Last Monday's stats lecture was on regression and correlation (whatever that means). In keeping with the rest of the quarter thus far, it took a herculean effort for me to sustain the will to live for the entire 2.5 hours, let alone absorb the information. This was made more challenging by the fact that I blew off last week's class to go see the Beastie Boys, and had no memory whatsoever of the lecture from 2 weeks prior. About 5 minutes in, I gave up any pretense of following along and followed my usual train of thought around whatever jacked-up path it chose to take, rejoining reality periodically only to find out, with great horror, that the lecture was still going on. Hence my choice of title.
I mention the whole wandering-mind thing because I am in the midst of yet another bout of insomnia (it's after 1am on Wednesday, and I have a desk buried in paperwork and the clinic from hell coming my way in under seven hours). I wouldn't call myself a chronic insomniac, but my sleep habits are less than optimal. There have been nights when I have literally slept through earthquakes (the last occurrence only a few weeks ago). Other nights, no matter how tired I am, my brain does a stellar impersonation of a hummingbird on crack and I can't sleep at all. I used to blame this on the five years spent working predominantly night shifts after I graduated from college, but honestly, I remember this happening as far back as grade school. I would find myself at 12 or 1 or 2, staring at the clock and fretting about whatever constituted a stressful event at age 9 - reading a book report aloud in class the next day or trying to elude bullies on the playground.
And I've never been a morning person, either. When I was in high school, my father had the pitiable task of waking me up in the morning. He would untuck the covers at the foot of my bed and tickle my feet; I would generally respond with a solid kick and some barely intelligible curses muttered from beneath my pillow (luckily my dad, being no stranger to foul language himself, was not easily offended). Now my wakeup routine consists of the snooze alarm being slapped down at least twice, and an eighteen pound cat loudly lamenting the fact that he has not been petted in several hours. On work days, I stay in bed until I am guaranteed to be at least fifteen minutes late, then leap from the bed in a frenzied state, loathe to accept that I have not yet figured out how to rupture the space-time continuum and arrive at work before I've actually woken up.
Some nights I do try to get my act together and go to sleep early. I like the idea of being one of those people who wakes before the alarm, makes the coffee, waters the plants, reads the headlines, and still makes it to the office early enough to get some work done before the 8am mayhem commences. I have a hard time accepting the fact that I am not, as yet, that person, nor do I show any convincing signs of becoming her in the near future, and instead choose to berate myself for being thus far unable to rework my personality and obtain the desired result. Which brings me to my next set of ramblings.
What makes us who we really are - what we hope for ourselves and aspire to be, or how the world perceives us as the result of our actions ?
Example: one of my bosses has repeatedly suggested that I put myself on the chopping block known as Match.com (my employers aren't so clear on the concept of personal boundaries). I've blown it off and told her that I'm not interested, but in truth, I did check out an online dating site some time ago. I gave up on it because I was confounded by how I should answer the questions and create my profile. They ask you all sorts of things, about your personal values and habits, and how you deal with different issues, in order to get a read on your personality and link you with potentially compatible mates. But I found myself wondering if I was presenting myself as I actually am, or as how I'd like to be.
I think I'm pretty self-sufficient and have a decent sense of humor, for example, but that's just my opinion. I'd like to think that my opinion is the one that matters the most in this situation, but over the years, in relationships with friends, employers and others, I've been alarmed at times to find out how another's perception of me can vary so greatly from my own (I suppose we all have this, but me being me, I have to fret about it, beacuse that's just so productive). And the fact is that we don't live life in a vacuum. We deal with other people and their opinions all the time, unless you're a hermit or far, far more resilient and self-assured than I am. Life is, I think, meant to be lived in the world and not solely in our heads. But as someone who gets chronically stuck in her head, I find it hard to merge the two, to use my head enough to stay out of trouble, then get out of my own way and get on with living my life.
And now, of course, I'm also thinking that I've just told a whole bunch of people about this blog - I eased my way into this by telling just a handful of friends when I started a few months back- and you are doubtless reading this and thinking that perhaps I am not well medicated enough, or I need to find a hobby. All of which may be true.
But it beats cleaning the bathroom at 1am.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
Sister Christian, oh the time has come
Okay, so it's inherently disturbing that I'm quoting Night Ranger lyrics (frankly, it's disturbing to remember Night Ranger at all). But the time has come, people, time for me to throw in the towel and join a nice, agnostically-oriented convent, preferably one that serves coffee before morning prayers. Because my divorce is finally final, and after reviewing my checkered history of relationships during a few recent bouts of insomnia, I think the time has come to face the fact that I have dubious taste and questionable judgment when it comes to men, and should perhaps consider a life of solitude and celibacy.
To those near and dear to me worrying that, by sheer virtue of the number of the following examples, I am likely to be made the September selection in the Ho of the Month Club, rest assured, I haven't even dated that many guys. I just know how to pick 'em. No, I share these Useful Hints in the hopes that someone might learn from my mistakes. I myself have learned from a few of them; the problem is that I seem to be highly proficient in making new and ever dumber ones.
1) I don't expect the men I date to be stellar examples of physical fitness; I have definite couch potato tendencies myself. But men, in general, need to learn to say no to bikini underwear. Ripped abs or not, the banana hammock look isn't kind to anyone.
2) Likewise, men need to stay away from silk pajamas. Should I someday forget this little fact, I can rest secure knowing that my brother-in-law Chris will always be ready to refresh my memory. Chris, many years ago, was deeply scarred after seeing an old boyfriend of mine thusly attired the morning after a family gathering when we all crashed at my mom's house (to be honest, I was a little freaked out myself: I hadn't realized I was dating Hugh Hefner). My sister tells me that for the next several weeks, he would randomly grill male friends and acquaintances about their opinions on the matter, apparently trying to make sure he was not the only one offended by this sartorial transgression.
3) Dating a bisexual man? Maybe not a good idea. Dating a married man? A worse idea. Dating a bisexual married man? Wrong, wrong, wrong on so many levels.
4) If you tell a man that the influence of a particular "self-development" group/cult contributed to the demise of a pivotal relationship in your life, and several weeks later, they tell you that they decided to check it out for themselves (and by the way, they signed up for the advanced workshop, and the optional seminars, and...), cut your losses and run for the hills.
5) Similarly, if a young man tells you that Ronald Reagan and George Bush were the best things to ever happen to this country, even if you can't remember how long it's been since you were on a date, and you're sporting the freshman fifteen and the sophomore saddlebags and whatever else you've accumulated thus far in your junior year, and he's really, really cute, show some pride and show him the door.
6) It's never a good sign if a man increases his visits to his therapist from once to twice a week while he's in the throes of dating you. Even more so if this man happens to be a psychiatrist who's fiddling with his own medications.
7) Alcohol is sometimes referred to as a 'social lubricant', and on occasion, a glass or two of wine may help a person say the important things that they might otherwise be too afraid to say. After the second glass, however, what comes out is most often stupid shit that is best kept to yourself. Case in point: this weekend, I went to a concert with a male friend - just a friend. We stopped and had dinner beforehand, and he had a few scorpions (i.e. a scorpion bowl poured into a tiki glass, consumed by one person instead of many). I'm still mortified by what came out in the ensuing conversation and can't bring myself to render it in all its glory here, but if I ever go back to his office (since unfortunately he also happens to be my eye doctor), I will likely be wearing a burqa and carrying pepper spray, just in case.
You may be thinking that these are the mean-spirited ramblings of a bitter divorcee. And while my first reply to that is "And your point would be?", I do take responsibility for my part in all of these relationships. After all, I voluntarily dated these people (in some cases, repeatedly). But life is absurd, and love even more so, a sentiment that is perhaps best expressed in my final example today:
8) (my NYU friends should appreciate this one). Let's say you've just met a new guy. He asks you what you do, and you tell him that you're a student midwife. If his idea of a suave response is:
"A midwife? Does that mean you don't believe in birth control?",
trust me, ladies, marry him at your own peril.
To those near and dear to me worrying that, by sheer virtue of the number of the following examples, I am likely to be made the September selection in the Ho of the Month Club, rest assured, I haven't even dated that many guys. I just know how to pick 'em. No, I share these Useful Hints in the hopes that someone might learn from my mistakes. I myself have learned from a few of them; the problem is that I seem to be highly proficient in making new and ever dumber ones.
1) I don't expect the men I date to be stellar examples of physical fitness; I have definite couch potato tendencies myself. But men, in general, need to learn to say no to bikini underwear. Ripped abs or not, the banana hammock look isn't kind to anyone.
2) Likewise, men need to stay away from silk pajamas. Should I someday forget this little fact, I can rest secure knowing that my brother-in-law Chris will always be ready to refresh my memory. Chris, many years ago, was deeply scarred after seeing an old boyfriend of mine thusly attired the morning after a family gathering when we all crashed at my mom's house (to be honest, I was a little freaked out myself: I hadn't realized I was dating Hugh Hefner). My sister tells me that for the next several weeks, he would randomly grill male friends and acquaintances about their opinions on the matter, apparently trying to make sure he was not the only one offended by this sartorial transgression.
3) Dating a bisexual man? Maybe not a good idea. Dating a married man? A worse idea. Dating a bisexual married man? Wrong, wrong, wrong on so many levels.
4) If you tell a man that the influence of a particular "self-development" group/cult contributed to the demise of a pivotal relationship in your life, and several weeks later, they tell you that they decided to check it out for themselves (and by the way, they signed up for the advanced workshop, and the optional seminars, and...), cut your losses and run for the hills.
5) Similarly, if a young man tells you that Ronald Reagan and George Bush were the best things to ever happen to this country, even if you can't remember how long it's been since you were on a date, and you're sporting the freshman fifteen and the sophomore saddlebags and whatever else you've accumulated thus far in your junior year, and he's really, really cute, show some pride and show him the door.
6) It's never a good sign if a man increases his visits to his therapist from once to twice a week while he's in the throes of dating you. Even more so if this man happens to be a psychiatrist who's fiddling with his own medications.
7) Alcohol is sometimes referred to as a 'social lubricant', and on occasion, a glass or two of wine may help a person say the important things that they might otherwise be too afraid to say. After the second glass, however, what comes out is most often stupid shit that is best kept to yourself. Case in point: this weekend, I went to a concert with a male friend - just a friend. We stopped and had dinner beforehand, and he had a few scorpions (i.e. a scorpion bowl poured into a tiki glass, consumed by one person instead of many). I'm still mortified by what came out in the ensuing conversation and can't bring myself to render it in all its glory here, but if I ever go back to his office (since unfortunately he also happens to be my eye doctor), I will likely be wearing a burqa and carrying pepper spray, just in case.
You may be thinking that these are the mean-spirited ramblings of a bitter divorcee. And while my first reply to that is "And your point would be?", I do take responsibility for my part in all of these relationships. After all, I voluntarily dated these people (in some cases, repeatedly). But life is absurd, and love even more so, a sentiment that is perhaps best expressed in my final example today:
8) (my NYU friends should appreciate this one). Let's say you've just met a new guy. He asks you what you do, and you tell him that you're a student midwife. If his idea of a suave response is:
"A midwife? Does that mean you don't believe in birth control?",
trust me, ladies, marry him at your own peril.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Why I no longer write fiction, reason #42
- because I just can't make up this stuff.
Around 1pm today, a call was transferred to my desk. A guy wanted to find out how much he would be paid for donating sperm. While most of you probably don't entertain such questions during the course of your workday, in my office this isn't as random as it sounds. I told the guy that we are a fertility practice, but not a sperm bank, and would therefore have to turn down his offer. He asked me if I knew of any sperm banks, and I gave him the name of a local facility and told him that he could find their contact information on the internet. He told me that he didn't have access to the internet, and then proceeded to tell me that he was in his car. Driving around. Looking to make a donation, presumably in the immediate future. I found the number, read it to him, and extracted myself from the conversation as quickly as possible.
In retrospect, I'm not sure I've done anyone any favors by enabling this man to procreate at large. Consider the thought process going on here. He's driving around, maybe on his way to In-n-Out burger for lunch, and is struck by the sudden urge to flog the bishop (feel free to insert your preferred masturbatory euphemism here). Does he smack one hand down on the steering wheel and say, "Dammit, today I'm going to get paid for this"?
So, how was your day?
Around 1pm today, a call was transferred to my desk. A guy wanted to find out how much he would be paid for donating sperm. While most of you probably don't entertain such questions during the course of your workday, in my office this isn't as random as it sounds. I told the guy that we are a fertility practice, but not a sperm bank, and would therefore have to turn down his offer. He asked me if I knew of any sperm banks, and I gave him the name of a local facility and told him that he could find their contact information on the internet. He told me that he didn't have access to the internet, and then proceeded to tell me that he was in his car. Driving around. Looking to make a donation, presumably in the immediate future. I found the number, read it to him, and extracted myself from the conversation as quickly as possible.
In retrospect, I'm not sure I've done anyone any favors by enabling this man to procreate at large. Consider the thought process going on here. He's driving around, maybe on his way to In-n-Out burger for lunch, and is struck by the sudden urge to flog the bishop (feel free to insert your preferred masturbatory euphemism here). Does he smack one hand down on the steering wheel and say, "Dammit, today I'm going to get paid for this"?
So, how was your day?
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Paris et moi
Last night I was working as a phone volunteer for the KCRW pledge drive - support your local public radio station, people! Given that it was a Friday night, the calls were somewhat less than abundant, and the other volunteers and I were chatting between calls. Since part of the pledge drive includes enrollment in a sweepstakes for a European vacation, some of us got to talking about our own vacations, past and hoped-for, and since then I've been thinking of the rather bittersweet relationship I have with Paris.
My first trip to Paris was almost 10 years ago, January 1998. It was my honeymoon. This was an unusual extravagance at the time; I was working and finishing grad school, the husband-to-be earned a modest salary, and we had kept the wedding plans pretty much to the bare minimum. We had talked about doing a very simple honeymoon, a long weekend in a B+B, but one week the Sunday Times travel section had an ad for some cheap airfares to Paris, and an idea was born.
I learned a valuable lesson on that trip that I pass on to every bride-to-be I encounter. If people at your wedding are sneezing, coughing, or appear unwell in any way, save yourselves and send them away. Or, at the very least, banish them to a table far, far away from you. My new stepmother-in-law and sister-in-law had what I can only describe as Martian death flu at my wedding, and on our second day in Paris, the husband developed a raging fever and chills. The bulk of my honeymoon can be summed up in one scene: a much younger me, stumbling into a Parisian pharmacy, knowing no French whatsoever, where a kindly Parisian pharmacist deciphered my frantic miming and provided me with le Tylenol, le Advil, and le Vicks Vapo Rub. The husband didn't fully recover for a few weeks, so our first time in Paris was largely a wash.
Over 7 years later, in the fall of 2005, we had our next big vacation - London and Paris for 10 days. It was what I hoped would be the end of a particularly rough time for us, one that included over a year of trying to get pregnant, a failed in vitro fertilization cycle, and a number of sessions with a couples therapist. We both worked long hours and (I thought) looked forward to this chance to reconnect, away from work and cell phones and my doctor reminding me that my eggs weren't getting any younger. I thought that we had a reasonably good time on the trip - granted, he spent a fair amount of time in London criticizing my sightseeing choices, and he did tell our therapist the week prior to our departure that he hoped I would drink more on the trip so that I would loosen up a little (an excellent thing to tell the daughter of an alcoholic, don't you think?), but there was Paris, still insanely beautiful and romantic. It was moving, going back to the site of our disastrous honeymoon almost 8 years after the fact. I left Paris feeling that whatever problems we were having, we loved one another and therefore would work things out. 6 months later, after he had moved out, I discovered (don't ask how) that during that trip, he had all but decided that the marriage was over, that I was too needy, too helpless, not adventurous enough, whatever.
For several weeks after he moved out, I was an absolute train wreck. It took everything I had to go to work, do my job, pay the bills and feed the cats. But about 2 months into it, shortly after making the aforementioned humiliating discovery, I read an article about 'volunteer vacations'; specifically, a group that performed architectural restoration work in St. Victor la Coste, a small village outside of Provence. It took approximately 30 seconds for me to put my deposit check in the mail, and to start planning what would be my first solo vacation. To prove to myself that I wasn't the helpless creature my ex made me out to be, I bookended my time with the restoration group with solo outings; first, a long weekend in Barcelona, and to finish the trip, a day in Paris.
By the time I went on vacation, over 5 months had elapsed since the breakup, and our paperwork was already in the hands of lawyers. I had an amazing time on that vacation, with the group and on my solo outings. Thanks to my time there, I now know how to mix mortar and build a stone wall, and that I love pastis. But what I'm focused on now is that last day.
I had taken the train up from Avignon, and then a taxi to the hotel to drop my bags off and change. Then I found my way to the Metro and crammed in as much as I possibly could - some new things ( the D'Orsay), and some repeats from my prior trips (the Picasso Museum and a hot chocolate at Angeline's, down the street from the Louvre).
What I remember most from that night, however, is this:
After my hot chocolate, I made my way down the rue de Rivoli, intending to walk past the place de la Concorde and down the Champs Elysees. I hadn't gone very far when it grew colder and started to rain. In my hurry to get on with my day, I had left my umbrella and extra jacket at the hotel, so I bought a shawl from one of the vendors along the street, wrapped myself up, and headed to the nearest English language bookstore. A few doors down, I settled myself in a small cafe at a table next to the sidewalk, just inside the front doors that were open but shielded from the downpour by a large awning. I had purchased Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking at the bookstore, and I read it there while drinking an overpriced beer and watching the rain, and the people scurrying by, struggling with their umbrellas in the wind.
I've since loaned my copy of that book (wonderful, by the way) to my mother, so I can't quote Ms. Didion's words appropriately. But I came to a passage where she talks about feeling invisible after her husband's death, as though in losing him, she lost herself as well. I've been lonely plenty of times before and since, but I have never felt as alone as I did at that moment, and yet, it wasn't as bad as it sounds. I was in a place that I had associated with love, and dreams of a future that wasn't mine anymore. No one in my life knew where I was at that moment, and when I got on the plane the next day and flew back to LAX, no one would be at the airport waiting to welcome me home. I sat there thinking about this, trying not to cry and make a complete ass of myself. I don't know why it would be easier for me to see the truth that my marriage was over thousands of miles from home, but it was. And somehow it was okay. I had traveled through two countries perfectly well on my own, unable to speak more than a few words of the native tongue in either place. But I had found my hotels, made my train connections, ate and drank very well, and stayed out of harm's way while enjoying some of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen, places where I refuse to believe that people actually buy groceries and toilet paper and pick up their dry cleaning, because how could you possibly do that when you have distractions like the Seine, the Jardin des Tuileries, the Arc de Triomphe, and even the simplest of their apartment buildings and shops make everyday life look magical?
The rain eventually stopped, and I left that cafe, walked some more, got dinner and made my way back to the hotel. And the next day I flew home.
It's hard to say everything I feel about that trip without wallowing in cliches (those of you thinking 'too late' can just keep that thought to yourselves, thank you). But I guess what I felt the most was relief. In the year leading up to that trip, I had lost nearly everything I'd wanted for my future - my career was driving me insane, I couldn't have a baby, and now I had no husband, either. But sitting there, watching the rain and the tourists and the chain-smoking cafe patrons, I could still see the beauty of the city , feel curiosity about the inhabitants and the sites I had not yet seen, and love it all enough that I didn't need or want to be anywhere that moment except where I actually was.
I haven't yet planned my next vacation. If I move back to Boston, I plan to make a road trip of it - me, the cat and my ipod in my Honda, cutting across the South in search of good barbecue and appropriately tacky tschotkes from Graceland. I'd love to get back to Barcelona (where that last vacation started) and maybe on to Madrid, although I wouldn't mind having someone to share my tapas with the next time around (I do have someone in mind, but like everything else, there's a story there). But if time and finances allow me, I'd like to see Paris again, at all the stages of my life. I think about going back to my favorite museums, sharing a bottle of wine in a cafe on the Latin Quarter with someone, taking my kids to Angeline's for some more hot chocolate. This may sound dreamy and overly romanticized. Between trips number two and three, however, there was a time when all I wanted was to feel numb so that I'd wouldn't care so much the next time I lost something or someone. The relief that I felt that night in the cafe came about when I realized that I finally wanted to feel something again, happy, sad, or otherwise.
And that's what Paris means to me.
My first trip to Paris was almost 10 years ago, January 1998. It was my honeymoon. This was an unusual extravagance at the time; I was working and finishing grad school, the husband-to-be earned a modest salary, and we had kept the wedding plans pretty much to the bare minimum. We had talked about doing a very simple honeymoon, a long weekend in a B+B, but one week the Sunday Times travel section had an ad for some cheap airfares to Paris, and an idea was born.
I learned a valuable lesson on that trip that I pass on to every bride-to-be I encounter. If people at your wedding are sneezing, coughing, or appear unwell in any way, save yourselves and send them away. Or, at the very least, banish them to a table far, far away from you. My new stepmother-in-law and sister-in-law had what I can only describe as Martian death flu at my wedding, and on our second day in Paris, the husband developed a raging fever and chills. The bulk of my honeymoon can be summed up in one scene: a much younger me, stumbling into a Parisian pharmacy, knowing no French whatsoever, where a kindly Parisian pharmacist deciphered my frantic miming and provided me with le Tylenol, le Advil, and le Vicks Vapo Rub. The husband didn't fully recover for a few weeks, so our first time in Paris was largely a wash.
Over 7 years later, in the fall of 2005, we had our next big vacation - London and Paris for 10 days. It was what I hoped would be the end of a particularly rough time for us, one that included over a year of trying to get pregnant, a failed in vitro fertilization cycle, and a number of sessions with a couples therapist. We both worked long hours and (I thought) looked forward to this chance to reconnect, away from work and cell phones and my doctor reminding me that my eggs weren't getting any younger. I thought that we had a reasonably good time on the trip - granted, he spent a fair amount of time in London criticizing my sightseeing choices, and he did tell our therapist the week prior to our departure that he hoped I would drink more on the trip so that I would loosen up a little (an excellent thing to tell the daughter of an alcoholic, don't you think?), but there was Paris, still insanely beautiful and romantic. It was moving, going back to the site of our disastrous honeymoon almost 8 years after the fact. I left Paris feeling that whatever problems we were having, we loved one another and therefore would work things out. 6 months later, after he had moved out, I discovered (don't ask how) that during that trip, he had all but decided that the marriage was over, that I was too needy, too helpless, not adventurous enough, whatever.
For several weeks after he moved out, I was an absolute train wreck. It took everything I had to go to work, do my job, pay the bills and feed the cats. But about 2 months into it, shortly after making the aforementioned humiliating discovery, I read an article about 'volunteer vacations'; specifically, a group that performed architectural restoration work in St. Victor la Coste, a small village outside of Provence. It took approximately 30 seconds for me to put my deposit check in the mail, and to start planning what would be my first solo vacation. To prove to myself that I wasn't the helpless creature my ex made me out to be, I bookended my time with the restoration group with solo outings; first, a long weekend in Barcelona, and to finish the trip, a day in Paris.
By the time I went on vacation, over 5 months had elapsed since the breakup, and our paperwork was already in the hands of lawyers. I had an amazing time on that vacation, with the group and on my solo outings. Thanks to my time there, I now know how to mix mortar and build a stone wall, and that I love pastis. But what I'm focused on now is that last day.
I had taken the train up from Avignon, and then a taxi to the hotel to drop my bags off and change. Then I found my way to the Metro and crammed in as much as I possibly could - some new things ( the D'Orsay), and some repeats from my prior trips (the Picasso Museum and a hot chocolate at Angeline's, down the street from the Louvre).
What I remember most from that night, however, is this:
After my hot chocolate, I made my way down the rue de Rivoli, intending to walk past the place de la Concorde and down the Champs Elysees. I hadn't gone very far when it grew colder and started to rain. In my hurry to get on with my day, I had left my umbrella and extra jacket at the hotel, so I bought a shawl from one of the vendors along the street, wrapped myself up, and headed to the nearest English language bookstore. A few doors down, I settled myself in a small cafe at a table next to the sidewalk, just inside the front doors that were open but shielded from the downpour by a large awning. I had purchased Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking at the bookstore, and I read it there while drinking an overpriced beer and watching the rain, and the people scurrying by, struggling with their umbrellas in the wind.
I've since loaned my copy of that book (wonderful, by the way) to my mother, so I can't quote Ms. Didion's words appropriately. But I came to a passage where she talks about feeling invisible after her husband's death, as though in losing him, she lost herself as well. I've been lonely plenty of times before and since, but I have never felt as alone as I did at that moment, and yet, it wasn't as bad as it sounds. I was in a place that I had associated with love, and dreams of a future that wasn't mine anymore. No one in my life knew where I was at that moment, and when I got on the plane the next day and flew back to LAX, no one would be at the airport waiting to welcome me home. I sat there thinking about this, trying not to cry and make a complete ass of myself. I don't know why it would be easier for me to see the truth that my marriage was over thousands of miles from home, but it was. And somehow it was okay. I had traveled through two countries perfectly well on my own, unable to speak more than a few words of the native tongue in either place. But I had found my hotels, made my train connections, ate and drank very well, and stayed out of harm's way while enjoying some of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen, places where I refuse to believe that people actually buy groceries and toilet paper and pick up their dry cleaning, because how could you possibly do that when you have distractions like the Seine, the Jardin des Tuileries, the Arc de Triomphe, and even the simplest of their apartment buildings and shops make everyday life look magical?
The rain eventually stopped, and I left that cafe, walked some more, got dinner and made my way back to the hotel. And the next day I flew home.
It's hard to say everything I feel about that trip without wallowing in cliches (those of you thinking 'too late' can just keep that thought to yourselves, thank you). But I guess what I felt the most was relief. In the year leading up to that trip, I had lost nearly everything I'd wanted for my future - my career was driving me insane, I couldn't have a baby, and now I had no husband, either. But sitting there, watching the rain and the tourists and the chain-smoking cafe patrons, I could still see the beauty of the city , feel curiosity about the inhabitants and the sites I had not yet seen, and love it all enough that I didn't need or want to be anywhere that moment except where I actually was.
I haven't yet planned my next vacation. If I move back to Boston, I plan to make a road trip of it - me, the cat and my ipod in my Honda, cutting across the South in search of good barbecue and appropriately tacky tschotkes from Graceland. I'd love to get back to Barcelona (where that last vacation started) and maybe on to Madrid, although I wouldn't mind having someone to share my tapas with the next time around (I do have someone in mind, but like everything else, there's a story there). But if time and finances allow me, I'd like to see Paris again, at all the stages of my life. I think about going back to my favorite museums, sharing a bottle of wine in a cafe on the Latin Quarter with someone, taking my kids to Angeline's for some more hot chocolate. This may sound dreamy and overly romanticized. Between trips number two and three, however, there was a time when all I wanted was to feel numb so that I'd wouldn't care so much the next time I lost something or someone. The relief that I felt that night in the cafe came about when I realized that I finally wanted to feel something again, happy, sad, or otherwise.
And that's what Paris means to me.
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