Note: 'Snyder' refers to poet and writer Gary Snyder. If you've never read him, I suggest you do...
And Snyder's been speaking to me all day, about 'wild' and what it means and how its only voice is ours, stilted with long un-greenness, a young raven calling like a cracked brass bell out across the snow, and there you are in that small town, and here I am in mine, no wilder today than when we first met, talking endlessly of the long way out, sustenance for our mutual loneliness abundant but parched, like crowberries shriveled and dried over winter, like the liquid sieved from the moss.
In seven hours, it's easy to say that one's done nothing, and that we did, winding driving through your favorite canyon, as if we moved through time and space like the stars do, hurtling past one another, stopping finally for black coffee at the diner, where, slowed to our real speed, the snow ceased to slant and fell straight down instead, a white curtain, lines of flakes like bits of data on a screen, dates, times, speed limits, our need to stay together one hour more, overnight, into the next day.
I hurry up and wait: for the ice surrounding the lakes to melt, for the sodden ground to dry, for wild things hibernating to rise and stretch and begin to eat, tearing down the new grass, the blossoms on the willows, the sharp shoots of fireweed that rush up the hillsides. I hurry up and wait: the days are not yet long enough, and the mated pair of eagles, snowy heads and black, black wings, rest hours at a time in the tree across the street. I wait for the hurry to begin, for the frenzy of dinners and drinks and the rush of melting snow, the newborn rivers and streams, the smell of glacier and silt and movement rising out of water that will someday chill, will soon enough freeze, will force us all into slumber, to wait out the perpetual night, wait for the blessed thaw.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
"What better way to die, than in the pursuit of your passion?"
Only the good die young.
Great song. Enthralling sentiment. I am one vaccine (a polio booster shot, to be exact) away from completing this damned Peace Corps application. Months. It's been months in the making. Several months, and over a thousand dollars. Am I right in being disillusioned? Is it going to be worth all this?
I digress.
I wonder, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't often, if my fate is already sealed. I find it difficult to envision myself as elderly, or even middle-aged, no longer as wonderfully mobile, elastic and sharp. As we all do, I wonder what it might be like to die, the moment of it. I realise one doesn't "wake up" from death.
I think perhaps I'll die young, somewhere far away from home, maybe even in Asia, or thereabouts, while I'm off fulfilling my duties, trying to make the world a better place. Or, having completed that task, with a pack strapped to my back, on the way or in the middle of some sojourn to another end of this earth, rattling along via, rail, sitting at the center of a crowded city square, on the trail in search of a body of water by which to rest my head.
I've resolved to work, as hard as possible, to be who I AM, not simply who it seems I should be.
It could be that this Self is immortal. Then again, it could be that immortality rests in what others think of as unrealised potential, as a book with its final pages torn out, the game of chess left arranged on a half-played board.
Great song. Enthralling sentiment. I am one vaccine (a polio booster shot, to be exact) away from completing this damned Peace Corps application. Months. It's been months in the making. Several months, and over a thousand dollars. Am I right in being disillusioned? Is it going to be worth all this?
I digress.
I wonder, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't often, if my fate is already sealed. I find it difficult to envision myself as elderly, or even middle-aged, no longer as wonderfully mobile, elastic and sharp. As we all do, I wonder what it might be like to die, the moment of it. I realise one doesn't "wake up" from death.
I think perhaps I'll die young, somewhere far away from home, maybe even in Asia, or thereabouts, while I'm off fulfilling my duties, trying to make the world a better place. Or, having completed that task, with a pack strapped to my back, on the way or in the middle of some sojourn to another end of this earth, rattling along via, rail, sitting at the center of a crowded city square, on the trail in search of a body of water by which to rest my head.
I've resolved to work, as hard as possible, to be who I AM, not simply who it seems I should be.
It could be that this Self is immortal. Then again, it could be that immortality rests in what others think of as unrealised potential, as a book with its final pages torn out, the game of chess left arranged on a half-played board.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wall-oems?
So, for the past few months, admittedly very sporadically, I've been posting these tiny little weird poems on people's Facebook walls. Usually, it's the result of writer's block: for some reason, I can always think of at least 6-8 lines of pure gibberish to spam someone with, while I find it impossible to sit in front of Microsoft Word and write, you know, a REAL poem.
Some might make very little sense to others, as the subject matter stems from my memories of places and specific outings or conversations with friends. One day I hope to see them published. So far, all I've gotten is rejections...But feel free to enjoy nonetheless...
Below are a couple:
*
It happens that way sometimes, a brisk wind all it takes to light half the world ablaze, to throw us into perpetual night, everything choking on itself like that great snake swallowing its own tail. I had not seen you in days, the month the ash covered us over, took into itself mountain and city and sickly, drying river, and though I felt need of your company, how could I have known? through the haze, the lowering yellow cloud of so many things burnt and burning, I could no longer tell: you may have been across the street, behind that smoke so thick I could not see but a foot ahead. You may have been silent, standing right beside me.
And some days we talk about Iowa, the flatness, the silk of corn tassels carpeting the horizon, how it smells of loam and sometimes of baking bread, and then one of us jumps, shudders a little with the memory of cicadas, their creaky high violin-noise throughout the night. We remember the dried husks they make while dying, that litter the sidewalks, that you can stuff with tissue paper: dignified museum displays, no longer insect but the thought of insects, wisps for legs, empty eyes, the thorax flaking off in pieces like old varnished wood, a detritus of once-life that reminds what we lose daily, that reminds us we have a skin at all.
One night when I thought that at least the sleeplessness would take me, I heard your buoyant footstep on the steps, and your voice, and the crystal clanking of the cheap wine glasses being pulled from their shelf, and my sleeplessness evaporated while we sat on the carpet consuming a bottle of red, blinking downy dog hairs from our eyelashes, the walls populated by your books leaning down on us benevolently, the woods outside humming with mosquitoes and bees and what sounded like bloom and bud and leaf, all venturing forth under cover of dark.
Some might make very little sense to others, as the subject matter stems from my memories of places and specific outings or conversations with friends. One day I hope to see them published. So far, all I've gotten is rejections...But feel free to enjoy nonetheless...
Below are a couple:
*
It happens that way sometimes, a brisk wind all it takes to light half the world ablaze, to throw us into perpetual night, everything choking on itself like that great snake swallowing its own tail. I had not seen you in days, the month the ash covered us over, took into itself mountain and city and sickly, drying river, and though I felt need of your company, how could I have known? through the haze, the lowering yellow cloud of so many things burnt and burning, I could no longer tell: you may have been across the street, behind that smoke so thick I could not see but a foot ahead. You may have been silent, standing right beside me.
And some days we talk about Iowa, the flatness, the silk of corn tassels carpeting the horizon, how it smells of loam and sometimes of baking bread, and then one of us jumps, shudders a little with the memory of cicadas, their creaky high violin-noise throughout the night. We remember the dried husks they make while dying, that litter the sidewalks, that you can stuff with tissue paper: dignified museum displays, no longer insect but the thought of insects, wisps for legs, empty eyes, the thorax flaking off in pieces like old varnished wood, a detritus of once-life that reminds what we lose daily, that reminds us we have a skin at all.
One night when I thought that at least the sleeplessness would take me, I heard your buoyant footstep on the steps, and your voice, and the crystal clanking of the cheap wine glasses being pulled from their shelf, and my sleeplessness evaporated while we sat on the carpet consuming a bottle of red, blinking downy dog hairs from our eyelashes, the walls populated by your books leaning down on us benevolently, the woods outside humming with mosquitoes and bees and what sounded like bloom and bud and leaf, all venturing forth under cover of dark.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Compassion: Lodz Fabrycznya Station
It's a new month. I had thought it might be noteworthy by some drunken revels, or rife with stories of famous monuments. Yesterday, I found myself typing into an IM screen: I'm kind of ready to be home. Or at least, stationary...
I've always traveled with family, or with friends, with someone whose knowledge and planning skills I could rely on better than my own. There were hotels, or RVs or rented cabins, maps, penciled notes, directions. This time, it's just me and my backpack, the old, powder blue one I used to wear hunting with my father, or backpacking in summer.
I'm almost-lost. A very nice man, who sits across from me at the station, takes my train ticket (which I cannot read a word of) and returns just in time to tell me, in broken French, that it leaves NOW. I run like hell. The woman at the ticket counter, who spoke enough English to sound disdainful, told me it left thirty minutes from NOW, at 11:58.
An hour ago, I hopped off the tram and said goodbye to Rich, with whom I'd also left half my belongings: shorts, bikini, sunglasses. Things I packed for Portugal's beach weather, and won't need here in Poland. I sat down to an instant vanilla cappuccino, at 5 zed, not really a steal, and scalding hot. An elderly woman next to me chatted with a tattered-looking man, pigeons following at his feet like the bird woman from Disney's Mary Poppins. I don't speak Polish. Their dialogue made perfect sense:
Excuse me, ma'am. I don't mean to intrude. But it's cold...
Oh, not at all, not at all. I don't know how to help you.
It's only that I'm a bit chilled, and a bit hungry.
Well, I can't give you any money, but...
At this she unwinds the scarf from her own neck, handing it to this man from whom even the pigeons have finally moved away, sensing there won't be any crumbs dropping down for them. She smiles and pats his arm, folding the scarf over it. She is not disgusted, nor afraid. He seems more timid now, as if the tactile nature of this gift, still warm from the woman's neck, embarrasses him.
I couldn't. Won't you be cold now?
No, no. Take it. I can buy another.
It's clear that the scarf is not cheap. Perhaps not luxe, but not cheap, a sturdy knit of browns and grays.
Thank you, thank you. I thank you so much.
Now you've something to help fight off the chill.
From nowhere, the station's security guard appears, burly, blonde, and angry. He asks if the woman is being harassed, to which she plainly answers, nie, nie.
Nonetheless, he begins to shout, raising his voice and then his hand, as if to cuff the beggar-man in the ear. The tattered man flinches: He's been through this before. Perhaps last time, he was struck in earnest. Perhaps he chose not to move. Despite the elderly woman's protests, he is dragged away, but doesn't say a word in his own defense, just clings to his handed-down scarf. I can't meet his eyes, nor the woman's. Since I speak no Polish, I could exempt myself here, claim not to understand, ignore this evidence of injustice. Instead, I meet the Polish woman's eyes and frown. Disgraceful, I think she's saying, he wasn't doing anyone any harm.
I've always traveled with family, or with friends, with someone whose knowledge and planning skills I could rely on better than my own. There were hotels, or RVs or rented cabins, maps, penciled notes, directions. This time, it's just me and my backpack, the old, powder blue one I used to wear hunting with my father, or backpacking in summer.
I'm almost-lost. A very nice man, who sits across from me at the station, takes my train ticket (which I cannot read a word of) and returns just in time to tell me, in broken French, that it leaves NOW. I run like hell. The woman at the ticket counter, who spoke enough English to sound disdainful, told me it left thirty minutes from NOW, at 11:58.
An hour ago, I hopped off the tram and said goodbye to Rich, with whom I'd also left half my belongings: shorts, bikini, sunglasses. Things I packed for Portugal's beach weather, and won't need here in Poland. I sat down to an instant vanilla cappuccino, at 5 zed, not really a steal, and scalding hot. An elderly woman next to me chatted with a tattered-looking man, pigeons following at his feet like the bird woman from Disney's Mary Poppins. I don't speak Polish. Their dialogue made perfect sense:
Excuse me, ma'am. I don't mean to intrude. But it's cold...
Oh, not at all, not at all. I don't know how to help you.
It's only that I'm a bit chilled, and a bit hungry.
Well, I can't give you any money, but...
At this she unwinds the scarf from her own neck, handing it to this man from whom even the pigeons have finally moved away, sensing there won't be any crumbs dropping down for them. She smiles and pats his arm, folding the scarf over it. She is not disgusted, nor afraid. He seems more timid now, as if the tactile nature of this gift, still warm from the woman's neck, embarrasses him.
I couldn't. Won't you be cold now?
No, no. Take it. I can buy another.
It's clear that the scarf is not cheap. Perhaps not luxe, but not cheap, a sturdy knit of browns and grays.
Thank you, thank you. I thank you so much.
Now you've something to help fight off the chill.
From nowhere, the station's security guard appears, burly, blonde, and angry. He asks if the woman is being harassed, to which she plainly answers, nie, nie.
Nonetheless, he begins to shout, raising his voice and then his hand, as if to cuff the beggar-man in the ear. The tattered man flinches: He's been through this before. Perhaps last time, he was struck in earnest. Perhaps he chose not to move. Despite the elderly woman's protests, he is dragged away, but doesn't say a word in his own defense, just clings to his handed-down scarf. I can't meet his eyes, nor the woman's. Since I speak no Polish, I could exempt myself here, claim not to understand, ignore this evidence of injustice. Instead, I meet the Polish woman's eyes and frown. Disgraceful, I think she's saying, he wasn't doing anyone any harm.
Monday, January 25, 2010
October 27: Total Departure
(Note: About 48 hours after writing this, I fell in love with Poland and never came out of it...)
Two days from now, I'll be in Poland. I find it difficult to comprehend my own quickness of judgement, the remorseless way I've changed all my own plans. I find it difficult to accept what I've so rapidly given up.
I won't be making it to Dublin, or to Spain. I might make it to France. Nothing is as I've said it would be. Everyone privy to the situational aspects of how and why is aghast: Just GO, they say. Do it on your own. Do it anyway. It's occurred to me that I am just not brave enough. I lack the courage necessary to risk the what-ifs, those insidious doubts about parts of life that seem to only work in concretion.
...and the greatest of these is money. I've heard plenty of tales about broke and weary adventurers who've purported to have made it across the continent of 5 Euro a day, feeding themselves on booze and poetry and air, sleeping in alleys and public parks, on borrowed beds. I don't doubt that it can and has been done. I doubt my own ability to handle it. Back at the airport in Porto, I paid what seemed exorbitant for an hour on the Internet. Within that hour, I purchased the ticket that brought me here to Lodz, another back to Portugal, and paid with my confidence. Instinctively I know I can't afford to find food, transport and lodging all over the U.K. The exchange rate has recently plummeted. The US Dollar is worth fuck-all, as they say. I reach instead for the lifeline offered by my friend and hiking partner, Rich (see Bear Mountain entry). Eastern Europe it will be, the course of this entire journey thusly changed.
If I were truly courageous, truly fearless, would I have done what I've done? Why not go, as everyone seems to think I should, eschewing any sense of practicality in favor of tracing out my original map? Maybe this will haunt me, my willingness to discard what's left of that map in favor of safety, familiarity. In Poland, I'll be able to shower every day, check my email and Facebook, watch movies, speak English. All semblance of travel to survival will be gone. And there it is-the ubiquitous appeal of travel at its barest, in its rawest incarnation: Those who have wandered from place to place, subsisting on (or so they say) naught but a few dollars and the kindness of strangers have not just seen or done what I haven't. They've survived it. Inherent in such minimalism and borderline poverty is the tenacity of the human will.
Right now, I unroll my sleeping bag on the hard, icy, polished granite floor of London's Stansted airport. Every hostel and hotel in Essex is full. I can't bring myself to pay for a bus into the city. I curl up under a 4-sided display of flashing flight times and gate numbers, still a full twelve hours from my own flight's takeoff. All around me, doorways and shop entrances and bits of floor space are covered with sleeping bodies: young couples huddled against each other, solo travelers leaning back against their overstuffed backpacks, groups of friends with limbs draped over limbs.
We're all waiting for something to carry us away. Maybe we don't know where we're going. Security guards patrol around us, stepping over jackets and purses and outstretched legs.
Somehow I sleep heavily through the night, waking at 7 AM to a security guard's boots right near my face. Thanks to my trusty sleeping bag, I've once again stayed warm. When I crawl out of it and out from under the display, a gentlemanly elderly Brit stands before me, manning a "Veterans of the U.K." table. I give him 2 pounds. He gives me a red poppy in exchange. He's never met anyone from Alaska before, not to mention a small girl traveling alone so far from home. The poppy has a gold back. I pin it on my hat, and head over to the closest restaurant for a proper English breakfast.
Everything seems better, somehow, in the earliest of the morning hours. I can afford this food now, this thick British bacon and this piece of toast and these potatoes. Only 6 more hours until I leave. It's windy out, the banners hung outside the airport snapping to and fro, and the tea is hot and sweet.
Two days from now, I'll be in Poland. I find it difficult to comprehend my own quickness of judgement, the remorseless way I've changed all my own plans. I find it difficult to accept what I've so rapidly given up.
I won't be making it to Dublin, or to Spain. I might make it to France. Nothing is as I've said it would be. Everyone privy to the situational aspects of how and why is aghast: Just GO, they say. Do it on your own. Do it anyway. It's occurred to me that I am just not brave enough. I lack the courage necessary to risk the what-ifs, those insidious doubts about parts of life that seem to only work in concretion.
...and the greatest of these is money. I've heard plenty of tales about broke and weary adventurers who've purported to have made it across the continent of 5 Euro a day, feeding themselves on booze and poetry and air, sleeping in alleys and public parks, on borrowed beds. I don't doubt that it can and has been done. I doubt my own ability to handle it. Back at the airport in Porto, I paid what seemed exorbitant for an hour on the Internet. Within that hour, I purchased the ticket that brought me here to Lodz, another back to Portugal, and paid with my confidence. Instinctively I know I can't afford to find food, transport and lodging all over the U.K. The exchange rate has recently plummeted. The US Dollar is worth fuck-all, as they say. I reach instead for the lifeline offered by my friend and hiking partner, Rich (see Bear Mountain entry). Eastern Europe it will be, the course of this entire journey thusly changed.
If I were truly courageous, truly fearless, would I have done what I've done? Why not go, as everyone seems to think I should, eschewing any sense of practicality in favor of tracing out my original map? Maybe this will haunt me, my willingness to discard what's left of that map in favor of safety, familiarity. In Poland, I'll be able to shower every day, check my email and Facebook, watch movies, speak English. All semblance of travel to survival will be gone. And there it is-the ubiquitous appeal of travel at its barest, in its rawest incarnation: Those who have wandered from place to place, subsisting on (or so they say) naught but a few dollars and the kindness of strangers have not just seen or done what I haven't. They've survived it. Inherent in such minimalism and borderline poverty is the tenacity of the human will.
Right now, I unroll my sleeping bag on the hard, icy, polished granite floor of London's Stansted airport. Every hostel and hotel in Essex is full. I can't bring myself to pay for a bus into the city. I curl up under a 4-sided display of flashing flight times and gate numbers, still a full twelve hours from my own flight's takeoff. All around me, doorways and shop entrances and bits of floor space are covered with sleeping bodies: young couples huddled against each other, solo travelers leaning back against their overstuffed backpacks, groups of friends with limbs draped over limbs.
We're all waiting for something to carry us away. Maybe we don't know where we're going. Security guards patrol around us, stepping over jackets and purses and outstretched legs.
Somehow I sleep heavily through the night, waking at 7 AM to a security guard's boots right near my face. Thanks to my trusty sleeping bag, I've once again stayed warm. When I crawl out of it and out from under the display, a gentlemanly elderly Brit stands before me, manning a "Veterans of the U.K." table. I give him 2 pounds. He gives me a red poppy in exchange. He's never met anyone from Alaska before, not to mention a small girl traveling alone so far from home. The poppy has a gold back. I pin it on my hat, and head over to the closest restaurant for a proper English breakfast.
Everything seems better, somehow, in the earliest of the morning hours. I can afford this food now, this thick British bacon and this piece of toast and these potatoes. Only 6 more hours until I leave. It's windy out, the banners hung outside the airport snapping to and fro, and the tea is hot and sweet.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Porto, PT: Change in the Wind, says I.
(Note: I've started going back through the notebook I wrote in throughout my trip. Entries from here on out with be jumbled, from different dates and countries and mindsets.)
To communicate. This is not a wish, nor an action. It's a necessity, something essential that I can't grasp here, a handful of sand, or a wet, new rope: I have it in the palm of my hand yet I cannot hold onto it. At the airport (Charles de Gaulle), in line and at the cafes, my French must have been passable enough-after one sentence, I'm swept away by a flood of rapid French, only half of which is understandable.
Here, in Porto as in Lisboa, I'm mistaken for Brasilian, sometimes for Portuguese. The flood comes again. To communicate with rapidity, with fluency, I crave like, right now, I crave food, preemptively imagining what it used to be like to ignore the shape of my mouth, the roundness of "o" or the slurring of "l-h".
Hunger. This is not it's harshest form, something I will not venture to liken to what I am: sitting in a hotel room, a bag of tiny pears in front of me, dreaming of French fries, a baked potato, steak. When I get to London, no matter how late, I will find a place that's open, that sells pies and chips and peas. The last week's subsistence on 5-7 Euro a day has yielded a sandwich, two cups of milky coffee, a piece of fruit, some chocolate. This is not yet a debilitating hunger. Rather, like one word's contiguousness with another, this one pear and this croissant, this cup of coffee and an apple, all blend together to create a lack of satisfaction, an unremitting lack of ending, syntax stilted, the hesitation of native speakers before my halting questions.
Unable to face another night of cold, wet sleeplessness, I've spent 30 Euro on a hotel room in Porto. I've been somewhat marooned: having braved the ICC (intercity) trains and another long ride on the metro, I arrived here thinking Brandon would eventually do the same. We'd head off to London, and from there resume our much-touted trek through the UK. It's been 12 hours. He's nowhere in sight. The young man working the night shift here is grateful for the company. I drink a too-sweet European Coca-Cola and sit up with him, in the lobby, watching British sitcoms and comedy revivals. He asks if the entire state of Alaska is full of bears. This time, I don't mind answering the questions. In the morning, Liliana, the morning shift girl, fixes me a pot of hot, strong coffee. She's someone else who's shocked: she swears I'm Portuguese. I'm tired, groggy, I apologize, but I have to switch to English. Again I'm floundering, hunting for some justification, some reason for my certainly jumbled syntax. Why have I bothered to learn at all, if I can't have a conversation at 8 in the morning? Liliana doesn't seem to mind. She ignores the rules about check-in and check-out. She says I can stay until noon. We laugh at the supposed silliness of all these questions about bears and igloos and snow; she wants to take a cruise to Alaska one day. Before I leave, she looks the other way, waives the 25 cent charge for making a phone call, and lets me call Brandon one more time. He's not picking up. I need to find a computer, and fast.
Before heading back to the airport, I stop round the corner for something to eat. For 2.40 Euro, I get a bowl of soup and an apple. The apple, though I pull it from the mini-fridge outside the counter, is washed and handed back to me by the smiling shop-girl. She gives it to me on a china plate, with a tiny knife for cutting it into slices. The soup she brings out to me, first arranging a white paper cloth on my table, then a silverware set. My apple on its porcelain plate glistens with the water on its skin. Its tacitness is perfect: it waits to be cut into and when I do, I find it perfect inside as well, and I can't eat it all at once, but linger, taking small bites, turning the pages of my book methodically. The shop girl brings out my soup, and that I eat ravenously, Portuguese news blaring behind me.
I can almost understand what's happening, the inflection of the male newscaster over the female. I manage a strong Muito obrigada. O sopa estas bem. The shop-girl says nothing back. She seems to know that this is all I can manage. Each table in the cafe shines. Liliana's address is in my notebook; I'll send her something, when I get home. Rain-slicked red umbrellas on the patio, and an elderly man with a black cane walking by the window. There's a freshness to this version of alone that I hadn't known before.
To communicate. This is not a wish, nor an action. It's a necessity, something essential that I can't grasp here, a handful of sand, or a wet, new rope: I have it in the palm of my hand yet I cannot hold onto it. At the airport (Charles de Gaulle), in line and at the cafes, my French must have been passable enough-after one sentence, I'm swept away by a flood of rapid French, only half of which is understandable.
Here, in Porto as in Lisboa, I'm mistaken for Brasilian, sometimes for Portuguese. The flood comes again. To communicate with rapidity, with fluency, I crave like, right now, I crave food, preemptively imagining what it used to be like to ignore the shape of my mouth, the roundness of "o" or the slurring of "l-h".
Hunger. This is not it's harshest form, something I will not venture to liken to what I am: sitting in a hotel room, a bag of tiny pears in front of me, dreaming of French fries, a baked potato, steak. When I get to London, no matter how late, I will find a place that's open, that sells pies and chips and peas. The last week's subsistence on 5-7 Euro a day has yielded a sandwich, two cups of milky coffee, a piece of fruit, some chocolate. This is not yet a debilitating hunger. Rather, like one word's contiguousness with another, this one pear and this croissant, this cup of coffee and an apple, all blend together to create a lack of satisfaction, an unremitting lack of ending, syntax stilted, the hesitation of native speakers before my halting questions.
Unable to face another night of cold, wet sleeplessness, I've spent 30 Euro on a hotel room in Porto. I've been somewhat marooned: having braved the ICC (intercity) trains and another long ride on the metro, I arrived here thinking Brandon would eventually do the same. We'd head off to London, and from there resume our much-touted trek through the UK. It's been 12 hours. He's nowhere in sight. The young man working the night shift here is grateful for the company. I drink a too-sweet European Coca-Cola and sit up with him, in the lobby, watching British sitcoms and comedy revivals. He asks if the entire state of Alaska is full of bears. This time, I don't mind answering the questions. In the morning, Liliana, the morning shift girl, fixes me a pot of hot, strong coffee. She's someone else who's shocked: she swears I'm Portuguese. I'm tired, groggy, I apologize, but I have to switch to English. Again I'm floundering, hunting for some justification, some reason for my certainly jumbled syntax. Why have I bothered to learn at all, if I can't have a conversation at 8 in the morning? Liliana doesn't seem to mind. She ignores the rules about check-in and check-out. She says I can stay until noon. We laugh at the supposed silliness of all these questions about bears and igloos and snow; she wants to take a cruise to Alaska one day. Before I leave, she looks the other way, waives the 25 cent charge for making a phone call, and lets me call Brandon one more time. He's not picking up. I need to find a computer, and fast.
Before heading back to the airport, I stop round the corner for something to eat. For 2.40 Euro, I get a bowl of soup and an apple. The apple, though I pull it from the mini-fridge outside the counter, is washed and handed back to me by the smiling shop-girl. She gives it to me on a china plate, with a tiny knife for cutting it into slices. The soup she brings out to me, first arranging a white paper cloth on my table, then a silverware set. My apple on its porcelain plate glistens with the water on its skin. Its tacitness is perfect: it waits to be cut into and when I do, I find it perfect inside as well, and I can't eat it all at once, but linger, taking small bites, turning the pages of my book methodically. The shop girl brings out my soup, and that I eat ravenously, Portuguese news blaring behind me.
I can almost understand what's happening, the inflection of the male newscaster over the female. I manage a strong Muito obrigada. O sopa estas bem. The shop-girl says nothing back. She seems to know that this is all I can manage. Each table in the cafe shines. Liliana's address is in my notebook; I'll send her something, when I get home. Rain-slicked red umbrellas on the patio, and an elderly man with a black cane walking by the window. There's a freshness to this version of alone that I hadn't known before.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
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