the counter, sporting a thick black moustache better suited to a bad 70s sitcom than modern day life, watched the girl with a dark look of humour.

"C'mon honey, pay up. People are waiting."

"I know, I know," she stammered. Her voice sounded little, a glimpse of the fragility of youth.

I could hear people muttering behind me.

She kept digging.

The mouth under the moustache frowned. "Next!" he yelled, startling the girl, who dropped her purse, its contents spilling out onto the floor. Someone snickered.

I was next. "What will it be?"

I just put a five dollar bill on the counter, took the girls bagel and handed it to her. Her eyes were watery.

"Thanks," she mumbled, eyes falling to the floor.

"Don't mention it."

Best,

Daniel.

Idle Notes

November 27

Dear Wichita,

Amy was chatting at me last night at the bookstore. It came as no surprise to me that her boyfriend and her are no more. She was remarkably composed while telling me the initial details of the breakup, but that could only last for so long. Soon she was crying, running to the back room. For twenty minutes. Nice. Oh, don't worry about the 20 customers in the store and the ringing phone, no its ok, go cry into a wad of toilet paper and stare into the mirror. For twenty minutes. Girls.

She wandered back out, all red eyed and flushed, trying to look like she had her shit together. I would have felt sorry for her if her story was anything close to Mary's and mine. But it wasn't, Amy's story was just another teenage drama romance collapse, complete with her assumption that everyone cares. I could have blown her weak breakup story out of the water with just a few tidbits of info about Mary and me, but I'm not ready to go there yet. I honestly think that Amy is convinced that there is a TV camera filming her, like she is on some damp and ugly version of the OC.

I basically ignored her for the rest of the night. I was sure to run the store's CD player like it was my own, I didn't need Amy listening to her girl noise and start bawling again. Ugh, I might start crying if I have to listen to Hilary Duff's watered-down version of cry-rock. She looked like she wanted to start talking about it again, but she wasn't going to tell me anything I didn't already know. And plus I'm in a callous mood lately, so I basically made myself scarce.

Guten came in, spent a long time in the front corner of the store wandering through a nearly-destroyed copy of The Metamorphosis by Kafka. Its a good read and one of my favorites, but Guten is so self-contained that to approach him, or to even look him in the eye, is overly daunting, especially for a just-over minimum wage Kansas import like me. Who am I to disturb him? He would leave me alone at Hock's, so I reasoned that I should leave him alone when he is in his sanctuary. Seems fair.

Ugh, I guess I should do something with my life before I have to go my shift at the bar. That's the problem working late shifts. You work so late and sleep in, so most of the day is gone by the time you wake up, only to go to work again. It is the 9-5 grind, only PM to AM, not the other way round. I got a few hours to go before work, and I really need some new clothes, jeans specifically. Just because my hair makes me look like a hobo, doesn't mean I have to dress like one. I'm out to impress, don't you know?

Yea, I'm out to impress all right. Big city, bright lights, and plenty of seriously dark nights.

Impressed yet?

Yea, me neither.

Daniel.

Hock's Cafe

November 26

Dear Wichita,

I called in sick to the bar today and am instead out and about the Pike Place market. It is just after 400pm and the post-work crowd is gathering for a drink before heading home. I am in a little cafe called Hock's and am sipping a coffee, surfing the net, and watching people walk past the window. I have hunkered down in a big comfy chair near the front and seemed to have staked out a little piece of property. There is a painting by a local artist hanging above me.

I'm not sick, just needed a night off, away from the smoke and smell of spilled booze. The pub is okay, I think I mentioned that the tips are good. I prefer the bookstore, but it doesn't pay all the bills, so the bar is here to stay for awhile. Ah well, it allows me some social contact, which I can use from time to time.

It's funny you know, the lack of social contact thing. While I moved to Seattle to get away from everything I grew up with and to meet new people with new views, I find that I am often more comfortable with only myself as company. Less meaningless chatter, I suppose. I do end up chatting with people, customers at work, but those conversations are pretty standard and largely empty. I haven't started talking to myself yet. Yet.

I don't have a phone yet and I don't think I'll be getting one. Surely this is something that is driving my mother nuts and is certainly adding to my sense of isolation. But when there is no one that would bother to call, is there much point in having one? I dunno, that's how I justify it.

It is a funny thing to live without a phone in perhaps the most interconnected country in the world. I don't miss it, frankly, although the amount of times I've had to give a fake number to some store or application that needs one to count me as a person has surprised me. I have the bookstore phone number listed here and there, although I am sure there is some housewife in Seattle wondering why someone keeps calling and asking for Daniel. I make her life a little more surreal, I suppose, a break from the kids and the gossiping mother hens.

This cafe is kind to me today. It is quiet, playing some soft jazz laced with hip hop beats, tones surrounded by earthy paints and sky blue pepper shakers shaped like question marks. There is a sign on the door, amidst all the posters for local bands and upcoming shows, that politely asks customers to turn off their cell phones. Wireless internet is okay, but no cell phones. A technological compromise, I suppose. I appreciate it.

This is a good place to feel alone. I hope Mary has a place like this in Wichita.

Feeling good,

Daniel.

Sunday Rain

November 23

Dear Wichita,

Slow day today, Sunday afternoon and I don't have to work today. Rainy outside, windy too, so I think I'll just stay in. It's, uh, 256 PM and I've only been up for an hour or so. I poured myself a bowl of cereal and wondered what kinda nightowl I am turning into, eating cereal at 256 PM in the afternoon.

I don't have TV here in my apartment but I have a small ghetto blaster with a CD player on it. Got a good deal on it at some pawn shop just a few blocks over. The antenna is busted off and the left speaker is kinda fuzzed out but I rigged up a coat hanger and that seems to bring in the radio stations. Not that there is much worth listening to. I'll surf the net for a bit, but that only makes me want to go outside after an hour or so. Maybe I'll nap. Or read. Or stare at the walls.

I worked last night at the bookstore. Nothing to write home about, but it was okay. Guten came in for a bit, did his thing, left. My coworker Amy is in the middle of breaking up with her boyfriend, again, and I don't care enough to listen to her freak out over what he may have meant with what he said three weeks ago. She's okay, kinda cute in a English-Lit way, but has a piercing through her lip. It was supposed to be in the middle of her bottom lip, but I think she went to a shady tatttoo place, and it is a little off, to her left. I told her it looked like a fish hook and she said I was small town. I told her that I may be small town, but that doesn't mean I can't comment on how she looks like a pike.

"A what? Did you just call me a dyke?" she said.

"Nothing. No. Jesus."

It was a slow night save for that. She ignored me for a bit after she thought I called her a dyke, but then she started up again about her boyfriend. I think his name is Chad. Or Brad. I don't really listen and she doesn't really care. Blah blah blah, she went. I just went to the back of the store and tried to figure out a way I could take a photo of the northeast corner of the main floor wall.

I'm laying down as I write this, my legs propped up against the window at the foot of my bed. I can see cloud and rain and mist, hints of buildings. I can see the water running in interlocking rivets down the windowpane. I can smell curry. I can always smell curry.

You know that feeling that you get in January in Kansas? That closed in, dark feeling that comes standard with howling prairie winds and snowdrifts? I'm kinda feeling like that today. People here say that it takes awhile to get used to the constant rain and cloud. I see people who have been here for years who don't even bat an eye at an insane downpour, but on a day like today, when it could pour, new arrivals like me tend to resemble hermits. I suppose I'll get over it.

Maybe I'll go out today after all, maybe buy some shoes. My old runners are starting to smell and besides, no one wears running shoes here, not unless they are exercising. Fashion nightmare, apparently.

Hey to Mary for me, ok?

Daniel.

Late Night Radio

November 18, 2005

Dear Wichita,

Me again, except this time is 235 in the morning and I just got home from a late shift at the bookstore. David Gray is on the radio. He's British.

I'm not sure if I told you the name of the bookstore in the last letter I sent to you. It's called The Mighty Penn which (I think) is a play on that Bob Dylan song about Quinn the Eskimo. I could be wrong though, the owners have never given me a straight answer about it. Old hippies are kind of hit and miss that way, you know.

It was a quiet shift, Tuesday's usually are. Not a lot of people wanting to be out until one AM when they have to punch the clock at eight the next morning, oops, the same morning, just with enhanced exhaustion. But we still had a few night owls prowling the aisles, hunting for a hidden gem of a book. Travels with Charley, Catch-22, that kind of classic. No one bothers picking up Shakespeare anymore, something I suspect haunts them with memories of faltering grade eleven presentations on Hamlet.

I gotta tell you about this one guy who was in tonight. He comes in most nights, actually, usually around 1230 or so, and stays for an hour or so. I've nicknamed him 'Guten', after Steve Gutenberg, as his clothes and hair are more 80s that you would care to think. He looks like a decent fellow, his dated clothes are always clean and ironed. Might be a manager at some lower-end business. Or maybe an assistant manager. Or maybe a psycho who enjoys cold showers, I dunno.

Anyway, he comes in and quietly walks the store, hands always clasped behind his back. He whistles quietly and peers about, occasionally pulling a book from the shelves. He never goes near the new books, only the used. As a matter of fact, the new book section is pretty much ignored after 800pm, that's when the trendsetters trade shifts with the nighthawks, who only seem interested in dog-eared novels.

Back on topic, sorry. Guten wanders about, never asking any questions or making any eye contact. It wouldn't be a stretch to suggest that he has no idea that we are even there. He has never bought anything, near as I can remember. He just wanders about for an hour or so and then wanders right on out the door. And no one minds. Imagine that kinda shit in Wichita. I suppose we would need a bookstore that stayed open past nine PM first though hey?

I really want to ask him for permission to take some photos of him while he wanders the bookstore, but I dunno how he will react. It would make a kinda haunting photo in black and white, at least I think so. You'd have to see the bookstore to understand, it kinda resembles a teetering collection of musty books, some which have probably been there since God knows when. A whole bunch of musty transcripts and water-damaged paperbacks, all stuffed in overwritten legal boxes.

Was that a lame story? Sorry if it was, I'm just trying to give you a picture of what my life is here in Seattle. The night brings out the special cases here, I guess that is the point of that little story.

I'm growing my hair out, no more of the flat-top regiment for me. It is getting fairly long now, but I will be happier when it gets long enough to look decent. Now I just look like a bum. Huh, for all the photographs I've been taking lately, I don't have a self-portrait to send along, show you my new haircut, or lack thereof. I suppose that is a good thing, that I don't have self-portraits laying about. Could be seen as arrogant, don't you think? Most of the artists here expect to remain undiscovered.

Anyway, yea, my hair is getting longer and despite me resembling a hobo, I don't mind the look. I wasn't going to grow it out, but when I stopped by a hair salon (la dee da hey?) downtown, they wanted to charge me $55 for a hair consultation. I don't even know if that consisted of actually getting my hair cut or not. Doesn't sound like it. That was about two months ago now and either through laziness, vanity, or poverty, I haven't considered getting it cut again. I'll get a picture and send it your way.

Och it is late now, 315 AM and I am supposed to get up before noon to work the early shift at the bar. I can't ever sleep as soon as I get home, some sort of work-induced insomnia. Ah well, at least I'll be outta there by seven, give me a chance to see the city at night, something I haven't had much of a chance to do lately. I think I'll mosey around downtown for a bit, take some photos and maybe grab a bite to eat at someplace new. I think I saw a jazz cafe downtown the other day while I was riding the bus. Looked eclectic in a blue smoke kind of way.

Anyway, hope all is well, I heard about the cold snap that you guys are suffering through. Zip up the coats and put on the mittens, as mom always said. It's wamer here, but raining. A kind of compromise, I suppose. As always, say hi to Mary for me, I hope she's keeping well.

Best,

Daniel.

Settled In

Photo courtesy of T. Turner

November 14, 2005

Dear Wichita,

Thought I would drop you a note, say hello. It's been almost four months since I left, but it seems like only yesterday I was staggering down your three AM streets, drunk on the cheap booze college dropouts tackle every weekend. So close and so far, some days I miss you, some days I get too wrapped up in the bustle of everyday life here in Seattle to even consider it.

It's nice here, not nearly as cold as Kansas but we make up for it in the constant mist that soaks me to the bone. I guess you could say that I traded in my Wichita jean jacket for a Seattle goretex. I'm bartending three nights a week at a fairly reputable pub downtown. Not a bad job, the downtown location gives me some pretty good tips. I'm also working at a Mom 'n' Pop bookstore on weekends, which is pretty cool. We sell used and new and totally attract the eccentrics. I guess a bookstore that is open until 2am on Fridays and Saturdays will do that. A lot of odd hours, usually late nights, but it gives me a lot of time to work on my photography.

Yeah, photography, and not just random pictures at weddings and birthdays. I bought a new camera and am trying my hand at the 'art' of photography. That shit would never fly in Wichita hey? I know, maybe that's why I'm here instead. Nothing against Kansas but it wasn't much for the arts community and in Seattle everyone seems to have an artsy side to them. Or an outdoorsy side, one or the other. The girls here would be beautiful at a photography exhibit or crawling out of a tent after a night spent camping in the mountains. I'm just saying, is all.

I went to my first art show a couple of months back, a display of paintings by a local guy who calls himself Chavez, although he doesn't look at all Latino. It was interesting, I'll say that much. It took me a while, but I eventually figured out that the Seattle art community is broken into two camps, the corporate, big-money camp and the dirt-poor, struggling artist camp. Guess which one I fit into? I talked with Chavez for a bit, he seems like a decent guy and he is a pretty good painter too, sold some of his paintings for $200 plus. I'm still keeping my photography quiet until I figure out if I am any good at it. You probably don't care, but whatever.

I miss Wichita sometimes, mainly the familiarity of the streets and the up front personality of the people. Seattle has some good people, but they are harder to read at first. Everyone here seems to keep to themselves, or at least to their close circle of friends. I have met some interesting people here, but it isn't the same as when you've known someone since kindergarten. But I have only been here for a bit so maybe things will change.

I'm living in a bachelor apartment about a 20 minute bus ride from the downtown core, in a somewhat sketchy area of town. Not a bad place, the hot water is in short supply some days and the people across the hall from me cook with a lot of curry. But all in all, certainly livable. It gives me a sense of privacy, something I never felt in Wichita. Funny hey? Here I am, surrounded by thousands of people and living cheek to jowl with them in an apartment block, and yet I still feel like I have more privacy than I did in Wichita, where the empty prairie is never more than a half hour drive away.

I do miss the big sky of the prairie, but having the ocean so close is pretty nice, I gotta admit. I walked down to this area called Pike Place Market yesterday, a collection of pasty-white art kids and tourists hanging around coffee shops. Its pretty cool. I stopped for a coffee and read the paper, taking the occasional break to watch people go about their lives. Seattle seems to be a bit more contemplative that Wichita. Here I can sit and stare, think and watch, sipping good coffee, and no one finds me to be a bother. Coffee shops in Wichita are meant for old farmers who have nothing better to do than complain about the government.

Sorry. That was a little harsh. Kinda true though, you gotta admit that.

Anyway, the market is nice. I'll probably make it my haunt, maybe even look into apartments near it. Who knows, its all up in the air, which I am kinda enjoying. That is the main thing I love so far about Seattle, that the atmosphere seems a little more laid back than in Kansas. Hard to explain but it just feels that way. Maybe it is the rain that slows us down here, causes everyone to linger in the coffee shops just a few minutes longer. I don't know.

Anyway, its almost 1030 in the morning and I have to get going. I have a doctors appointment at 1115, just a checkup nothing serious, don't worry. I'll write again when I get the chance. Maybe even send some pictures if they turn out. Hope this finds you well and say hi to Mary for me.

Best,

Daniel. (Danny-boy!)