It's cold in my hotel room, like there's a heat sink somewhere. My drapes are pulled and I'm in my warm pjs, but still I shiver and goosbumps cover my arms. I have no clue why my teeth aren't chattering at this moment.

I awoke to snow and watched it fall as I waited for the shuttle, then was sequestered in a climate controlled ex-tank factory for 10 hours. I have no concept of time when I can't see the sun or weather. After a while, people blur together and it feels like we're on some rotating dais.

There were many menonites at the show today, walking around in handmade dresses and poorly fitted blue jeans from the 1970s, rescued from good will and patched. I mean no ill respect to them, but it's very obvious the gene pool is about an inch deep. But they are polite and smile at me as I wish them a good day, but walk by with out stopping. Most people do.

My soccer mom sweater got many complements today, and I'm getting used to my pastel and earth toned knit tops. I still hate khakies, which make my legs look like two beached whales bloated and pale with death attached to my hips. On the plus side - my hair looks awesome.

I finished "Portrait in Sepia," in which nothing of note happened, but I didn't care because I was so wrapped up in the lives of the characters and the history of San Francisco and Chile. These people could have done nothing (which they accomplished quite well) and I would have asked for more. Now I want to visit Chile, even though I know it'll never happen. I am in love with the Santiago that the author wrote about. Besides, Chile's not TOO far from Bolivia (hell, same continent) and then I could visit Patti and Marcelo. I miss them so much.

I'm now reading "Midnight's Children" and enjoying it. It's a thick read and I find myself lost in his jumps through time and narration, but once again - it's back story and history and I love it like burning. Next on the chopping block is "Galapagos" because I love Vonnegut and the idea of evolution. That's about all I know.

I get lost in the covers of the king bed, and miss the warmth of my cats and the smell of my pillows. They bleach everything here to a crazy degree and my towels smell like a swimming pool and scratch my skin.

Tomorrow I promise to tell you about the 1980s trophy house wife and the 50 year old baby girl.