SL, UT (that's Salt Lake, Utah, to you).

I was in Utah recently. I went for a conference on a software I use regularly for work. We stayed at Silver Lake, 10,000 feet above what I now think of as "beloved" sea-level. Baltimore was a dreamy 80 degrees when I boarded Delta flight 1203 to Salt Lake City. It was 36 degrees and snowing when I deplaned.

My coworker drove the rented Chevy Impala up the impossibly steep mountain roads through blowing, swirling, drifting snow. I closed my eyes on the hairpin turns.

That night, I discovered I have a relatively reliable sense of direction, unlike the Impala driver. We went to Whole Foods--much better than the ones I'm familiar with--and I bought apples from Washington (Pacific Rose, delish), and a bunch of bananas, some cookies, a protein shake. Lucky for my coworker, I was in the car on the way back to the resort hotel, navigating our way through unfamiliar mountain roads.

The next day, after doodling through sessions about unique file output names and special rate cards for product centers, the high altitude punched me in the stomach. The celery root soup from the high-toned restaurant tasted better going down.

I slinked back to my ski-resort hotel room, switched on the fireplace and collapsed into bed. I missed my husband. It was exactly 4 weeks and 1 day since our tuxedo wedding. I remembered feeling beautiful and loved and happy and scooched further under the covers. I watched Sabrina (the new one with Harrison Ford). I wished my hair looked as good as Julia Ormand's, I cried. I called my husband. I asked him to say "poor baby." He did. He googled "altitude sickness," and read me my symptoms from his computer screen, 1800 miles away and 2 hours later. He mentioned that the sleeping pill I take every night can make symptoms worse.

I turned out the lights without taking my sleeping pill. I turned over. Again. I thought about how crappy I felt. I started running numbers for our new budget. I wondered about Mormon Undergarments. I decided if there were Jewish Sacred Undergarments, I would at least consider wearing them. I got up. Again. I took a bath. I ate some cookies. I wished I hadn't. I turned out the lights. Again. I decided WTF, I can live with worsened altitude sickness symptoms, as long as I get some fucking sleep. I took my sleeping pill. I slept.

I woke up exhausted, but better. More sessions, more doodling, another drive. This time we went to an "Indo-Persian" restaurant that was neither Indian nor Persian. I had the Saag Panir. It looked vaguely like Saag Panir I've had before, but tasted nothing like it. On the way to the restaurant, a bird flew remarkably close to the car. A big bird. Really big. Well, not as big as Big Bird, but still, a good 2 feet tall. It was black and white. It had a really long tail. It was pretty, but disconcerting because it was so close. I was particularly impressed when, another mile or two down the road, another one landed a few feet from the car. At the bookstore that evening (an independent that will surely be closed in the next two years), we looked it up in the bird manual by the front door. A black-billed Magpie. Non-migratory. They have remarkable ability to mock dogs and cats and even human voices. These seemingly fearless birds just chill at 9000 feet all the time. They're no snow birds, no fair-weather occupants of the mountain-top. No sir. Non-migratory. I wonder if they would find the air too heavy in Baltimore? Perhaps their avian lungs would balk at all of the extra oxygen.

More likely a neighborhood kid would use them for practice, with slingshot or .38, a magpie might make a good target. I wonder what a magpie might say if allowed to learn the lingo on the streets of Charm City. Then again, what do they say now, on those mountains with skiers and Mormons?