Ez ardo bizidunik, ez andre bizardunik

The Salla women are fiercely independent. We crave freedom, we carve out our own space, we love to soar. Which is to say, we don't like having to take the ferry. But it must be close to fifty klicks from Central Park Station to Jersey Hills, with traffic all the way. You aren't allowed in the fast channels without snapping onto the City grid, which Mephista used to fake for me: which is why I'm standing at the bow-rail of the Spirit of Newark at eight o'clock in the morning with my elbows out to fend off the Wall Street night shift and their corporate concubines.

My head aches from too much wine last night and not enough water this morning. There's an old Basque saying, "Just because you're up, doesn't mean it's dawn." Words to live by. It's a crisp morning in the Greater Apple, but I didn't get to sleep until after four and I can't say I'm enjoying Nature's Early Morning Splendor. Still, I wanted to be traveling against the traffic both ways. Not to mention that I'm timing my visit for, um, minimum interruptions.

Whoever's working Thor for the Tri-state I'm thinking is just as hung over. Yesterday we were broiling, which they finally figured out about 3 AM. Some geek in Weather Control must have flipped the switch with a vengeance, because this morning the TP is in high-reflect mode, a silvery-white sheen across the water that goes into your eyes like thumbtacks if you're not ready for it. The temp must have dropped into the low fifties. For tactical reasons I'm wearing a skirt cut above the knee and a light summer blouse, but unless goose-pimples are sexy, the outfit is not working as planned. The wind on the deck is almost enough to make me duck back into the smelly cabin, currently stuffed with Jersey Girls getting off the night shift. The line between chic and chick blurs when your teeth start to chatter.

At least I decided to wear my deck shoes for the trip. I've got a pair of sexy open-toed sandals in my bag, right under the taser (which you could take as evidence that I still don't know exactly how I'm going to play this meeting yet. If I had thought to bring a sweater, I would just opt for violence and to hell with the sandals, but as with so many things in this life, choice of wardrobe limits one's options.)

I also have a squirt of capsacin (no CFCs in the aerosol) next to the gun in my purse, and a little three-shot Ladies' Flechette Pendent around my neck. Accessorize, Accessorize, Accessorize….

Nerea neretzat, zurea biontzat
OK. 9:52 AM and I have arrived in deepest, darkest suburbia, Jersey Seaview Bluffside Woodland Shady Manor Estate Planned Cooperative Complex Community. Homes. For Living. There's probably an "And Country Club" in there somewhere too. The whole glorified subdivision is a wilderness of Ye Wooded Lanes crinkled up like your small intestine: the artificially winding roads are supposed to promote the illusion of country living. All the houses are set well back from the road, so you can just see glimpses of their rounded Post-Natural facades peeking between the leaves of Lo-Maintenance Faux Eastern Maples.

Years of living with Mephista broke me of the map-study habit, and it wasn't until we arrived at the Jersey terminus that I realized my plan of getting to the house (walk or take the bus) was beyond ridiculous.

I had to rent a kickbike.

Did I mention the short skirt?

Lehenean barka, bigarrenean urka
I arrived at 4048 Turning Leaf Lane feeling a whole lot less happy with the world, which considering that I woke up in Bitch Prime was not a good thing. I considered just walking up to the front door with the taser out and a Deathstare on my bug-encrusted face, but there is a limit to what you can ask a flower-print blouse to support. I pushed the kickbike behind a screen of (authentic?) swordferns, swearing quietly but with great feeling. Then I stepped out of my deck shoes and stuffed them in my bag, where they sat on top of the gun with the heels poking out looking stupid. I pulled them out and stuck them under the kickbike. Then I fetched out my sandals-now scuffed-from my purse and teetered there with one hand on an imitation tree while I slipped them on.

I found I couldn't make the last walk without checking my compact to confirm that my hair had truly gone Medusa between the ferry and the kickbike ride. It had. On the plus side, if I hadn't checked the mirror, I wouldn't have seen the caterpillar in my hair. Bugs on your head never make the impression a girl is hoping for. I flicked it out. Score one for vanity.

I switched my purse over to my right shoulder so I wouldn't have to fumble around for the taser with my left hand, stepped out of the Genuine Spurious Bracken, and started down Ye Olde Drivewaye.

The house was a big bland monument to the monoculture: the same curved smartglass bay window, the same decorative "flood pillars" and recessed doorway that every topped-out Senior Middle Manager in Dublin and Joburg and Jakarta aspires to. I looked around for fake Italian garden sculptures with surveillance cameras in their mouths, but they must have been stashed in the Terrazzo (or, "back yard" as they would say in Rockaway.) Still, there would be cameras watching; the house would have informed anyone still at home that I was coming. From here on in it would all be on record.

The purse kept slipping off my right shoulder so I put it back where it belonged. Cross draw the taser if necessary.

I walked a little faster, and managed to hit the buzzer - BRZZZZZZ!- right before the door slid open on a gawky surprised-looking guy with a little sprinkle of late-adolescent acne and wrists thin enough to wear my bracelets. "Wh-wh-wh-wh?" he stammered. His eyes sort of lurched over the merchandise for a second, fell off the hemline and then jerked back. "Wh?"

The Salla women, like other bitches, can pretty much smell fear. "Hey!" I said, with my brightest smile. "What's up, Dwayne?"