Alexandra Vaillancourt

Every once in awhile, I exchange email messages with Maddie, one of my students, who just turned three and a half. She tells her mom what to type, and her mom types it because Maddie can’t type yet. She tells me about what she’s been doing, what is interesting to her, and maybe she’ll ask me a question or two.

I’m in San Francisco. My friend Kurt tells me I must go to this great Chinese food restaurant, House of Nanking. I went with two other friends, Rekha and Paul.

The Train

I’m on the Amtrak Coast Starlight train from Oakland to San Luis Obispo. Traveling by train in California is very different from doing it in New England. The trains in CA don’t run as frequently, and they don’t make as many stops. Well, on this train, anyway. I think it’s a special train.

I have a collection of ashes; that is to say, the cremated remains of my mother, my grandmother and my father. They’re all at my brother’s apartment, and we don’t know what to do with them.

The following is in diary form. Notes from my days on the South Beach Diet, uh, Plan. Phase 1 lasts for fourteen days.

I bought the South Beach Diet book on Wednesday. I went on vacation to Vermont on Thursday. My plan was to read the book and prepare mentally, then start to eat differently on Monday. I will not call this a diet because that word has a negative connotation. It’s a change in my eating habits.

On the day that Michael Jackson died, I was in Vermont, on vacation with friends. I was on the couch, reading The South Beach Diet (that’s a foreshadow of next week’s column), and my friend Paul came out of his bedroom. He said, “Guess what? Michael Jackson died!” I said some bad words meaning, “Come now, I don’t believe what you are telling me!” But I only said three words, which I cannot print here.

Your body at 40 is not the same as it was at 20. Or even 30. I’m not kidding. I’m not trying to be a wiseguy, either. I just wanted to let you know, because I didn’t know. If I didn’t know, maybe you didn’t, either. Did you?

Last week I went to a bar to celebrate the birthday and music of Prince Rogers Nelson, aka The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, aka Prince. I was so excited. A local DJ throws this bash every year, and I’d missed the last few. In preparation, I got out my box of Prince concert shirts and chose a black spaghetti strap tank that read simply, “Prince”. I was really geared up for a night out on the town.

Something woke me up very early this morning. It was a weird electronic sound, the kind made by a device that needs new batteries. It sounded like a chirp. I sat straight up in bed, and had a flashback.