"You're sure it was this evening?"

 Welcome home, Marz, when you get here!

Summer flowers ^ from the farmer's market. Mary water bottle from Lourdes & Caribbean Mary doll from Linda Sue. (Thank you!)

Ay-ay-ay... I leave in three hours to go to the airport to meet Marz, who is returning from Camino.
But wait...!
I'd intended to become a funnier, smarter, fitter, more laid-back, all-round better human being while she was gone.
And then I FORGOT, and now it's too late.

I'm especially not more laid-back:
I drank a Bloody Mary just now, to calm myself after I practically hyperventilated upon discovering that the light-rail train to the airport is not running, due to some system breakdown...

There's a bus work-around. It will be fine.
I hope. Marz didn't have exact details of the new flight she'd moved up a week--and what she told me doesn't match what I found online. She doesn't have a phone with her, so I can't reach her.

Marz, is your flight the non-stop one from Paris, despite what you told me about a layover in the US? It's the only one arriving at the right time...

 "You're sure it was this evening?"

Above: Lee Van Cleef in a spaghetti Western version of Waiting for Godot (not really)

I told her to meet me at the airport's taxi stand, and if I'm not there, to come on over anyway....
It will be fine, one way or another---that's the lesson of travel. You get there, or you sleep on the floor somewhere else.

I tried to remember what food I'd craved on Camino---mostly freshies, I think...
This morning, bink and I went to the farmers' market after our Sunday coffee. I got fresh basil & tomatoes--here, soaking in olive oil--and I sprinkled peaches (not local) with sugar & cardamom, with blueberries.

I'd intended to rearrange my apartment, too... Also didn't happen.
But there's plenty of room for a pilgrim to sleep over. I got a like-new Ikea foam mattress at the thrift store--for children, though, so a bit short.
Pilgrims aren't picky, having slept in far worse conditions...

A bit of good luck--I'd been wanting to read Jenny Diski's In Gratitude--a memoir of her relationship with her sort-of foster mother, Doris Lessing, who'd taken Jenny in when she was fifteen. It's a cancer journal as well, started when Diski was diagnosed with incurable cancer at sixty-seven.
I'd been reminded of it recently--and yesterday it was donated to work!
I read the intro last night, and it was terrific, so I'll sit on the floor by the taxi stand and read it while I wait for the Marzipan.

Should all else fail, Marz could go back to her own place---but I understand not wanting to go back to an empty apartment right off, so here's hoping transportation systems work well enough.
They usually do.