Microblog

On a random cycle ride, I proof-checked the world, as I usually do, and spotted an incorrect signpost. ​I must have passed it hundreds of times, but I had never noticed that the arrow to Our Lady of Lourdes Church (opened 1857) points in diametrically the wrong direction, even though every other arrow is correct. Pondering all the potentially missed weddings, First Communions, and funerals over the years, I sent an email to the Park Board.

A pleasant retinal surgeon at the U seemed determined to use every piece of equipment on my eyes, and he had a lot of it. Three hours later, I staggered out and headed home to the sofa. There was a serious purpose to it all: a potential side effect of the cancer study drug is eye damage. Fortunately, my eyes are fine for my age. Meanwhile, I’m off the study, as the drug proved ineffective for me.

Plenty of empty bike racks today as I walked in the rain past Goldie Gopher on my way to yet another scan at the U. I had decided I didn’t want a wet stripe up my back.

At Boom Island on our Sunday walk, teamsters were holding a picnic. Amy Klobuchar, our US Senator and hopefully soon-to-be governor, had just given a speech.

Cycled with a friend around Railroad Island, a St. Paul neighborhood hemmed in by train tracks. An Italian restaurant, an Italian market, and a supermercado highlighted its strong immigrant ties. Riding along mostly quiet residential streets, we passed the oldest brick house in St. Paul and stopped by an urban farm holding an open house.

Popped into Lunds & Byerlys to pick up a can of butter beans for a paella I’m making this evening to celebrate Friday. On the way out, I couldn’t find my sunglasses. Just glad I didn’t ask an assistant if they’d seen a pair of sunglasses. The answer would’ve been “yes.” Finally found them when I tried to put on my cycle helmet.

For 20 minutes I lie completely still, in a lie-flat seat on an A350, seven miles above the Bering Sea. Outside, it’s night: pitch black below, devoid of any lights from ships or the scattered islands far below. As the radiologist opens my bone scan, searching for points of light, I wish him that same quiet journey.

Arrived home to the smell of baking biscotti.

That was a nice surprise. Knowing I’m not firing on all cylinders, a friend just dropped off a book she knows I’ll love, showing she clearly has my number. I edit the world (I find typos on manhole covers), though over the years I’ve managed to rein in the obsession when avoiding overcorrecting English language learners. This will be a welcome relief after a tense novel set in WWII France, and I have a feeling I’ll be laughing at myself.

It was a day to lie on the couch and read. The study drug made staying close to home the wiser choice.

Minneapolis tap water tastes good straight from the faucet, but our plants disagree, so we run irrigation water through fancy filters. A year ago we bought the wrong size filters and missed the return window. Today I put them up for sale on eBay, with proceeds going to Doctors Without Borders.

Walked over to the farmers market. In the shade of the Guthrie, a painting class focused on a red food truck, its faint reflection visible in the windows behind them. This space is special to us. During COVID, we held our spontaneous wedding reception here, complete with lawn chairs, alongside the two friends who witnessed our vows in the judge’s chambers.

Picked up this haul from an Asian supermarket: Japanese snack mix, Japanese mayo, Asian broccoli, Japanese curry cubes, and Japanese KitKats. Japanese egg salad sandwiches are the best, thanks to that mayo. The slightly bitter Asian broccoli nicely offsets a sweeter dish. I’ve read that over 90% of Japanese homes use curry cubes to make a curry base: just add leftover veggies, spoon some rice on the side from the rice cooker, and you have a satisfying, quick meal.

It wasn’t a protest as I cycled past people outside the U’s ice arena holding signs. It’s Welcome Week for new students, and the signs were meant to group everyone by department. Looking at them, I find it hard to believe I was ever that young when I was a fresher back in the UK.

I’m the mysterious gentleman lurking in the grimy Pedicord Apartments, part of the permanent collection at the U’s Weisman Art Museum. If you lean in to any apartment door, you can eavesdrop on what’s going on inside. ​I’m between appointments. I’ve just had the most thorough eye exam ever, including a 3D digital model of the inside of my eyes ordered by the study, hence the dark glasses.

Dinner at Forgotten Star Brewing Co., beer and burgers, sitting outside at a picnic table with friends. Life’s good.