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Monday, September 3, 2012


     I am back in Colorado and I am sore. Let’s  start from the beginning.
     So after 6 hours of Tbilisi--London flight, five hours in Heathrow airport, ten hours of transatlantic flight and inspection by customs in the states –where I discovered to my detriment that I actually did take honey comb my aunt gave me for my grandmother. Imagine, round brown ball of sticky stuff. Oh, the customs evil Grinch eyes lit with joy when they saw it—I was put into bed and woken up at an ungodly hour to be taken to the high mountains of the Colorado.   
      For two days we got up before sun and did wonderful things—it was amazing fun as my fav.  British celebrity likes to put it. Conquering and stomping my jet lag, we went fishing on the first day and witnessed an astounding sunrise.  I was not too enthusiastic about killing fish by lying to them that the shiny cylinder on my hook is actually food and that eating it will not result in getting hooked by your lip, so maybe that’s the reason we did not catch any. Well, I did catch one, but it got away before we could force it into the net and torture. However, combination of sleep deprivation, burning sun, rocking boat and cautiously-not-specified element--let’s call it high altitude mountain air, ahem—resulted in  this surreal state of mind, when waves seemed to be made of silver, clouds formed weird shapes, and the cars  on the highway seemed infinitely interesting.    caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaars.caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaars.
      Dizzy and overheated, I somehow managed to get out of the boat, with sunburned red face and red eyes, looking like a zombie, walking like one, and still thinking about moving cars. And then I had to endure lunch in a crowded restaurant. Talking about being anxious.
      The next day, determined to breath, walk and think like a normal person, I strictly stuck to water and put a sunscreen on my monkey-butt-colored face. I mounted a fourwheeler, the ones we call quadrocycle in Georgia, and rode it up the mountain summit, to the continental divide. There, I marveled, how on that exact spot the states divided into Atlantic and pacific sides, took pics of the Rocky mountains and chased chipmunks. Back on the motorcycle, I was riding over huge rocks and stones and praying for salvation. Have to survive. Have to survive. Have to survive and keep my bottom intact…ouch and ouch and ouch.
      So now, I am laying sleepless in my old room, it is six  a. m. ,everything  hurts and I can’t go back to sleep. But I am content. I think of the silver waves and the nature and peace. I think of the speed and thrill and riding over the mountain summits and energy and adrenaline. I think of different ways to feel life. To go from manicured, wearing high heels public servant to covered-in-dirt motorcycle-riding state of being. To pack all the excitement in this month. I am thinking of life and bacon. Real, crunchy American bacon. Time to get out of bed...
p.s. the pic--one of the places we rode on the fourwheeler.

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