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Escape

As I trudged from my house to the bus stop Friday afternoon, I thought, If you saw a woman walking down a suburban road pulling a suitcase behind her, would you assume the worst? I wasn’t running away, though, so much as taking a two-night break.

Early as usual, I waited for the Metro. Rain pattered the top of my umbrella like static. I could see the Sound from where I stood. I felt silly there, on that patch of grass in the middle of nowhere. But I liked it too. The damp air, fresh and salty. The beginning of a small adventure.

I took the bus to the train to my friend Stacy’s Honda Civic and we roamed Portland. Pork tenderloin, goat cheese, scones, red velvet cake, thick coffee, low, gray skies, more rain, little shops. Soft cats, impossibly supple and comforting. A big, sweet, black dog, drugged, recovering from surgery.

I found my parents, who had come into town for a wedding. Their presence was part of the reason I picked that particular weekend to visit. We met at the Farmer’s Market, sprawling and lovely and misty with flowers and nuts and vegetables. I bought 20 dollars worth of morel mushrooms. I remember hunting them as a kid in Michigan.

I’ve hardly spent time with my mom and dad in the last seven years that didn't involve Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat, that had nothing to do with soothing crying babies, discipline, food prep, and constant entertaining. It was nice. More than nice. It was comfortable and lively. I didn’t want Saturday to end.

And Stacy. Sweet Stacy, who drove me over the bridges a million times without complaint. She’s one of the easiest people I know. With the barest refrigerator. We can talk forever. Just not about cooking. Which I didn’t want to discuss anyway.

On the way home I wrote, wrote, wrote. A man with yellow nails and yellow teeth and a greasy smell sat next to me. He was friendly. But I didn't much want to talk.

Home now. Games of dominoes, which I keep losing. Morels waiting. Squirming happy kids. Splitting a bag of chocolate chip/sea salt cookies with J.

Seattle, even darker and rainier than Portland had been.

Home.

Out of the city and into the desert

From Seattle, you fly over San Francisco mudflats and orange cabs that run like snakes through the streets and tennis courts that look like green matchbox cars and you almost wish you'd stayed there. The demographic is more robust, more what you like to think of as your people, which is to say, not seventy- and eighty-year- old, rich, white folks, the men wearing golf pants, the women in coral lipstick and violently styled hair.

But then you would've missed this:

 

And this:

   

You never would have seen the funky, mid-century architecture that makes Palm Springs look a little tired, but amusing at the same time. (Your husband commented that he expected to see Dean Martin with a martini around every bend). You wouldn't have been able to feast your eyes on so many red-tile roofs and palm trees and yucca plants (and Sonny Bono statues!). You never would've been surrounded by Joshua Trees and monstrous mountains of red boulders, some balanced so precariously you swear a small breeze could send them tumbling to the ground with a thundering roar and rising cloud of orange dust.

You were on a short vacation with your husband. Your parents, who are sweet and kind and good, took care of your kids. Your mom choked up on the phone when she described how compassionate and lovely your son has been. And your daughter, she said, is right on track. Willful and overly talkative, but wonderful all the same.

You had an amazing iceberg/bleu cheese wedge salad two nights in a row, dragging your husband through dark, winding streets under a starlit sky, back to the restaurant you'd already been so you can have that salad a second time. 

 

The weather was uncharacteristically cold and it snowed on you in Joshua Tree National Park. You never once put on your shorts or swim suit. But you still are so grateful for the trip, for the new scenery, for the shops full of sequins and sunglasses, the fireplace tucked in the corner of your room (though on the last day huge gusts of wind blew ash all over your things), the quiet, Spanishy hotel where you stayed, the stretches of white desert.

And you are happy to be home, with your family: your children and your mom and dad, too, who are staying on a while longer. You wish they would come more often, but you will take the ten days that you get. 

 

 

Back from Portland

I spent the weekend in Portland, the land of Quirk, hanging with one of my best friends as she turned 40. Which essentially means we walked around the city eating copious amounts of food, taking pictures (mostly me), ordering expensive bottles of wine (mostly her boyfriend) and buying clothes (mostly her).

At the end of my trip, as I left the train station, I heard an overpowering rush. A massive waterfall or jet screaming down a runway for takeoff, yet laced with something metallic, something human. I looked behind me and saw that Quest Field was full, to the third tier, of fans.

They were cheering. But, God, it was eerie–-the rise and fall of so many voices. It reminded me of the Nazi propaganda movies we used to watch in history class. Which is not to say that I'm comparing football to Nazi Germany, but just that the ethereal emission of so many people's approval had the same sound it did in those little films. Those creepy little films.

I'm home now. Back to real life. Back to two kids who threw their arms around me before I could even get out of the car. Back to pawing through Fruit Bat's packed lunch box and taking his dessert because he's been awful one too many times in the morning. Back to a refrigerator that actually contains food. Back to sunlight playing across the concrete floor of the coffee shop where I like to work.

Back.

Brooklyn

With your grimy, charming, swirling, bursting streets and your odd little stores that sell everything.

And your steamy heat. So sticky and awful. But kind of appropriate. Kind of how I think I should feel while I'm with you.

Your scant greenery and elaborate ironwork and stairways leading to the underbelly of the city.

Peace out, Brooklyn. I'm glad I know you. I'm glad I don't know you too well.

Culture shock, yo

It is with evil glee that I post this photo on my blog.

Not that it's even one of my favorite New York shots. At all. But I had to show you. Because the woman who was selling this pottery would hate that I'm sharing it. And she was mean. So here it is.

A little back story:

Kitty Cat and I had just left the show Stomp, after only watching for a few minutes. Kitty Cat hated Stomp. Of course she hated it. She detests loud noises. 

Somehow however, J. and I decided that, though the drummers in Seattle's Thanksgiving Parade scare her and the flush of a toilet makes her cringe, she wouldn't mind being crammed into a small, off-broadway theater listening to 10 adults banging brooms and trash can lids. 

Not surprisingly, from the first clang, her hands flew to her ears. Soon she was wailing. So I scooped her up and whisked her out and we walked around (the?) East Village.

We went into a café for a smoothie. That part was nice.

Afterward, we strolled several long blocks. We spotted a clean bench in front of a pottery store and decided to rest. I proceeded to snap photos of Kitty Cat, and whatever else was around, because that's what I do.

Right after I took the pottery picture, I sensed someone rustling through the front door. Crap, I thought. 

"No pictures," the woman yelped, as if I were trying to capture potter's trade secrets to sell. (Or, you know, plaster all over the internet).

"Okay," I said, amicably. "We're just tourists."

Unluckily, at that very moment, Kitty Cat happened to find the bent frond of an outdoor plant, and was (gently) stroking it.

Angry words were exchanged, during which the woman barked at Kitty Cat, I told the woman to drop her tiresome cranky act and the woman explained that apparently, crankiness was necessary because we were such ingrates. Or something. I didn't hear the end of her tirade because I was consulting with a fully inked and pierced guy across the street about taking out her pottery with one toss of his huge, black boot.

Finally, we met the rest of the family back at the theater. Fruit Bat loved Stomp, as we knew he would. I learned that J. had already seen it in Seattle (but then got to watch it a second time yesterday. he was appropriately abashed.) And I found myself fighting tears on the train ride back to Brooklyn.

Thankfully, these things blow over pretty quickly. Soon we were eating dinner outside and trying to decide if we should go back to Prospect Park to chase fireflies like we had the night before.

It's a different world here, with its warm, chewy bagels and crowded brownstones and mosquitos and humid heat. It's good to visit. And my sister- and brother-in-law couldn't be more hospitable.

But I miss my wine sweet wine (we're in what you call a dry house). And our sweet space at home. And the sweet, silty smell of the Sound.

I guess it's a good sign that every time I travel, I'm always ready to go back. It means I'm in the right place.

You know you're in LOWER Manhattan

We took the subway to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal today (where we saw the awesome spectacle below). Then we hopped a boat to Governors Island. Which, with its rolling green hills and sun-dappled lanes, does not even remotely feel like it's seven minutes from South Manhattan, but is.

I'm not sure who liked the break dancers more. Fruit Bat or J. Or possibly me. (Kitty Cat would've preferred ballerinas).

We're taking them to see Stomp tomorrow (Kitty Cat would prefer Swan Lake). Can't wait.

DirtGrassSizzle

We flew out to Michigan on Tuesday--Fruit Bat, Kitty Cat and I. We cruised uneventfully over cumulus formations that rose up into the sky like small, cloud cities. 

It was the easiest trip I've taken with them yet, letting me believe we can be a real traveling family someday, that I won't have to suffer the clench in my gut each time a jaunt approaches.

I like being here, in the place where I grew up. Especially in summer when the breezes are warm and the bay sparkles and the grass is aggressively green.

Our awayness, too, allows J. to work around the clock rather than knocking off after 12 to 14 hours of briefs and conference calls and document review. (Not that I'm allowing myself to resent his work. Too Much. On a good day.)

I've watched bees trying to pollinate my mom's floral deck cushions. I've run my fingers through a pile of deer fur left along a trail behind my parents' house. I've listened intently to the hollow, flutey coo of mourning doves and the constant chirp of crickets.

I've watched the kids frolic in the garden with their grandpa, getting horrifyingly, wonderfully filthy.

I've enjoyed our first few days and am looking forward to another week and a half, hoping for some fireflies and beach time and sizzling, orange sparklers.

Time off

My husband and I were in Phoenix this weekend, land of relentless sun, scrubby landscapes and hot pink bouganvillea. The idea was to be together without having to corral kids, locate epi-pens and microwave chicken nuggets. Always the chicken nuggets.

We hiked a lot, dusty rocks clinking and scraping under our feet. Cactus (cacti?) everywhere. One cactus was particularly poignant--pocked and stooped, like an old man, one who'd lived a satisfying and tiring life and was ready to topple.

We trekked Camelback Mountain behind a guy who made cell phone call after call, leaving messages to "come on down. We've got 9 holes and the most beautiful girls in this country." He was supremely distasteful.

We passed a couple talking about cancer, though they discussed it in vague, general terms, leading me to believe neither of them was afflicted.

A woman who was hiking with a friend said, emphatically, "That's a completely different sport. One wrong step and you're dead. You know it, Robyn? Dead."

Doves cooed all around. Exotic birds squawked from low bushes and orange trees heavy with fruit.

We spotted iridescent green and blue lizards, the color of the sea, oddly out of place in the red desert.

It was strange to imagine the kids at home, going about their routines without me.

One morning when J. and I were sitting on our patio sipping coffee, a cleaning woman walked past. Her face was so open, so sincere as she said hello, then crashed her huge cart into a tree. Small leaves fluttered onto her head and she laughed at herself, freed her cart and continued on.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about her.

The sun burned my skin. I knew I shouldn't like it, but I did. The light, pleasurable sting, the burnished pink, the way freckles emerged like constellations up my arms.

Then there was the flight home. We transitioned grumpily from our leisurely few days. 

J. was anxious to get back, to unpack. I did not mind the return, but was in no hurry. In a few hours this would be a memory...time when there was no schedule, no agenda, nothing but hot sun and lively blooms and skittering little animals.

Everything that's good about now might just glide right past

I took the train to Portland this weekend. I make the trek twice a year or so, to see my sweet, thoughtful and fun friend Stacy. She's a crazy person who toils under the twisted system of billable hours an attorney, and is very busy. So I'm grateful when I get so many hours with her.

I'm also full of love for Amtrak, who whisks me away from Seattle on a four-hour ride during which I can do any damn thing I want. (Enough to make any parent of young children swoon). And, also, thank you, Amtrak, for the opportunity to people watch. While not quite as robustly strange and entertaining as Greyhound, you, nevertheless, give me good material.

Here's some of what I noticed:

-A girl of about 8, wearing camouflage pants and a Transformers t-shirt, practicing karate in the aisle of the Seattle station.

-An Asian couple, the woman with a monstrous silver purse jangling with zippers and clasps, a receding hairline and an electric water pot she couldn't bring herself to leave behind.

-A middle-aged man with long hair under a stocking cap and a trailing beard of faded red who is embarrassed when I confirm that he does, indeed, need to stand in the seat assignment line. Who is then full of righteous scorn when he finds out I am wrong.

-A woman older than 65 but younger than 75, wearing a deeply cut top that shows off wrinkled cleavage and huge breasts like peeled, overripe eggplants. 

And then, from the rails:

-Brown smoke rising up from behind the naked trees.

-The reflection of myself with a temple pressed against the window, watching the curve of track ahead.

-The stretch along the water, where, last year, the train I was on killed a man with the squealing of brakes and the smell of hot metal.

-A handful of bald eagles, perched along a river.

-Rows of identical houses painted different sherbet colors.

-I LOVE U spray painted onto parallel boulders. It is not clear if the author meant this to be for one person, or all of train-riding humankind.

-An old man slumped on the porch of a small house whose paint looks to have been blown off by an atomic explosion, watching the train go by. I wonder what he's escaping from, what may be inside. Why sitting out in the gray cold is preferable.

Stacy.

January / Ballard Ave.

Here in Seattle we saw approximately 3 minutes and 5 seconds of sun today. It was better than nothing. But also not enough.

I walked around Ballard with my new Rebel xsi, taking terribly wan, gray photos.

Bleak, but also pretty, in its own way.