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Sandbags, centrifuges and a double espresso.

Does it bother anyone else that while Iowa is drowning -- while tens of thousands of Americans are evacuated from their homes and city centers are buried under eleven feet of water -- our President hops around on his farewell tour of Europe?  That rattling a sabre at a recalcitrant Iran is more important than  catastrophe in the Heartland?

I suppose after Katrina, we shouldn't expect anyone to come running out of the White House, but for once, it'd be nice to see someone roll up his sleeves and get to work on the home front.

Well, anyway.  At least there's some good news (via JustOneMinute):

Long-term coffee drinking does not appear to increase a person's risk of early death and may cut a person's chances of dying from heart disease, according to a study published on Monday.

"Make mine a double," indeed!

Reading Lolita in Tehran. (In Boston.)

The brass knobs of our cupboards make for adequate if diminutive mirrors.  Which, you know, is kind of nice when you have to shave over the kitchen sink.  One of the (many) perils of having only one bathroom.

We spent the weekend in Amherst, helping the Girl's brother move to his new apartment -- a task that seemed fine at the time, but is reverberating through aching limbs this dull, grey morning -- and checked out a couple of "venues" for next year's nuptials.  What a production.  Can you believe the planning has already begun?  I think we're up to four or five bridal magazines now on the coffee table.

I just started Reading Lolita in Tehran on the train this morning. (Which reminds me, L., I need to send you back your copy of Lolita.)  Fascinating -- in a horrible, tragic, yet hopeful kind of way -- to read these women who can articulate their experiences in a country still viced in the grip of the Islamic Revolution.  To pierce the veil of the chador and glimpse the lives hidden beneath.  In a way, it helps me understand the ache my metsmama carried with her after the fall of the Shah; why it was so hard for my mother to return to her old neighborhood; why she can never go home again.

Just twenty-five pages deep, and I'm already waiting for my commute home to pick up where I left off.

Then again, I'm usually ready for my ride home before I've even left Starbucks, so take that as you will.

Daily constitutional.

I <3 the Supreme Court.

Last week's 5-4 decision was inspirational. A reminder that we have a moral obligation, however politically inconvenient, to higher notions that exist beyond executive writ.  As Justice Kennedy said: "The laws and Constitution are designed to survive, and remain in force, in extraordinary times."  And with that, the right to habeas corpus -- which predates our little democracy by nearly 600 years -- emerged in that legal black hole we call Guantanamo. 

This week's 5-4 split, well, I'm less excited about that.  And a little surprised, given prior jurisprudence.  The Second Amendment is commonly understood to state simply the right to bear arms.  The language, however, is a bit more complicated: A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.  The case law has situated that right within the context of state militias -- until now.  Per Justice Scalia: "The Constitution leaves the District of Columbia a variety of tools for combating [gun violence], including some measures regulating handguns.  But the enshrinement of constitutional rights necessarily takes certain policy choices off the table."  And -- wham -- there goes the handgun ban in D.C. beneath the Constitutional hammer. 

My point, though, is that in two weeks, two very important decisions have come down the line, one styled as "liberal" and the other "conservative."  (Though really, I don't think either label is accurate.)  And whether you like or not, the old codgers are doing exactly what they're meant to do: interpreting the law of the land.  Separation of powers.  It's neat.  NEAT I TELL YOU. 

Even when I, young whippersnapper that I am, disagree.

Anyway.  Back to nursing hamstrings and a hangover.  (JP Morgan Corporate Challenge last night.  25:53, followed by one-too-many celebratory drinks.)

Global Warming Is A Myth.™

Although, whitecaps in cornfields delicately suggest otherwise:

My hometown is apparently intact and keeping its chin above water.  Downtown Cedar Rapids, though -- as you can see in the second picture -- not so much.

Iowa, it seems, is returning to the seas from whence it came.

Catalonia.

Climbing a steep grade in Barcelona, Ciudad Condal, City of the Counts -- although, I don't mind saying, I saw not a one of them -- and armed with a vague but committed agenda and a small twist of metal and stone come from London to my pocket, I led the way, following, despite my peculiar brand of Armenian precision, the arrows and signs as they ticked off the remaining meters to that old master's sprawling, alien estate.

Rarely does the universe conspire to mark out for you -- literally mark out for you -- the path to one of those moments in which you look back and say, there, right there, that's when everything changed.

1400m.  1000m.  600m.  350m.  150m.  25m.

Then, suddenly, Park Güell opened before us.  A bit like the rest of your life.

I started to sweat.  This had less to do with the strange, lukewarm dampness than the knowledge I alone between us had, tucked carefully away in an indigo box.

While I try to capture the Preface, I might as well point out what an enormous pain in the ass the Girl was being -- albeit through no (real) fault of her own.  The Plan, originally, held that Sunday exclusively for us, but two friends, who I thought were joining us on Monday, had landed that morning.  This added an element of time for which I had not prepared. 

So when I suggested we trek up from La Rambla to Gaudí's public garden, I was met with a sort of exasperated surrender.  "We have to be back to the hotel by 2:00!" -- "I thought we could see this later in the week." -- "You see this map?  We're way down here.  It's way up there." -- "Wouldn't you rather take the bus another day?"

I really. Want. To see. This. Park.

Concession.

I very much enjoyed pointing out, as she quietly grumbled about her upset, better-laid plans, that she would feel guilty about being such a stick, you know, eventually.  One day.  Soon.

Anyway, there we were.  On the side of a terraced hill carved out by Antoni Gaudí, the Girl worrying over her watch, and me, my attention flung outward, feeling the grounds over for the perfect spot.

When I found it -- she had just suggested for the third (fourth?) time, with an increasingly sense of urgency, that we head back down to the train -- I took out her camera and asked her to smile.  The first picture spoke volumes, neatly capturing the Look I get when it's clear she is humoring what she assumes is one of those Ideas That Get Stuck In My Head. 

She smiled for the second.  Sat in a small alcove for the third.

Right about then, as she looked down to fidget with her watch (again!) -- that's when I apologized for dragging her up a small mountain, but I had a question to ask.

A bent knee.

An open box.

Tears.

A long, contemplative moment punctuated by the knowing giggles of a group of high school girls perched on a nearby set of stairs.

And then --

Then she said yes.