Journey One: Part II: Santa Cruz, American Beauty.

Thomas Newman accompanies me from my motel room to where Leah is staying – a friend’s apartment, right on the coast in Santa Cruz. I stare in awe at this apartment’s location. “She’s a doctor,” my friend explains.

It’s good seeing Leah again. Immediately, we go from friends who haven’t seen each other in ages to giggly-girls ready to take Santa Cruz by storm. After searching the coastal town’s crowded streets for an hour, we find a parking spot. Leaving Yaris, we let the sounds of live jazz music lead us into a little bistro called Hoffman’s. What a wonderful dining experience…

Beautiful food! I order the Salad Niçoise. Delicious.

Attractive waiter! Make sure he gets the tip, Leah whispers to me when our waiter is relieved of his shift.

Fabulous wine menu! Malbec. Zolo 2006. Lovely.

Very close eating quarters, though. Meaning… I relay a story to Leah about an emotional affair I had with an engaged man who insisted he was falling in love with me. When I whisper to her, “He was just upset that his fiancée wouldn’t go down on him,” the couple sitting at the table next to us obviously overhear and begin giggling. We begin giggling in response to their giggling. Our giggles float up into the jazz-filled air dancing over us. The vibe at Hoffman’s feels warm and safe. Everything I have been looking for since my arrival in California. Any feelings of shame and heartbreak from my past few years in Baltimore instantly melt away. That alone intoxicated me. My heart fills. More wine! More jazz! Chocolate cake! Beautiful.

Closing time waltzes us out of the bistro and into some local bar. Nothing too seedy, but neither Leah nor I can remember its name for the life of us. The bartender is experimenting with all sorts of alcohol, which Leah and I happily taste-test. God knows how long we sat at that bar, but we did for quite some time and reminisced. Leah’s and my speciality. Nothing is lost from coverage… High school, France, after-college, boyfriends, lovers, dramas, etc. Our reminiscing follows us out of the bar, to Yaris, and back to the friend’s gorgeous apartment. More wine. Even cigarettes. We cover anything else we can think of before I pass out on the couch, with a mind hazy from cigarette smoke, with thoughts swishing back and forth in time with the crashing waves of the ocean outside, and with gratitude towards one of the happiest evenings in a long time.

I wake up the next morning… very hungover. I decline Leah’s invitation to explore San Francisco. Instead, I give Leah the biggest goodbye hug ever, and allow Thomas Newman to lead me “home,” aka Super 8. It takes me two days, lots of water, Chinese food, and HBO to recover from Friday night. I managed to eke out one resume and send it to USC before packing my bags Monday morning and heading back south.

South. I pause as I close my car door. South means Winchester. Winchester means… nothing, middle of nowhere, ants, dogs, unemployment… It means a place where things don’t happen. I can’t muster the courage to return to a place where things don’t happen. I must… stay. On the road. Where things happen. Where I can stay flying. Phoenix. Ashes. With whatever I have. I must stay flying.

I turn the car key. Yaris starts. Where to? she revs. Exactly, I answer and start driving south… to the ocean.

Journey One: Part I: Santa Cruz, Light My Way.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Something’s not in alignment. I have to get back in touch with what brought me out here….

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I am not happy. I know this much. My impulsiveness has led me to a place where I expected warmth and happiness and peace to greet me.  Instead, I am sitting on a bedroom floor covered with ants – a California hazard, so I find out – and where I can hear dogs annoyingly bark way into the deep of night. I live in the middle of nowhere. I am not writing. I am not working. I miss my friends… my family….

Suddenly, my cell phone lights up.

How far are you from Santa Cruz?

I smile at the phone. It’s Leah. A dear friend since a high-school trip to France in ‘95. It was in France where I first caught the wanderlust bug. And, it was in France where I found a kindred spirit in Leah.

Santa Cruz. I’m thinking… How far…?

I’m flying out there in a couple weeks.

My eyes widen. A friend is to be in the same state as me! Cue in Google Maps. I calculate the distance between Winchester and Santa Cruz. Seven hours. The light that had leapt from my cell phone and onto my face fades in a matter of moments. I lean my back against the wall and ponder a moment. After recently crossing the country in my ‘lil Yaris, Santa Cruz really isn’t THAT far. But, my moment of ponder turns into a field day for my ego: You don’t have enough money, Ego begins to whisper to me. You just got back from England. Your mom’s birthday party is that weekend; you may want to fly out there. Maybe go somewhere local… cheaper…

On and on and on…

But, I listen to the on and ons. They know how to plant the right kinds of doubts.

Maybe next time… I text back.

And, in all actuality, it looks like keeping that third weekend free is a good idea. My mother turns 50 and is having a huge party. East Coast friends are requesting my presence at the bash. Having missed everyone so much these days, flying back East sounds like a perfect idea.

Well… Absolutely one of the fucking hardest things to do EVER is to purchase a ticket to Baltimore during the week of July 20^th. Every single flight I find makes Australia look like a local getaway. What I do end up finding is a lot of fine print and a lot of drama. Baltimore doesn’t happen. My living situation keeps me feeling crappy. Joblessness keeps me asking questions of why I followed my heart out here in the first place. Memory leaves me missing family and friends and England (more on that later). But, again, in my impulsiveness, I decide to take flight with or without a fully formed phoenix. I’m collecting the ashes and taking flight my own way. By way of my car.

Leah. I’m meeting you. See you Friday.

After reserving a Super 8 motel room in San Jose (about 40 minutes away from Santa Cruz – cheaper than staying right in the coastal town), I pack my bags late Thursday night and hit the road early Friday morning. I’m to be away for a long weekend. I’m to go north, to the coast, to see my friend, and to sit with how I have suddenly become so lost. Not knowing anything anymore.

When I sit with this… this “not knowing,” I begin to wonder… Maybe I DO know. Maybe I know everything all the time. It’s just so incredibly easy to let thoughts and people and circumstance and STORY fuck with you so hard that you think you don’t know anything anymore when, really, REALLY, you do. You would stun yourself to death by how much you knew and how well you knew it. All I can focus on is what is working out NOW. Unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, Baltimore does not equal “working out now.” But, Santa Cruz does. Because that’s what’s happening. My quest shifts to being in alignment with what is happening NOW.

I am sailing once I hit I-5. I figure I’ll do the “quick” highway drive on my way up, and take the scenic route on my way back. There’s not much to I-5 between Santa Clarita and Santa Nella, but it’s a smooth ride and my iPod is shuffling my favorite bands; I can’t help but smile at every little thing I pass. I sing along with Bono…

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know / Sometimes I feel like checkin’ out / I want to get it wrong / Can’t always be strong / And love it won’t be long…”

I stop for a London Fog Tea Latte with soy milk (my latest addiction) at a Starbucks in Buttonwillow. I bring the warm and frothy drink to my lips. I sip. My eyes roll back into Heaven. Starbucks is pretty much my only stop until the Super 8. I slip in the card key and open the door to my room. It’s nice. No ants. No yippy dogs. No high heels clattering up and down a ceramic tile floor in front of the bedroom door. Just… quiet. I drop my bags and head for the bed.

Leah, I’m taking a nap. Will text when awake and a member of the living.

My eyes close. I am dead to the world. After a dream or two, my eyes open. I’m groggy, but, soon, later, I’m in Santa Cruz.