Category Archives: travel

The Shore of Ireland

A month in Ireland and I would never feel dry, the entire time. It was the wettest summer on record and the water was coming from everywhere – the sky, the ground, the sea, my eyes, my very heart.

The second day I was there he walked me through his silent village, the river a black ribbon and us under a bell jar, walking in molasses, sticky and slow. He took me to the abandoned train station, overgrown with reeds and foxgloves and the loneliest place I’d ever been and there on the platform my face broke open and turned to water, my nose my mouth my hands, and I keened my sorrow into the green. Inside I admitted what I’d known the moment I’d put my arms around him at the Dublin airport and felt the birdlike bones in his back – he was mine no longer, I mean he was mine for the taking but I knew he wasn’t made for me or me for him; it was out of order, disordered, it didn’t fit, but I put on my weak American smile and soldiered on for a day or two until we sat on the platform and I knew it was gone.

The next night he disappeared into the smoke of the bars in town my insides scraped raw and for the next four weeks we tried, we pretended, we rode from one end of the country to the other and we kept at it. Solstice rainbow on Malin Head, as far north as you can go, the silent treatment on Clare Island, him out of his mind in the green muck of Belmullet, and all the while me letting the love die, coiling out of me and left there in the soil of his country and nearly mine, a place with her fingers so deep into me that to this day I weep like an exile. I emptied myself of the dream, the life I could have had all of it, I still can’t tell you why, my best friend says it would have been ‘too small’ for me, but I can tell you that although I answered the call of my truth and that’s the best thing you can do in many ways it broke me and I have never been the same since. I never believed after that and I am now only so many grains of salt – I know better now and I will never break on the shore of Ireland again.

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When You Leave

This time I wasn’t deep into The Ugly Cry before I even hit the freeway onramp out of the airport – I managed to save that until I was safely behind locked doors. This time there were just a couple of pretty tears as I piloted my car through the British fog that enveloped San Francisco, foot to the floor, aiming towards the deep heat of Marin. I kept it all at bay as I went shopping at World Market to cheer myself up – a few new votive holders, a bag of interesting-looking pasta, drawer liners. Anything to keep me from thinking of how you’re gone now.

 

When you leave, the earth tilts beneath my feet and there’s no compass here, no way to know which way is up. North, south, our eternal question (now that east and west has been solved). Straight forward or ass-backwards, it’s hard to say. The fountain you set up this morning is gurgling away in a lovely melody, but all I hear is your absence. The rancho, this petite little treehouse in the middle of a place we’d never otherwise come if time and circumstance hadn’t dropped me here on my head, is too big. The Arabic-looking bedspread is gone, stripped and sent to a better room, one with more life.

 

In these hours after you go back to your real life and I to mine, it’s always the same. The quiet – not the kind I like and strive so hard for – the trail of pretty things you always leave, too much food in the fridge we didn’t end up eating. Your bottled water on the counter, the ghost of Egyptian musk that will dissipate within hours.

 

Thank God for the dogs. They bark, bringing life to the house, and they require me to be present, to not slip into the miasma of  self-pity and ennui that always follow your departure, to leave the tequila and the medicine cabinet alone.  I’ll go through the motions – feed them, water the garden, wash the dishes, get things ready for work tomorrow – all the while walking around with a ragged hole blown through me, since the other half of my soul has landed four hundred long miles away, alone in its own house, but not yet at home.  

City of Angels

Coming down from the sky LA begins as a trickle of houses on the mountainside and then explodes into what looks like a glowing yellow motherboard from 37,000 feet. I am fascinated by the grids within grids; the massive boulevards and freeways that stretch on without relief until the whole thing tumbles into the sea. But I don’t see the sea yet; all there is are roofs, black ribbons of road, cars crawling like beetles everywhere, and as we descend a football field with Crenshaw
ougars
 emblazoned in the grass.

As it is when I travel by train, I find the poorer neighborhoods more interesting. The houses are small, boxy, with postage stamp yards in front. Most sobering of all are the large blocky apartment complexes, places where I imagine there is little respite, little relief. There are no pools. I begin to see huge industrial campuses, not pretty at all; giant Lego warehouses and Soviet office blocs and I think, people actually work there, and are glad to, and suddenly I’m overcome with gratitude for the beautiful mid-Century building I work in, nestled in a valley surrounded on nearly all sides by trees (but let’s not forget, its own hellish, permanently-clogged black artery of a freeway, too). As we head west the houses expand and so do the lawns and then come the inevitable aquamarine jewels dotting the landscape. Swimming pools, some of them drained, which makes me think of skaters from my childhood.

My best friend, R., and his man pick me up and we pull off the Harbor Freeway and go eat at Mercado La Paloma, trying desperately to choose between Oaxacan, Thai, or American. We have steak. Rice and beans like you only get in LA.

And I buy R
la5.’s man his first ever Thai iced coffee, which he loves and ends up completely jacked on. As we drive home we fly down the wide streets, strangely free of traffic, De La Ghetto’s Es Dificil, which I’ve never heard before, blasting from the speakers. Everything – the breeze, the music, the slanted gold light that you find only in LA – crystallizes into overwhelming emotion and R. turns back towards me and as
ks why I’m crying and I answer I’m so happy, and I am.

We get home and they leave to go see Pink Martini and I’m alone in the huge blue house. I try to read but I’m too tired. Sun going down and the last hint of light in the sky, I go sit on the balcony. Downtown lights glittering, the peacocks, now seasonally free of their heavy tails, roosting in the telephone poles. I take a few photos, text a friend. I’m so tired my bones hurt. I lie down and sleep, waking up near midnight and suddenly everyone’s home.

1am five of us pile into the Jeep and head west on Sunset towards the grocery store. Five carts, each with a list, and we’re all done in a half hour. Like all kids who grew up in hard times, we buy too much. We stop for Mexican takeout, machaca-style, please. I feel joyous at the life on the streets; people everywhere, even in the middle of the night – I miss this. We get home and begin prepping, Didi grinding up her Dominican marinade for the steaks. Finally at 4 I barely manage to fall asleep, on the floor, looking at the downtown lights through the sliding glass doors.

Sunday morning I’m the first up as always, brewing the French Press and reading about the Kennedys. Slowly the dead arise and then we’re all machines: no one is washed, we’re barely caffeinated, but tla2ogether we are a heat-seeking, party-throwing missile. Driving on the freeway to Fontana to pick up R.’s Mami, putting together salads, fueling up the grill, skewering meat, coming in with more bags. We are ready.

The people we love start coming. Mami comes in and almost starts to cry, telling me she thought she would never see me again. The house and garden smell like Jamaica, mon. Azara, 17 months, dressed up in skeletons and smiling big. We smoke, unapologetically. Hussy makes a pitcher of Southern Kisses and we all get kissed. Then Didi makes her mojitos and R. adds strawberry soda (ghetto! but I love it!) and it’s on. There’s too much food and it keeps coming. Chips, salsa, pita, hummous, pasta salad, fruit salad, green salad, cucumber salad, steak, chicken, shrimp, burgers, dogs, veggie burgers, corn, it never ends. The smell of clove cigarettes and discussion of how they’re about to be illegal. So much laughter. The birds overhead and the ants under feet.

Night comes. We herd inside, try to play board games, but it’s futile. We are a box of firecrackers, set off and sparking every which way. Eventually we all trickle away and it’s just me and Didi and Hussy catching the last episode of Project Runway. I can’t keep my eyes open and soon it’s morning and I’m up with the French press again. Didi comes out and we have our one on one time on the patio. I have missed her so much, and I relish getting her to myself for a minute. I pack up and she drops me off at Olvera Street. The Virgin of Guadalupe weeps on me, or at least I want to think so.

I spend every last dime in my wallet. Earrings, a cross, a bracelet, a lot of little gifts. I eat my ritual shredded beef taco, the delicacy thatla3 all exiled Southern Californians grieve for. I stand at the foot of Olvera, across from the Chevron and the train station, and watch the flood of people go by. A lot of cops. A woman says she loves my earrings. Guys in their grey sweats, just released from jail, carrying plastic bags of their belongings, yelling to one another across the boulevard, going somewhere, going nowhere, going back again. Soon.

The ride to the airport is quiet. We listen to Seal: ‘Everyone says you’re amazing, now that you’re clean.’ The houses back up right to the freeway, the signs are endless, there’s no green relief. When the boys drop me, R. embraces me, his vanilla-musk scent a cloud around me, crying hard.

Herded through security, I get pulled over and patted down again, like I did coming south. The plane is tight. The ride is fine. I suck down airplane coffee and read the story of Sarah Palin’s daughter’s baby daddy dishing about the reality of the Palin household. Scandalous. Landing at SFO, I notice a really pretty girl in a cute print dress getting off the plane with me. As she’s walking ahead of me I think her skirt’s maybe a wee bit too short and on the escalator behind her I get a full view of what she’s got beneath it (commando!). I consider telling her but figure this is not a sisterhood moment.

In the car, up the road, the fog comes on and then I’m going slow down Skyline, barely able to see. I stop in the City, at the ocean, to say hello. Everything is wrapped in cottony mist. Once over the Bridge, the fog lifts and I’m not really happy about it. I notice how our freeway, brutal as it can be, is lined with dark green trees. I pull off my exit. I am home, but not sure I want to be.