At Heathrow, I got so mad, I squeezed my coffee cup until the lid popped off, and French roast splashed on my black jeans.

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An American couple argued behind me, about euros and pounds and dollars. Infectious sense, that of cents, a second for a cent, an hour of togetherness for this much, relationships subjected to a floating exchange rate.

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I returned from my journey to California with several resolutions, among them the high possibility that I'll retire this diary after I reach entry number 999. It's been a long time, nearly 10 years, and I'm ready for new fields.

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