You CAN go Home Again

Allow me to present a photographic summary of my trip to Quinhagak. For those in the unknow, Quinhagak is the village in which I taught last year and the previous year.

Funkypunk likes planes. Funkypunk was my travel buddy. Funkypunk is not this shadowy in real life. Funkpunk is merely a victim of poor photography and slothfulness when it comes to editing aforementioned sub-par photography.

Quinhagak is pretty much snow-free at this point. Nunapitchuk is not. This picture is also crappy. It's crooked. Again, too lazy to edit.

We saw two eagles at the beach! One flew away, and this one wouldn't let me get any closer before it, too, fled. I hopped over some seriously slimy, muddy beach ice just to get THIS close.

Ate several Easter meals with various groups of people. Not as many as Funkypunk, but she's more social than I am.

What's Easter without an egg hunt for the wee ones?

Quinhagak has this zany ability to be both dusty and muddy at the same time.

Overall, it was quite the good weekend. It was great to see old friends and students, and we even managed to come back with a few frozen trout, a gift from a friend. Good times were had by all.

Sweatin' to the Moldies, Static-style

It's really, really hot in our apartment right now. Or, anyway, it was this morning. You see, the heat went off last week, so it got fixed. However, it got TOO fixed. It was just 100% on. All-go-no-stop heat. We slept in the living room with the one open-able window open.

It's also moldy in our apartment right now. But really, It's been moldy all year, so that's not such a big deal. It's probably been moldy all decade, bare minimum. It's in the ceiling. Our house, if we don't air it out, takes on delicate nasal hues of musty goodness.

Don't let the musty smell fool you, though. The humidity hovered around 20% all winter. For one stretch there, Loki would squint a little when we went to pet him because he KNEW the shock was coming.

All in all, our apartment is a very special place. That is why I'm glad to announce we won't be living there next year. With a little poking and prodding and a goodly amount of luck, we've procured a much nicer house... one that was never, ever, in its entire existence, a Bureau of Indian Affairs school. No middle-aged adults will say, "Man, I remember having school there." It's just a house.