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+ <meta name="twitter:creator" content="@luxagraf"/>
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+ <article class="h-entry hentry post--article" itemscope itemType="http://schema.org/Article">
+ <header id="header" class="post--header ">
+ <h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">Cadenza</h1>
+ <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2006-06-06T11:01:26" itemprop="datePublished">June <span>6, 2006</span></time>
+ <p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
+ <aside class="p-location h-adr adr post--location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+ <span class="p-region">Paris</span>, <a class="p-country-name country-name" href="/jrnl/france/" title="travel writing from France">France</a>
+ </aside>
+ </header>
+ <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--single" itemprop="articleBody">
+ <p class="pull-quote">“On the meridian of time there is no justice, only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth and justice”<span class="credit">— <cite>H. Miller</cite></span>
+<span class="drop">O</span>utside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries, the young man with the blue umbrella crosses the street with his head down. The hiss of tires on the pavement comes softly between Satie's piano notes; the wet greens leaves flap against the dark bark of maples trees; the headlights reflect in red and white streaks in the puddles. The digital sign across the street prints out events in red dot matrix letters, concerts, plays, museum openings, things happen in the Marais. Things happen most everywhere.
+
+<break>
+
+For me this thing began happening when I left Paris.
+
+And now. Now I can see my reflection slighted in the window. I am haggard, tired, my cheeks slightly sunken. My pen is dry, my notebook full, my laptop out of juice and my iPod drained. I have no money, nowhere to stay. My girlfriend tells me she's in love with the Italian deli boy (natch) and the soles of my shoes are worn through so I can feel the cold of the cobblestones when I walk.
+
+To be honest this isn't how I wanted to return to Paris.
+
+And yet. And yet. I haven't been this happy in years.
+
+When I left it was autumn, the leaves were falling. We all wondered aloud if the trees would ever fall from the leaves but knew better and so did not answer. Instead we walked. When the trees fall they take the whole game with them.
+
+Paris in spring stifles. The leaves uniform monochrome. Except for the Japanese maples which make me hungry for something I've never tasted with their burgundy leaves hinting at autumn before it has come. Another summer to sweat through. Or maybe they are a reminder of an autumn past, some constant by which to trace our elliptical paths through these winding cobblestone alleys.
+
+Paris is much like New York in that both were designed with autumn in mind. Though New York is a bit short on cobblestones.
+
+Last night, having nothing to do after I parted ways with someone I met on the train from Vienna, I wandered down to the Latin Quarter, an arrondissement I never really spent much time in. I bought a copy of Lydia Davis' translation of <em>The Way by Swann's</em> and then strolled up away from the Seine.
+
+It began to drizzle lightly, just enough to mottle the lens of my eyeglasses which made the lights in store windows glitter and blur as I walked past. At some point I found myself under a small awning and I paused to wipe my glasses on my shirt. When I put them back on I noticed that the darkened and grated shop window next to me was full of old cameras — 1960's Pentax and Contax, Kodak Brownings, Leica bodies, rows of Carl Zeiss lens and even a few small collapsible bellows cameras. I thought about an article I had read several days before which covered the recent announcements from both Canon and Nikon that they will cease still film camera production this year.
+
+Film is already a curiosity. Even small children in out-of-the-way countries expect to see instant results in a small digital screen and are visibly disappointed when they cannot. Silver haloid preserved the twentieth century but now its service is ended.
+
+Just across the street was well-lit display of digital camera's, cd and mp3 players, plasma televisions.
+
+For a long time Kodak used the slogan “preserving your memories.”
+
+I have a lot of pictures. Over 2000 as a matter of fact. Only about twenty are any good, which is roughly the ratio of good to bad that convinced me to give up on being a professional photographer back in college, but strangely it's the really bad ones that are the most compelling to me. Compelling because they look nothing like what I remember and thus do not interfere with the memories.
+
+I am sitting at the same cafe sipping, but not really enjoying all that much, a chocolate chaud much like the ones I wrote about eight months ago. It isn't as good, there is something missing. Okay let's be honest, someone, but you'll have to do better than that to earn your junior detective badge.
+
+You know what you learn traveling? After all this time what do I understand now that I did not then? What makes this chocolate chaud less fulfilling than that last?
+
+Simple.
+
+You cannot go backwards.
+
+You will want to go backwards.
+
+You will want to hang on to things when they are perfect.
+
+You will want to stay in Vang Veing, a floating village, on an island lost at sea.
+
+You will want to return even after you have left.
+
+You will want things to be the same when you return.
+
+But they will not be the same. The people will be gone.
+
+And the people were the only reason you stayed.
+
+You will want to go backwards.
+
+You cannot go backwards.
+
+And now I am home.
+
+<em>for Lilli. Because. Someday you will be the only one left.</em></break></p>
+ </div>
+ </article>
+</main>
+
+</body>
+</html>
diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2006/06/cadenza.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2006/06/cadenza.html
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@@ -0,0 +1,388 @@
+<!DOCTYPE html>
+<html
+class="detail single" dir="ltr" lang="en-US">
+
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+ <title>Cadenza - by Scott Gilbertson</title>
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+ </div>
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+ <ul>
+ <li><a href="/jrnl/" title="Stories of life on the road.">Jrnl</a> &amp; <a href="/field-notes/" title="Short stories, snapshots of daily life on the road.">Field Notes</a></li>
+ <li><a href="/guide/" title="Advice, Tools, Tips and Tricks for Full Time Van or RV Life.">Guides</a></li>
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+ <header id="header" class="post-header ">
+ <h1 class="p-name entry-title post-title" itemprop="headline">Cadenza</h1>
+
+ <div class="post-linewrapper">
+ <div class="p-location h-adr adr post-location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+ <h3 class="h-adr" itemprop="address" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/PostalAddress"><span class="p-region" itemprop="addressRegion">Paris</span>, <a class="p-country-name country-name" href="/jrnl/france/" title="travel writing from France"><span itemprop="addressCountry">France</span></a></h3>
+ &ndash;&nbsp;<a href="" onclick="showMap(48.86345844378468, 2.3610842224649087, { type:'point', lat:'48.86345844378468', lon:'2.3610842224649087'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a>
+ </div>
+ <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2006-06-06T11:01:26" itemprop="datePublished">June <span>6, 2006</span></time>
+ <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span>
+ </div>
+ </header>
+ <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--single" itemprop="articleBody">
+ <p class="pull-quote">&#8220;On the meridian of time there is no justice, only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth and justice&#8221;<span class="credit">&mdash; <cite>H. Miller</cite></span>
+
+<span class="drop">O</span>utside it&#8217;s raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries, the young man with the blue umbrella crosses the street with his head down. The hiss of tires on the pavement comes softly between Satie&#8217;s piano notes; the wet greens leaves flap against the dark bark of maples trees; the headlights reflect in red and white streaks in the puddles. The digital sign across the street prints out events in red dot matrix letters, concerts, plays, museum openings, things happen in the Marais. Things happen most everywhere.
+
+<break>
+
+For me this thing began happening when I left Paris.
+
+And now. Now I can see my reflection slighted in the window. I am haggard, tired, my cheeks slightly sunken. My pen is dry, my notebook full, my laptop out of juice and my iPod drained. I have no money, nowhere to stay. My girlfriend tells me she&#8217;s in love with the Italian deli boy (natch) and the soles of my shoes are worn through so I can feel the cold of the cobblestones when I walk.
+
+To be honest this isn&#8217;t how I wanted to return to Paris.
+
+And yet. And yet. I haven&#8217;t been this happy in years.
+
+When I left it was autumn, the leaves were falling. We all wondered aloud if the trees would ever fall from the leaves but knew better and so did not answer. Instead we walked. When the trees fall they take the whole game with them.
+
+Paris in spring stifles. The leaves uniform monochrome. Except for the Japanese maples which make me hungry for something I&#8217;ve never tasted with their burgundy leaves hinting at autumn before it has come. Another summer to sweat through. Or maybe they are a reminder of an autumn past, some constant by which to trace our elliptical paths through these winding cobblestone alleys.
+
+Paris is much like New York in that both were designed with autumn in mind. Though New York is a bit short on cobblestones.
+
+Last night, having nothing to do after I parted ways with someone I met on the train from Vienna, I wandered down to the Latin Quarter, an arrondissement I never really spent much time in. I bought a copy of Lydia Davis&#8217; translation of <em>The Way by Swann&#8217;s</em> and then strolled up away from the Seine.
+
+It began to drizzle lightly, just enough to mottle the lens of my eyeglasses which made the lights in store windows glitter and blur as I walked past. At some point I found myself under a small awning and I paused to wipe my glasses on my shirt. When I put them back on I noticed that the darkened and grated shop window next to me was full of old cameras &mdash; 1960&#8217;s Pentax and Contax, Kodak Brownings, Leica bodies, rows of Carl Zeiss lens and even a few small collapsible bellows cameras. I thought about an article I had read several days before which covered the recent announcements from both Canon and Nikon that they will cease still film camera production this year.
+
+Film is already a curiosity. Even small children in out-of-the-way countries expect to see instant results in a small digital screen and are visibly disappointed when they cannot. Silver haloid preserved the twentieth century but now its service is ended.
+
+Just across the street was well-lit display of digital camera&#8217;s, cd and mp3 players, plasma televisions.
+
+For a long time Kodak used the slogan &#8220;preserving your memories.&#8221;
+
+I have a lot of pictures. Over 2000 as a matter of fact. Only about twenty are any good, which is roughly the ratio of good to bad that convinced me to give up on being a professional photographer back in college, but strangely it&#8217;s the really bad ones that are the most compelling to me. Compelling because they look nothing like what I remember and thus do not interfere with the memories.
+
+I am sitting at the same cafe sipping, but not really enjoying all that much, a chocolate chaud much like the ones I wrote about eight months ago. It isn&#8217;t as good, there is something missing. Okay let&#8217;s be honest, someone, but you&#8217;ll have to do better than that to earn your junior detective badge.
+
+You know what you learn traveling? After all this time what do I understand now that I did not then? What makes this chocolate chaud less fulfilling than that last?
+
+Simple.
+
+You cannot go backwards.
+
+You will want to go backwards.
+
+You will want to hang on to things when they are perfect.
+
+You will want to stay in Vang Veing, a floating village, on an island lost at sea.
+
+You will want to return even after you have left.
+
+You will want things to be the same when you return.
+
+But they will not be the same. The people will be gone.
+
+And the people were the only reason you stayed.
+
+You will want to go backwards.
+
+You cannot go backwards.
+
+And now I am home.
+
+<em>for Lilli. Because. Someday you will be the only one left.</em>
+ </div>
+
+ </article>
+
+
+ <div class="nav-wrapper">
+ <nav id="page-navigation" class="page-border-top">
+ <ul>
+ <li id="prev"><span class="bl">Previous:</span>
+ <a href="/jrnl/2006/05/i-dont-sleep-i-dream" rel="prev" title=" I Don&#x27;t Sleep I Dream">I Don't Sleep I Dream</a>
+ </li>
+ <li id="next"><span class="bl">Next:</span>
+ <a href="/jrnl/2006/06/homeward" rel="next" title=" Homeward">Homeward</a>
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+
+
+
+
+
+
+<div class="comment--form--wrapper ">
+
+<div class="comment--form--header">
+ <p class="hed">Thoughts?</p>
+ <p class="subhed">Please leave a reply:</p>
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diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2006/06/cadenza.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2006/06/cadenza.txt
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+Cadenza
+=======
+
+ by Scott Gilbertson
+ </jrnl/2006/06/cadenza>
+ Tuesday, 06 June 2006
+
+<p class="pull-quote">&#8220;On the meridian of time there is no justice, only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth and justice&#8221;<span class="credit">&mdash; <cite>H. Miller</cite></span>
+
+<span class="drop">O</span>utside it's raining. Beads of water form on the window in front of me. The glow of the unseen sun is fading behind midnight blue clouds and darkening sky. An old man in a butcher apron selling oysters under an awning smokes a cigarette and watches the mothers and children walking home with bags of groceries, the young man with the blue umbrella crosses the street with his head down. The hiss of tires on the pavement comes softly between Satie's piano notes; the wet greens leaves flap against the dark bark of maples trees; the headlights reflect in red and white streaks in the puddles. The digital sign across the street prints out events in red dot matrix letters, concerts, plays, museum openings, things happen in the Marais. Things happen most everywhere.
+
+<break>
+
+For me this thing began happening when I left Paris.
+
+And now. Now I can see my reflection slighted in the window. I am haggard, tired, my cheeks slightly sunken. My pen is dry, my notebook full, my laptop out of juice and my iPod drained. I have no money, nowhere to stay. My girlfriend tells me she's in love with the Italian deli boy (natch) and the soles of my shoes are worn through so I can feel the cold of the cobblestones when I walk.
+
+To be honest this isn't how I wanted to return to Paris.
+
+And yet. And yet. I haven't been this happy in years.
+
+When I left it was autumn, the leaves were falling. We all wondered aloud if the trees would ever fall from the leaves but knew better and so did not answer. Instead we walked. When the trees fall they take the whole game with them.
+
+Paris in spring stifles. The leaves uniform monochrome. Except for the Japanese maples which make me hungry for something I've never tasted with their burgundy leaves hinting at autumn before it has come. Another summer to sweat through. Or maybe they are a reminder of an autumn past, some constant by which to trace our elliptical paths through these winding cobblestone alleys.
+
+Paris is much like New York in that both were designed with autumn in mind. Though New York is a bit short on cobblestones.
+
+Last night, having nothing to do after I parted ways with someone I met on the train from Vienna, I wandered down to the Latin Quarter, an arrondissement I never really spent much time in. I bought a copy of Lydia Davis' translation of <em>The Way by Swann's</em> and then strolled up away from the Seine.
+
+It began to drizzle lightly, just enough to mottle the lens of my eyeglasses which made the lights in store windows glitter and blur as I walked past. At some point I found myself under a small awning and I paused to wipe my glasses on my shirt. When I put them back on I noticed that the darkened and grated shop window next to me was full of old cameras &mdash; 1960's Pentax and Contax, Kodak Brownings, Leica bodies, rows of Carl Zeiss lens and even a few small collapsible bellows cameras. I thought about an article I had read several days before which covered the recent announcements from both Canon and Nikon that they will cease still film camera production this year.
+
+Film is already a curiosity. Even small children in out-of-the-way countries expect to see instant results in a small digital screen and are visibly disappointed when they cannot. Silver haloid preserved the twentieth century but now its service is ended.
+
+Just across the street was well-lit display of digital camera's, cd and mp3 players, plasma televisions.
+
+For a long time Kodak used the slogan &#8220;preserving your memories.&#8221;
+
+I have a lot of pictures. Over 2000 as a matter of fact. Only about twenty are any good, which is roughly the ratio of good to bad that convinced me to give up on being a professional photographer back in college, but strangely it's the really bad ones that are the most compelling to me. Compelling because they look nothing like what I remember and thus do not interfere with the memories.
+
+I am sitting at the same cafe sipping, but not really enjoying all that much, a chocolate chaud much like the ones I wrote about eight months ago. It isn't as good, there is something missing. Okay let's be honest, someone, but you'll have to do better than that to earn your junior detective badge.
+
+You know what you learn traveling? After all this time what do I understand now that I did not then? What makes this chocolate chaud less fulfilling than that last?
+
+Simple.
+
+You cannot go backwards.
+
+You will want to go backwards.
+
+You will want to hang on to things when they are perfect.
+
+You will want to stay in Vang Veing, a floating village, on an island lost at sea.
+
+You will want to return even after you have left.
+
+You will want things to be the same when you return.
+
+But they will not be the same. The people will be gone.
+
+And the people were the only reason you stayed.
+
+You will want to go backwards.
+
+You cannot go backwards.
+
+And now I am home.
+
+<em>for Lilli. Because. Someday you will be the only one left.</em>
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+ <header id="header" class="post--header ">
+ <h1 class="p-name entry-title post--title" itemprop="headline">Homeward</h1>
+ <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post--date" datetime="2006-06-09T11:05:34" itemprop="datePublished">June <span>9, 2006</span></time>
+ <p class="p-author author hide" itemprop="author"><span class="byline-author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></span></p>
+ <aside class="p-location h-adr adr post--location" itemprop="contentLocation" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Place">
+ <span class="p-locality locality">Los Angeles</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">California</a>, <span class="p-country-name">U.S.</span>
+ </aside>
+ </header>
+ <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--single" itemprop="articleBody">
+ <p><span class="drop">N</span>ew York, New York. John F Kennedy airport 1 am date unknown, sleepy looking customs guard stamps a passport without hardly looking at, without even checking to see where I had been. A light drizzle is falling outside and the subways extension to the terminal never looked so good. Concrete hiss of tires, parabolic freeway ramps, a moth trapped inside an airport bus, the sodium yellow glow of subway lights, the gentle rocking of a train car, the green boarded fronts of a sixth avenue newsstand, shoes still leaking, still tired and still not looking back.</p>
+<p>Just off Bleeker, around the corner from Minetta where I once lived for a few weeks, there is a small coffee shop totally unremarkable in nearly every way save one distinguishing characteristic that drew me to it initially and draws me to it still — it doesn't close. Faced with a thirty six hour layover and nowhere near the cash to pay for a hotel (don't even ask about the credit cards) I figured good old Esperanta cafe was the ideal sort of place to spend the night.</p>
+<p><break></break></p>
+<p>I would like to say that I got off the plane ready to kiss the ground and mumble something about home at last, thank god home at last, but that isn't how I felt and isn't what I did. soon after I arrived in Los Angeles to see my family, friends started to email and call, which was wonderful, except that nearly everyone asked what it was like to be back. </p>
+<p>I've had three months to ponder that question now and I still don't have a definitive answer, which is at least partly my own fault because I've never asked exactly what you mean when you ask that question. Sometimes people ask that as a sort of loaded question, some people seemed to be waiting for me to bad mouth America. </p>
+<p>So let's start there. I could say a million bad things about America, but the truth is people, things are no better anywhere else, like Tom Wait's said “I know I know, things is tough all over.” There are things America does better than the rest of the world and there are things we could do so much better. </p>
+<p>I could be critical of America's corrupt, inept and lying politicians, but I could just as easily be critical of France's politicians, Cambodia's politicians, India's politicians, Laos, Thailand ad nauseam. We are no better and no worse. </p>
+<p>Then there's the other side of that coin, some seem to expect that I would be overjoyed to finally be back in the U.S., but the truth is I didn't miss it. I missed a lot of people here in the States, but the country itself never much crossed my mind. </p>
+<p>So what is it like to be home? I don't know, I'll tell you when I get there.</p>
+ </div>
+ </article>
+</main>
+
+</body>
+</html>
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+ <h3 class="h-adr" itemprop="address" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/PostalAddress"><span class="p-locality locality" itemprop="addressLocality">Los Angeles</span>, <a class="p-region region" href="/jrnl/united-states/" title="travel writing from the United States">California</a>, <span class="p-country-name" itemprop="addressCountry">U.S.</span></h3>
+ &ndash;&nbsp;<a href="" onclick="showMap(33.975160060264834, -118.42903373977045, { type:'point', lat:'33.975160060264834', lon:'-118.42903373977045'}); return false;" title="see a map">Map</a>
+ </div>
+ <time class="dt-published published dt-updated post-date" datetime="2006-06-09T11:05:34" itemprop="datePublished">June <span>9, 2006</span></time>
+ <span class="hide" itemprop="author" itemscope itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">by <a class="p-author h-card" href="/about"><span itemprop="name">Scott Gilbertson</span></a></span>
+ </div>
+ </header>
+ <div id="article" class="e-content entry-content post--body post--body--single" itemprop="articleBody">
+ <p><span class="drop">N</span>ew York, New York. John F Kennedy airport 1 am date unknown, sleepy looking customs guard stamps a passport without hardly looking at, without even checking to see where I had been. A light drizzle is falling outside and the subways extension to the terminal never looked so good. Concrete hiss of tires, parabolic freeway ramps, a moth trapped inside an airport bus, the sodium yellow glow of subway lights, the gentle rocking of a train car, the green boarded fronts of a sixth avenue newsstand, shoes still leaking, still tired and still not looking back.</p>
+<p>Just off Bleeker, around the corner from Minetta where I once lived for a few weeks, there is a small coffee shop totally unremarkable in nearly every way save one distinguishing characteristic that drew me to it initially and draws me to it still &mdash; it doesn&#8217;t close. Faced with a thirty six hour layover and nowhere near the cash to pay for a hotel (don&#8217;t even ask about the credit cards) I figured good old Esperanta cafe was the ideal sort of place to spend the night.</p>
+<p><break></p>
+<p>I would like to say that I got off the plane ready to kiss the ground and mumble something about home at last, thank god home at last, but that isn&#8217;t how I felt and isn&#8217;t what I did. soon after I arrived in Los Angeles to see my family, friends started to email and call, which was wonderful, except that nearly everyone asked what it was like to be back. </p>
+<p>I&#8217;ve had three months to ponder that question now and I still don&#8217;t have a definitive answer, which is at least partly my own fault because I&#8217;ve never asked exactly what you mean when you ask that question. Sometimes people ask that as a sort of loaded question, some people seemed to be waiting for me to bad mouth America. </p>
+<p>So let&#8217;s start there. I could say a million bad things about America, but the truth is people, things are no better anywhere else, like Tom Wait&#8217;s said &#8220;I know I know, things is tough all over.&#8221; There are things America does better than the rest of the world and there are things we could do so much better. </p>
+<p>I could be critical of America&#8217;s corrupt, inept and lying politicians, but I could just as easily be critical of France&#8217;s politicians, Cambodia&#8217;s politicians, India&#8217;s politicians, Laos, Thailand ad nauseam. We are no better and no worse. </p>
+<p>Then there&#8217;s the other side of that coin, some seem to expect that I would be overjoyed to finally be back in the U.S., but the truth is I didn&#8217;t miss it. I missed a lot of people here in the States, but the country itself never much crossed my mind. </p>
+<p>So what is it like to be home? I don&#8217;t know, I&#8217;ll tell you when I get there.</p>
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+
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diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2006/06/homeward.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2006/06/homeward.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..60b96ae
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2006/06/homeward.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,24 @@
+Homeward
+========
+
+ by Scott Gilbertson
+ </jrnl/2006/06/homeward>
+ Friday, 09 June 2006
+
+<span class="drop">N</span>ew York, New York. John F Kennedy airport 1 am date unknown, sleepy looking customs guard stamps a passport without hardly looking at, without even checking to see where I had been. A light drizzle is falling outside and the subways extension to the terminal never looked so good. Concrete hiss of tires, parabolic freeway ramps, a moth trapped inside an airport bus, the sodium yellow glow of subway lights, the gentle rocking of a train car, the green boarded fronts of a sixth avenue newsstand, shoes still leaking, still tired and still not looking back.
+
+Just off Bleeker, around the corner from Minetta where I once lived for a few weeks, there is a small coffee shop totally unremarkable in nearly every way save one distinguishing characteristic that drew me to it initially and draws me to it still &mdash; it doesn't close. Faced with a thirty six hour layover and nowhere near the cash to pay for a hotel (don't even ask about the credit cards) I figured good old Esperanta cafe was the ideal sort of place to spend the night.
+
+<break>
+
+I would like to say that I got off the plane ready to kiss the ground and mumble something about home at last, thank god home at last, but that isn't how I felt and isn't what I did. soon after I arrived in Los Angeles to see my family, friends started to email and call, which was wonderful, except that nearly everyone asked what it was like to be back.
+
+I've had three months to ponder that question now and I still don't have a definitive answer, which is at least partly my own fault because I've never asked exactly what you mean when you ask that question. Sometimes people ask that as a sort of loaded question, some people seemed to be waiting for me to bad mouth America.
+
+So let's start there. I could say a million bad things about America, but the truth is people, things are no better anywhere else, like Tom Wait's said &#8220;I know I know, things is tough all over.&#8221; There are things America does better than the rest of the world and there are things we could do so much better.
+
+I could be critical of America's corrupt, inept and lying politicians, but I could just as easily be critical of France's politicians, Cambodia's politicians, India's politicians, Laos, Thailand ad nauseam. We are no better and no worse.
+
+Then there's the other side of that coin, some seem to expect that I would be overjoyed to finally be back in the U.S., but the truth is I didn't miss it. I missed a lot of people here in the States, but the country itself never much crossed my mind.
+
+So what is it like to be home? I don't know, I'll tell you when I get there.
diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2006/06/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2006/06/index.html
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b5ade86
--- /dev/null
+++ b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2006/06/index.html
@@ -0,0 +1,107 @@
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+ <h1> Archive: June 2006</h1>
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+ <li class="arc-item"><a href="/jrnl/2006/06/homeward" title="Homeward">Homeward</a>
+ <time datetime="2006-06-09T11:05:34-04:00">Jun 09, 2006</time>
+ </li>
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