I have to breathlessly utter that phrase upon any sort of arrival, a la Lloyd Christmas in one of the greatest road trip movies there is.
But I am there. Or here, rather. It's snowy. I got in last night and spent the morning sweeping and mopping out the mouse poop and a winter's worth of dust. They never clean these places. We'll see how clean I leave it when my season here is over. Also, last year's tenant apparently had a dog.
The only sorts of outlets piercing the logs that form my new digs are the electrical variety, so it looks like the dream of internet is out. I'm not surprised, having lived this sort of twentieth-century monastic existence a few times before. We'll just have to see how I manage to keep up with the intertubes between work and trips into town (about 35 miles.) At least I get cell phone reception out there, so I'm not totally cut off.
As soon as I finish stirring up all the hantavirus from the corners of my cabin, I'll put together a comprehensive written tale of my recent travels and edit together the hours and hours of video footage I gathered. Kidding; it's probably only one hour, but I promise to condense it to four minutes or less.
Until then, carry on without me as best you can. Shit, I'm surprised this whole internet dealy hasn't just collapsed without my constant presence. Yet, at least.