Yesterday was so much cooler than expected--though still very humid--and then, late in the afternoon, a thick fog rolled in from the bay and we spent the evening in island time. The boys were outside by the fire pit, and I wandered in and out from kitchen to yard. The maples dripped with mist; the roofs were blurred and vanishing. Paul grilled carne asado. I made roasted potatoes with cilantro and new peas, and baked a plum flan. The air was heavy and strange, an underwater haze, a lungful of sea.

This morning little has changed. Fog squats on the town. The ocean has come calling, and the dampness is like a wet woolen veil.

This week will be five days of pants-on-fire conference prep, and then Saturday I enter the dome, and you will probably hear from me only sporadically until the following weekend. This week I'll also be trying to manage household loose ends, before handing the reins to the boys. It's not going to be easy to run a conference from a location in which I customarily serve as janitor, cook, and laundress.