A romanticized, fictionalized true story.

December

It was December. I forgot. I started the day upset and discontent. I had forgotten what that felt like, so long had passed since this specific strain of upset had surfaced. Had it ever? There are so many different strains. It was December and I got ready for my bike ride. I had forgotten that it could get so chilly in the morning and couldn’t find the sleeves to keep my arms warm. I’d go without them. I’d be fine, most likely. I always am. Would I be cold on the downhills? I was sure the ride would work out the upset – work it out in my mind, workout until it was out of my mind. Things end in a variety of ways, I had forgotten. I was familiar with only one ending, but there could be – would be – many. Each one would require moving forward, gracefully. Even so, I didn’t expect this end, this way, at this time. I did not expect me having to end the story. I hadn’t expected this story that got me so upset. It was December and it started off chilly, but got warm during the ride. I was riding downhill, going over 30 mph, and I was cold. I had forgotten that I rode down this hill before, my brakes on the entire time. Was that six months ago? I forgot. I was so much more fearless this time, more confident. Fearless or confident? They are different, slightly. I could not put into words the specific composition of this particular upset. I had forgotten that some storylines were possible, weren’t just clichés, weren’t just urban legends, weren’t just someone else’s experience. I had forgotten that sometimes, some endings would still require me to be better, be strong, have resolve. I was riding downhill and trying to figure out how to get over this upset, this upset that took me by surprise because it came too quickly, prematurely, and I knew the best thing would be to accept the invite, to have the drink, to have a new conversation. It was December and I knew that I was good at conversation; that, I hadn’t forgotten. I said yes, let’s meet up tonight. Still, my heart was filled with weight, heavy down in my chest, a sponge soaked with water it hadn’t meant to be immersed in. My limbs felt tired and lethargic, my soul uninspired, even as I was working things out on my bike. My heart held certain this feeling wouldn’t go away, ever, despite that my mind more rational. It was December and my heart had forgotten. Forty miles later, my legs felt strong and accomplished but my heart still weak and tentative. I got ready, and put on my favorite jeans and a steel blue shirt. I had forgotten that the blue of the shirt made my eyes look more green – the green hue lacking in the shirt bringing out the green in my eyes. I put heels on, and I forgot to consider whether he was taller than me. I forgot whether I was even supposed to consider that, if I ever had before when I was getting ready? I was going through the motions, much like on my bike ride, but without a trusted leader. Going through the motions was better, though, than not going through them, better than being sitting alone with my upset that I could not work out. This I did not forget. It was December and it was better to go through the motions than to try to wrap my mind a story I didn’t expect, an ending I didn’t want, hindsight that was doing me no good. I parked the car and looked at my green eyes and light hair and put on one coat of lip gloss, like I always do, before getting out of the car. I walked to the bar and realized I forgot my lip gloss in the car. My lip gloss, the most important thing in my purse, the thing I reach for frequently. I forgot it. Should I go back? I don’t like being late, I didn’t go back. It was December and I was just doing this to move forward, to get sidetracked. I looked at the door to go in, and decided I would wait outside a few minutes rather than meet him inside. It was December and I had forgotten that the afternoon warmth had started to turn back to a chill. I was early. I turned around, away from the door, and he walked around the corner, early too. I saw him, and I had forgotten how easy it is, sometimes, to recognize someone you’ve never met. I saw him, and we both smiled. I saw him, and I forgot that I was just going through the motions. I forgot what led me to that moment, this date, this evening. All of it ran downstream, quickly, and I didn’t reach out for any of it. I had forgotten that I knew not to reach back, to only reach forward. It was December and I said hello. I said hi. He gave me a hug, as if we were more than just two people that looked familiar to each other. I forgot that we weren’t. His eyes were lighter than mine, not green, not blue, not brown. Just light, so light. His smile broad. I forgot I hadn’t been smiling all day. I forgot there was a moment in time that I was not smiling. I forgot that this was not the very beginning of my day’s story. The very beginning of the story of my week, my month, my autumn. Was there a story that led me here? I forgot it, if there was. It had all evaporated. We talked small talk at first, then medium talk, then deep talk. I did not feel nerves, did not feel flutters, but felt comfortable. I forgot that we had never talked before. I forgot that deep talk usually took a while to get to, for me, at least. We floated between easy and deep, light and serious, my story and his story. I forgot there was ever a conversation not this pleasant, this easy. I forgot that I ever thought about anything but this moment. It was December. It was a first date on which I didn’t want to go, for which I didn’t want to be available. But I was available, and I did go. And I forgot. I remembered that first dates can be tricky, can be hard, can be tedious. But I had forgotten that not all were, and this one wasn’t. Three hours flew by and he walked me to my car, where my lip gloss lay. I had forgotten I didn’t have it with me. He gave me a hug goodnight, and I forgot it wasn’t the first time we hugged. I forgot that we had hugged hello, too. I climbed in the car and waved goodbye. In being so easy and comfortable it was spectacular, and I forgot there was this strain of spectacular. I had forgotten that not just upset comes in different strains. My phone buzzed with a text message and before I pulled off to drive home I looked at the message. “You didn’t seem yourself on our ride this morning. You okay?” “Yes, I’m good.” “What was wrong?” “I was upset.” “Over what?” “I forgot. I totally forgot. I just had a great first date.” “I’ve heard you say that before. But I like each time you say it.” It was December and I forgot. I forgot and that helped me remember: the motions are never just motions; I don’t need my lip gloss; my eyes are green and I know how to say hello, start a conversation; smiles can be familiar even if you’ve never met; any strain of upset is not strong enough to last forever, not strong enough to survive the motions I go through as I just go forward; I am the one constant equation in these great first dates; spectacular comes in many strains too; sometimes comfortable is spectacular and sometimes, just moving forward is spectacular. There’ll always be someone new, a new story. There’ll always be some end to some story that precedes the new little story coming my way. The latter part of that sentence the critical part, the one I might have forgotten. I woke up so upset. It was December and, by the end of the day, I forgot.

February

It was February. I knew. There was snow on the ground and I wore my boots. I stepped over the snow, waved goodbye and smiled, and I knew. I climbed the steps, one at a time, slower than normal, letting this last moment drag out as long as the seconds would let it. Step one; I knew that a minute cannot last more than sixty seconds. Step two; I knew I couldn’t turn one moment into two, two into three. Step three, I knew that I would always have these moments, but I would not have more. Step four, I knew my heart would ache, ache because it was full. There was snow on the ground and it was melting, but, still, I had to step over it to get to the sidewalk. It wouldn’t melt for quite some time, there was too much snow. It was still winter, still cold. The apartment would be warm when I walked inside, and the stain from the snow on my boots would quickly look like a layer of dust. The snow was bright and beautiful, sharply contrasted against the crisp sky. One of the sharp contrasts that made the city inviting. The snow would melt, this I knew. I knew, as I climbed the stairs – step five, step six – these moments were finite and I was near the end. I would take my boots off, and put my running shoes on, and I wouldn’t need my boots later that day. By the time I reached the top of the staircase, by the time I opened the door, my heart ached. It ached like it had on previous visits, last Spring, last Summer, but it ached differently, too. It ached with gratefulness. It ached because I knew a chapter was about to close, was closing, was closed. I was where I needed to go, he helped me get there. He dropped me off and I was so grateful for him getting me there, for it being him, specifically him, for setting the standard high. He helped me step through snow this morning, rain before. Summer heat and thirst, even. He had helped me step through phases, unknowingly, without asking for anything in return. He spoke to me. He let me share bits and pieces of myself, at my pace. He let me be clumsy, he let me be brave, he let me be strong, he let me be forward, he let me be fun, he let me be thoughtful. He made me realize that I let myself be these things. There was snow on the ground. I had said goodbye before, when there was misty rain, when there was sunshine, when it was chilly. But I knew this goodbye, with snow on the ground, was different. The snow was more dense than the rain, more resilient than the rays of the sun, more impactful than a chill. The snow is not as vulnerable to a quick change of weather. Its mark will last longer. There would be a stain of snow on my boots – a layer of dust that the sun or the rain never left. A layer that can be seen – visceral, visible, a reminder of where they (I) had walked, where they (I) had been. I hadn’t allowed this layer before. I hadn’t wanted layered, I wanted simple, but now the snow was on the ground and I was happy to see the layer of dust on my boots. Step seven, step eight. I was grateful to have been reminded of layers. Layers of experience, layers of conversation, layers of intimacy. The layers were nice. They were inviting, warm. They were cozy. And still, also, sexy and fun. None of the layers diminished the others, as I had feared. I wasn’t diminished, I wasn’t weighed down. I was myself; if anything, was lighter. It was February and I knew that these moments were meant to make me comfortable for what lay ahead of me, but not for him. It was February and I wasn’t meant to walk in the snow for long, not for longer than this weekend, for now. It didn’t mean less, it didn’t mean more. He dropped me off and my heart was full and I had not realized that my heart was as in this as it was. I knew that I failed, luckily, at keeping my heart contained. I knew some failures were good. I walked up the stairs and with each step I knew that I had been walking for some time – up stairs, forward miles, over hills. In April, when I said goodbye and went outside I had the wrong shoes on, and I had told him the next day my toes had frostbite. I had been unprepared for the spring to be cold. In summer, things were light, brief, fleeting. It’s not hard to get summer right. Now, it was February, and my boots had a light layer of dust from the snow and it was a layer for which I had prepared, but did not expect. My heart ached but not with sadness, not quite longing, but close. He had been my usher, holding my arm as I was walked forward. I now knew things I had not known I didn’t know. How lucky I was to have these moments, to have gotten where I needed to be, to have grown comfortable with layers, these layers. My heart ached under the weight of the snow on my boots and the gratefulness in my heart. My heart ached knowing that I was ready for layers on my feet, around my heart, in my life. I wanted layers that collapsed all together. My heart ached as I wanted to say thank you for more than just dinner and breakfast and conversation and a kiss and the ride through the snow with him singing with the radio, but I did not quite have the right words for all of that. I only had simple words, a simple hug, a simple wave. And my mind wrapped itself around the complexity of what I was thankful for, what I longed for, as I climbed the steps, as I took my boots off. I would not have gotten here without him, not specifically to this point, at this time. I opened the door. I was grateful. It was February and I knew.

May

It was May. I cried. It was sunny. I had a Hawaiian breakfast with eggs and spam and a mimosa, and my heart was beating so fast, so strong, so beautifully. It was May and the sun was shining and there were kind eyes in front of me. It was May and there was a contagious smile in front of me, pulling my lips up, up, up. It was sunny and there was intelligence matching mine, there was thoughtfulness complementing mine, there was adventure and spirit in front of me. I had expected nothing but all that he offered up to me matched with something inside of me. It was May and the minutes were passing too quickly and I wanted to stop time and capture the butterflies. I wanted to capture the butterflies, the ones in my stomach, flying to my heart. Flying, flying, flying. I had no net, and I couldn’t tell if the butterflies were flying or I was falling. Either way, I had no net. The food was good, but I didn’t want to eat. My appetite was only for his words, our banter, our chemistry, the pieces of him he was offering me, the way he was looking at me. A specific gaze that soaked me in, made him pause, as if he needed a minute to etch into his mind the words that just floated out of me, words he hadn’t expected to resonate. It was May and I left breakfast to see a pavilion filled with monarch butterflies and kids’ laughter and bright eyes and wonder and awe. And what was around me was almost as beautiful as what was inside of me – my butterflies, my laughter, my brightness, my wonder and my awe. It was May and I wasn’t sure if he would show up but he did, I wasn’t sure I wanted to show up, but I did, and the wonder and the butterflies and the sun surrounded my heart from the very first second we were in the others’ presence. The sun so strong, his eyes so open, the reciprocity so evident. It was May and I heard music. From the stage, in the car, from him – I heard music. It was May and I cried, out of the blue, later in the day. I had sat across from someone who was familiar, who spoke to the best parts of me, who unintentionally dusted off my highest hopes, who gave me butterflies and then I sat out in the sun and heard kids making music and saw butterflies in the pavilion and caterpillars crawling safely, knowing they would transform when it was time, and I heard children’s laughter and awe and I felt warmth and awe and anticipation. It was May and in the afternoon I read kind words and generous compliments and the sun was bright. It was May and it was a Saturday and there weren’t enough hours, minutes, seconds in the day before it would end and Sunday would come, but Sunday couldn’t come fast enough. I would only see him again if the days passed but I didn’t want this day to end. It was a Saturday and I hadn’t seen monarch butterflies in the sun on a Saturday in so long. Had I ever? Not on a Saturday, not in May, not when my heart was open, I had not. Something inside of me was basking in warmth even when I was out of the sun, after the restaurant’s brunch hours had closed and the school gates were closed and the butterfly pavilion pieced apart. My heart was still pieced together, unveiled and open. It was May, a Saturday in May, and I cried. I felt butterflies land on my fingertips and my daughters had laughed out loud with pure delight. I held the steering wheel of my car, ready to turn right, and the radio was on and I could hear the music but not the song. I was in the car and it was like thousands of moments before it and unlike any of them. It was May and right at that moment, turning right, I cried, but I didn’t know why exactly. It hit me so hard. I had no net. I had thrown it away. It was May and I knew that something had changed. Something was there in front of me that wasn’t there before breakfast. I cried. I cried because there were butterflies, and I knew that I either had to walk away or one day let them fly away because I had no net. I knew that I was scared and this was going to hurt, either this Saturday or another Saturday, in another month, on a day the sun wasn’t shining. I knew there were strains of upset and strains of spectacular coming my way and none of them known to me yet, all of them new. I knew that I had to scaffold my heart right away or let its beautiful façade face the elements in front of me, and both options made me lose my breath. I lost my breath. The wonder, the awe, the sun, the flutters weren’t in my control. I knew I wasn’t in control and I knew the tenuous nature of all these things. I had no net! All this felt either wonderful or like panic. It felt like both. And panic isn’t sustainable but like is, love is, and how long does it take to tell the two apart? How long? What were the chances that I could sustain this and he could sustain this and we both could sustain the fear to find out it was worth it. I cried because I wanted the wonder to stay, stay, stay. I wanted the wonder to grow, I wanted layers of songs, and talking, and weekend trips to Santa Barbara and bigger trips around the world, and visits to zoos and shared drinks and talking about movies and books and cities and writing and our hearts and my kids. I wanted to know him; I wanted to be known by him. I cried because I knew there was no turning back, and it would hurt now or hurt later but it would hurt no matter, somehow. I cried because that breakfast on that sunny day in May when the minutes passed too quickly and the person across from me reflected the best parts of me and reciprocated my smile, the breakfast from which I had to leave to go see my son on stage make music and dance and sing and see butterflies cultivated by the careful hands of five year old girls with the brightest eyes, that breakfast after which I couldn’t hear specific songs anymore, just the music, that breakfast scared me. I had thought it would just be a Saturday in front of me. I hadn’t expected him. When I woke up, I thought I knew how the day would end. I thought I knew how the week would end. I thought I knew what May looked like and what my summer would be and I thought I knew my heart. And suddenly I didn’t. It was May and I cried because it was as beautiful as it was scary, exhilarating as it was frightening, wonderful as it was overwhelming. The tears just came, I didn’t expect them. Suddenly, at breakfast, there was a person I knew that I wanted to know, that I wanted to be known by. This was a new strain of spectacular, this water rolling down my cheeks a new type of tear, rolling quietly, but powerfully. It was May, and I had breakfast with him. It was May and I cried.

September

It is September. I smile. I opened the door the and there was slanted wood ceilings, a cement floor, windows over an oversize bathtub, a giant bed with pure white linens. How could I not smile? There was a graffiti exhibit in a space that used to be an orphanage, then an immigration center, then a museum; an exhibit celebrating young and hidden artists leaving their mark, making their mark, creating an art. I took pictures and I cannot tell, from the picture alone, which are from the exhibit and which ones are from the streets I walked, exploring, and which are from the streets where I once lived. I smile. There are people on sidewalks, relaxing with a drink, chattering with the people around them, facing out, watching the world, taking their time, walking a mild pace. It is September and I smile. I smile and talk and laugh and think. I navigated through tree lined cobblestone streets on canals and I found the photography exhibit I wanted to see. I smile. The exhibit was next to a food festival and a drink festival and art galleries and green grass and a soft rolling spring and live music and it housed previously unseen photographs, but gave me insight to forty more locations throughout the city with more unseen photographs, waiting to be found, waiting to be seen. First, I soak in this scene and get lost in the chatter, in the buzz, in the food, in the drink, in the perfect dusk sky. I love dusk, being outside at dusk, feeling the sun settle, feeling the imprint it makes on the day. I travel to many of the other locations, the next day. It is September and I smile. I’m a little lost, a lot lost, but maybe because I smile, people ask me for directions. Seventeen groups ask me for directions over two days. I laugh a few times, because I am lost and looping in circles but I not-so-secretly love to be lost. That is how I find. I can’t give anyone directions. I find some of the previously unseen photographs, a collection of photographs of kids playing in Cuba. Baseball, football, boxing, dance, games unknown. (Pure, curious, affectionate, love, unbridled, enthusiastic.) A collection of a couple at different phases of life, their relationship – some pictures capturing beauty (quiet, overt), some pain (subtle, behind their eyes, in hidden moments), some vulnerability. (I know vulnerability. I know laying bare your heart. I know how close the ties between helpless and vulnerable. I know waiting for a call that might never come.) A collection of cross cultural friendships captured in snapshots. (Vibrance, connection, broadening, widening, a net.) None of these photos were ever really unseen. Since the instant the photos were photos, they had been seen by someone, what they are capturing known by many more. It is September and I smile. I pass a wedding on the corner of a park, the guests throwing flower petals, the park itself housing a festival of flowers. My feet ache a little but I love the ache. The parks are beautifully green and simple and lush and inviting, the zoo is elegant, the cobblestone uneven, the water not clear but calm, the buildings are charming, the sky goes from blue to gray to blue to gray to clouds. Yesterday, I stop back in my room and take five minutes to get ready for dinner. The room made me smile. I shared dinner and conversation and my smile with a local chef. So different than me, but so curious about my story. I have no reason not to share it, I share it all and the words tumble out and in the tumbling some chapters lose power, some gain power, some take on new forms. His questions make me think of things differently; he answers my questions. We eat mediocre food and it makes me smile as he critiques with enthusiasm and kindness how it could be better; cooking is his craft, he can’t help himself. I don’t cook, but I can taste the difference in the food we are eating and the food he describes. I’ve been recently on dates that I liked the event itself, but wished the person was a different one. I don’t wish him to be anyone but who he is. We walk the sidewalks on the streets less traveled by anyone but those that live on them and it is these streets in any city that I most love visiting. The ones worn by local footsteps, local stories, local life. It is September and I smile. The day and night and day are filled with photographs and exhibits and parks and street art and street life and homemade sushi late at night and stars peeking through the window over a bathtub and runners crossing over a finish line in the middle of a historic center square and a celebration of the city I am from and the city I am in meeting through the hands of people creating an art form and a soccer tournament and an orphanage and a royal zoo that felt royal only in pieces. And finally my feet are tired and I drop my bag in the room (a room with a view and a swing) and I go downstairs, maybe to write, maybe to drink, maybe to read. The dining room and library lounge are cleared out and the young gentleman I know to be the nocturnal concierge has extended his shift, going from a team of two to just a team of him. I sit, it’s quiet. It could be lonely if I felt lonely or alone, but I don’t. The concierge comes over and asks a couple questions, strikes up a conversation, to pass his time. We talk about my excursions, what I came across purposefully, what I came across when I was lost. His curiosity snowballs as we talk.

“I say this with inflection.” I come to realize he means affection. “Most people who have rooms on the sixth floor, you are different from them.”

“How so?”

“I do not know how to say in English properly. You are dichotomous.” He means exactly that. “You are on the sixth floor, but you came with a backpack and take the tram and walk everywhere and you stayed out longer in the city than any guest but still only take five minutes before you are back out to dinner last night. Always hello and goodbyes and salutations but never questions or needs. No help with your luggage. In fact without luggage. Still, you do more on your weekend here than I even know to be occurring. I speak generally, but usually the five star guests ask for more and do little less. I call for cabs for them to the airport.”

“I think that is all good, although I likely could ask for more directions, I did get lost a few times.” I am not sure if he understands the purpose of my humor. I have been trying not to use humor to dismiss compliments. But, momentarily, I forgot. I wanted to say that I am five star quality without five star maintenance, but the thought got stuck in my head and I couldn’t word it properly.

“You remind me of a man that stayed here last year. He was the same way.”

“I need to meet him.”

“You have no good travel partner?” I do have a few, but I know, by his raised eyebrow and slightly more tentative tone, what he is really asking.

“Apparently, not yet. Not now anyway. They are hard to find.”

“For your good style, yes. Who can keep pace?”

“The man that stayed here last year. I’ll hold out until I cross paths with him. I won’t ask you to look up his details.” He smiles, acts as if he is going to the computer to breach at least one privacy law. He plays along as I tease myself. The story of me meeting this man and having a happily-for-as-long-as-it’s-happy story whirls through the screen of my imagination in the 12 seconds that follow.

“Did you plan all the details and do all you set out to like this weekend?”

“More. My plans kept changing. I planned only that I would stay here, and not much more. I came across more than I thought I would. I like to wing it anyway, really. But, anyway, it worked out perfectly.” I smile. I knew the depths of truth to this rambling statement. For a moment, I am suspended between thinking of the months before this trip and just this trip itself. I am suspended between my current content and regenerating old emotion. I am suspended between peace and happiness, longing and disappointment, satisfaction and pain, courage and vulnerability, adventure and routine, confusion and knowledge, tears and a smile. I am suspended between things working out perfectly and not working at all. I am suspended between closed chapters and what’s to come. I am suspended. My feet are floating off the ground above all this mess of emotion that I had not even given thought to as I walked on the cobblestone streets and ate sushi and looked at still frames of emotion. I put one foot down, then the other, grounding my emotion in the very present moment, nowhere else. “I love your city.”

“But you stopped just short of my neighborhood. You did not explore it all.” His turn to tease me taken. We talk about his neighborhood, further west from the park where the photography exhibit lost its unseen status. In that moment, I’m regretful I missed the colorful streets he describes, blue and teal and red and orange doors alternating down the alleys, littered only with cafes and shops. The sidewalks sound as if they captured good stories. I’ll have to come back.

“I am not joking when I say your neighborhood is first on my list for the next trip. I’ll call for help coordinating a cab straight from the airport.” I smile. He laughs. “Or actually, I think I can just take the 10 to the very end of the line and then walk a bit, right?”

“You did learn quite a bit when you got lost yesterday.” He smiles. I laugh.

“It’s the best way to learn.”

“It is.”

“Okay, goodnight. I need to go enjoy that sixth floor room.” The room with the swing, with the stars and moon shining through the window over the bathtub, with the wood beamed ceiling. It is September and I smile.