T's not coming down this weekend.  Sad about that.  One of my favorite humans, if I were to pick favorites.  But I'm not that kind of parent, so I won't do it.

I realize in thinking back over the week that what I've chosen to write about is always so completely random and unrepresentative of the week, actually, in any plot-based sense, or even the sense of what sticks with me, what I'll remember.  I get caught up in an idea and ramble.  Like the pizza thing from last night.  By the time I finish writing out all I might think about a particular, often regrettably uninteresting matter, I'm done writing.  It's been twenty minutes or an hour, and I'm done.

A few nights ago we were invited back with S and A to A's parents' place, where they're staying right now, in a separate cabin-type space connected with a beautiful porch and garden.  It made sense for us to post up in the driveway for a couple nights so Yoav could help the nearby neighbor out along with A--A's the one who got him the gig. 

So we got spoiled as guests on an expanse of property out in Sisters; a cozy home with a well-supplied kitchen and a momma who cooks wholesome gourmet meals.  We had the best tortilla soup I've ever tasted the first night, with perfectly ripe avocado and delicately toasted and seasoned tortilla strips, and a complex broth with flavors that promise fall's coming soon.  We got a warm shower in the morning with coffee from an espresso machine.  Lasagna the following night.  A magic show I've never seen that was equal parts hilarious and mesmerizing played in the background.  And one of those drumstick ice creams I used to eat as a kid, with the fudge chunk at the bottom of the cone--that was our goodnight. 

It's little treats like that which make life on the road sustainable.  Moments of respite other generous people decide to provide you at random.  Without those, it'd be much more challenging.  Sure, we could get showers elsewhere, a hot meal elsewhere.  But being invited into a home is special.  Sharing's got a touch of the intimate you miss out on when hibernating in a van.  It's nice to be welcomed into someone else's living, breathing space, and to enjoy those simple creature comforts that make homes so desirable and ubiquitous.

Yoav and I are lucky to partake of an ever-expanding community of big hearts and open arms.  People who, when they've got something, they want to share it.  Whether it's a thought or a vibrating excitement, or a snack, or beer, or a way of moving beyond a challenge, a book recommendation, a rope, or a dream. This mentality is so integral to the climbing/dirtbag culture I've personally experienced.  It's what originally swept me off my feet, and it's what I'd like to perpetuate, with whatever means I have available, and in any given instance of want.

I was just thinking about that while looking over what I wrote last night, and over the week.  All those things I've left out.  So many worthwhile conversations, too.  S's complicated family history I'd been oblivious to, for instance, which I won't put down here, but gave me an entirely new vantage point from which to peer into that stilled, very unknown world that is someone's entire past.  And when D was here over the weekend, after not seeing him in two years, adding a new picture here or location there to the short list I know of his life, in an attempt to better complete a picture.  It's like a puzzle, getting to know someone, and you'll never have all the pieces--the dog ate three, another slid under the heavy chest you can't move my yourself, the manufacturer left out one on accident, you're sitting on one without even realizing it. So it goes.

Much of this week has been getting to know old friends, a weird idea in itself, but common to this lifestyle of revolving doors and crags and seasons and faces.  Receiving a new puzzle piece only to stare at it, a vague idea of where it might fit. The climbing relationship propels the process, no doubt; you might share pendular emotional states and mental/physical defeats on any given afternoon with these humans.  You get a lot of corner and edge pieces, say. Still, it's a forever process, this deciphering of the other's absorption, analysis and filing away of an experience.  The other's method of reflection, perspective on life, sense of purpose, driving motive. 

Anyway, I guess today's a tiny recap of what I've missed, what I've forgotten to share.  It's neither complete nor satisfying.

Oh, and I promised I'd let you know how last night went, sleeping at the park.  No harassment from a uniform, but at 4:30am, Yoav alone (I was out cold) heard "fucking fucking fuck" echo through the lot. Shortly after, a light flashed inside the front windows.  It continued to circle the car, then a bit more of the parking lot, then the car again, drifting across the cabin.  I slept soundly, somehow, alongside Yoav's tensed body.  He couldn't sleep for an hour after the pawing light drifted away. 

He didn't tell me about it until late in the morning, after we woke up and drove over to the library parking lot, to make coffee and oatmeal for breakfast and steal wifi while waiting for the doors to open.  "Well, now we know it's chill to sleep in Redmond", I said, cavalierly sipping my espresso.  It's not usually so easy to find a pubic park hidden away without signage that prohibits overnight parking. 

He sighed.  "I don't know how I feel about this park, though."

"Really? 'Cause of the rebel high school kids under the awning, smoking cigarettes at 7:15 in the morning and waking us up?"

We won't sleep at the park again, probably.  Residential streets are safer.  It sucks, but it's true.  People will do foolish things to a left-behind, darkened van if they don't realize people are sleeping in there.  Better to expect the worst than have to deal with it, I say. Probably too often.