moments measured in miles

Day 1- May 20, 2006- leaving New York

2006-06-17T02:19:00.000-04:00

I had expected to feel more, which isn't to say that I feel nothing, but I'm not sure it's set in yet- the distance muddled by the three days between here and there.

Backstory
The last time I'd attempted a trip like this was ages ago, though the two are hardly comparable. The boy I went with, his birthday was yesterday and I thought about calling, not because I wanted to talk to him, or had anything to say, but just as proof that I'd remembered, proof that would somehow point out what he'd forgotten, and I'm not sure that either matters all that much. He turned 23. He was 19 when I met him and it's only when I stand back and stack the numbers against each other that I can tell how much time has passed.

We dated for seven months he and I, the relationship coming to a halt the week after we returned from the West coast. The trip wasn't to blame for the breakup, though I'm sure that in the moment I attributed the ten day stretch we'd spent together as a breaking point. The truth was I'd known he was too good for me, had known since a night in San Francisco when, after a show, I went back to the hotel not feeling well and he went out to the diner across the street to bring back dinner and milkshakes that he hoped would make me feel better. I wasn't used to being treated that good and I remember feeling loved and lucky and panicked that I would never be able to live up to whatever it was that make him believe I deserved to be treated that way. [The relationship was doomed.]

Now
There have been countless times with Doug that I've felt that same unconditional love. It doesn't make me panic now- I am older and maybe I know better or maybe I just know enough to take what I can get and sort out what I probably deserve later.

On the LIRR into Penn Station, I had this song playing in my head- a Slick Shoes song, and god, I haven't thought about Slick Shoes in forever. It goes "you say you don't believe in luck and I do agree with you. But sometimes I really have to wonder. I sure feel lucky when I'm next to you." I don't know if I feel lucky, but I'm grateful. I didn't tell him about the song- he would make fun of me for such poppy taste in music. I stop writing because Doug wants me to listen to a song from one of the mixes he brought. "Homeward Bound", Simon & Garfunkel. He expects that this will have resonance in the weeks to come, but it is too slow for now.

Though it's easy to associate music with travel, (especially trains rolling through Middle America) I haven't brought any. I haven't been listening to anything lately unless Doug gives it to me. He loves music and I can't compete, don't want to. I just wait to absorb new songs through osmosis, (or too loud headphones.)

We'll be gone for 24 days- more than twice than last time. It will be the longest I have ever been away from home.

The train is delayed, which means a couple hours in Penn Station limbo. The first leg of our trip is from New York to Chicago, where we'll switch trains to Seattle and take a bus to Vancouver. Our plans confuse the man at baggage check who sees only the first ticket to Chicago. I point out the connections behind it and he nods. I fill out two Amtrak ID tags to put on the suitcase, just in case one falls off. I'm keeping my fingers crossed the bag doesn't get lost- Doug will kill me for making him pack his things with mine.

Day 2- May 21, 2006- en route

2006-06-17T02:11:00.000-04:00

Doug falls asleep somewhere around Ohio. I think about waking him when the sun rises, unseen, just a layer of pink lining the horizon. I don't. The man behind me has been emitting all sorts of gas the whole way here and it's a wonder we slept at all. The girl sitting next to him takes off for some other part of the train when he starts asking questions. I feel bad for her. I have been there.

Somewhere in Indiana I dream that all my friends are caravaning through farmlands on their way to a movie shoot. Mike's got a pickup truck and I'm in the cabin with him discussing camera angles.

The train is 3 hours late getting into Chicago, which cuts into our time between one train and the next. We (on Doug's suggestion- to be fair) check on the progress of our suitcase at the customer service desk. Lo and behold, it was sent to the wrong place, and an older man with glasses as thick as my grandfathers leads us to the train to retrieve it, saying hello to the crew on the way, feeling very important.

We find the suitcase- thank goodness- and bring it on board with us, meaning that I'll spend the next two days with my feet propped up on it in my own makeshift leg room.

I spend all of Wisconsin eavesdropping on a conversation in the seats in front of me. A New Zealand kid- he says he graduated college a couple years ago, but he looks 18- and a middle aged woman from Minnesota, who's got an accent thick as the mother from Bobby's World. He is travelling the country for three months, she is suggesting places to go. I smirk to Doug at the conversation, but secretly it makes me feel lost because I can't identify with the American or the traveller and I guess I want to feel both.

Day 3- May 22, 2006 - en route

2006-06-17T02:05:00.000-04:00

I was up a few stops before Doug, and when he woke up we went downstairs to stand by the door and watch the sun rise. It was rather romantic, but would have been more so if my ovaries weren't making desperate attempts to escape my body.

When the snack car opened, he got coffee and Advil and I feel better for the time being. I've been able to get comfortable, despite the school trip running through the aisle earlier this morning. The girls whispered and giggled at Doug. I fell asleep with my shoulderblades holstered along the windowsill after listening to Doug's doowop mix. A conductor reading over Doug's shoulder made him jump and it woke me up.

We're somewhere in North Dakota, though all of these states seem to look the same. The same green and brown and forgotten houses. I'd never be able to live out here but yesterday we passed a lake in Minnesota that was pretty and there were houses lined between the water and the train tracks.

I like it when I can see the wind passing through the dried grass and it looks like the land is this great big tanned beast breathing gently in its sleep.

It's still early- before noon- and we're about to pass into Mountain time zone. Doug says that the scenery should improve when we get into the mountains, he's pointed out pictures in the timetable of cliffs and other such things.

Day 4- May 23, 2006- en route to Vancouver

2006-06-17T01:40:00.000-04:00

Washington

Doug has been writing down the names of all the towns we stop at, all the places we pass through. I can't keep track- to me, they're all the same, just a bunch of middle of nowhere towns waiting for Kevin Bacon to come in and shake things up for a while.

I'd hoped to be learning something from this ride- something that would make the extra days worth it, but I can't say the experience has changed me or opened my eyes as of yet. I mean, it's sort of amazing that anyone lives out here, and when we're passing through these vast wasteland fields or mountains, I try to remind myself that there are worlds outside the city- something that's hard for any New Yorker to ever really reinforce enough to believe.

We've been passing in and out of fog all morning. I've been up since before the sun rose, which I'm not sure is due to still being on Eastern time or just the fact that it's not all that comfortable to sleep on a train with a suitcase eating up your leg room.

It's pretty out here thought- there are lilacs and forsynthias lining the track and I'm sure that the mountain air tastes and smells entirely different than even upstate NY air. I've just got that feeling.

Doug says I ought to stop comparing everything to things I already know. He says I ought to let them be new and unique and apart from everything else. He said this after we passed through a mountain town this morning in middle Washington and I said it looked sort of like Altoona. I guess it's easier for me to compare, to stay grounded in some sort of framework on how to view things. Everything's probably connected anyway, or will be some day so I might as well start doing that bridging work now while I feel like I can keep track of what's what. And what's not.

We should be in Seattle soon, and from there it's another few hours by bus to Vancouver. I'm excited to go and anxious to get there. I've been fantasizing about taking a shower and I guess that's what a few days on a train will do to you.

We're driving along a road now so I can watch town names flash by on green highway signs and I keep wondering to myself is this what they call a highway out here?

I keep hoping to have this profound experience that will tell me who and what I am, exactly. In my writing class last semester, everyone was always talking about how they found themselves in foreign lands and I wonder what it says about me that I stay within this comfort zone of English only places that I won't need to get a passport for. And I'm leaving feeling like a New Yorker, but I'm not even entirely sure what that means exactly and I guess I'm looking for myself in the space between the first impressions of strangers. I want to know what I can pass as or if everything about me is readable on the surface. And maybe it's fine to not know, but I want to find out and maybe it's hard to determine these things, or anything else, when I've got Doug with me.

The kid in front of me- the New Zealand one- is keeping a journal and last night I imagined his entries about us, wondering if he writes about us the way I write about everyone around us. I imagine his entries must read something like- "the couple behind me is crazy. The guy- his name is Douglas, I know because she scolds him every half hour or so, often many times in succession, initiates games of ' I love you' that has them repeating the phrase obnoxiously until she goes back to whatever it was she was doing that he interrupted." All that with New Zealand terminology of course. Or maybe he's oblivious. Maybe our interactions, our outbursts, are magnified in my mind only. I never have any way to gauge the way I see things. I just assume that everyone sees as much as I do, and somethings are stark blinding that it's impossible to miss.

Last night, the train split at Spokane. I was awake to see it, though Doug was not. The car behind us used to be an observation deck, but it went with the other half train. We are the caboose now and people keep walking through the car until they get to the back door that looks out on the tracks behind us. Then turn around and I laugh when I see them coming, imagining that someone will be talking to their friend behind them, too engrossed in conversation to look at the door before they step out. Of course, Amtrak has ways to prevent such hilarious tragedies, but it doesn't stop me from watching out of the corner of my eye- fingers crossed.

4PM- Vancouver

Being on a train for three days straight makes you appreciate the little things, like showering and peeing in a bathroom that doesn't move. We checked into the hotel about an hour ago- took a cab here that cost more than I hoped it would and I expect we will need more Canadian cash before these few days are through. Doug is showering now- I went first, I needed it more- and we will go out exploring and to treat ourselves to dinner when he's through.

I fell asleep as soon as I got on the bus. It was raining when we got to Seattle and stayed that way most of the busride up. At customs, I stammered for answers- all the places have blended together so that I can't tell one city's attractions from the next. I suppose they are mostly the same, on this continent anyway, and coming from New York, I may be hard to impress.

It's pretty here. The city is tucked into mountains and I haven't walked they streets yet, but driving through in the cab, we could see them peeking out from behind the buildings. I'm more excited about being here now that I'm actually here. Doug got a map that shows where a bunch of movies were filmed within the city. I want to try to visit some of them and review the moveis when we get home searching for landmarks.

I'm farther from home than I've ever been, but so far, it feels like I could be anywhere.

Day 5- May 24, 2006 - Vancouver

2006-06-17T01:03:00.000-04:00

Doug wants to move here- we've been sitting outside, people watching, trying to find him a nice Canadian girl to marry so he can stay in the country. It's friendlier and cleaner than New York (which isn't saying much, is it?) and everyone waits at the lights to cross the street. We cross on red, presuming the coast is clear and the glares we get from people make me believe there are strict laws about jaywalking and some Mounties will appear out of nowhere to cart us off for our misbehavior.

The money looks fake- of course this is my American response, )though I don't feel any more like one in Canada than I do at home.) I can't pretend to recognize the faces on the bills or coins. There's dollar and two dollar coins, which Doug says is standard in Europe too but is annoying to me and to avoid dealing with such complicated monetary adjustments, I've been using my credit card for everything.

Yesterday we got burgers at a place on Granville Street, which seems to be the Village of Vancouver- tattoo parlors, bars, alternative clothing stores, and a Rockabilly hair cutting place called "The Chop Shop". Doug says that it reminds him of St. Mark's Place, but it is clean and open and there aren't nearly as many (wannabe) punk rock kids hanging out along the sides.

We went to the art gallery today and that seems to be where everyone hangs out- the stoners and squatters- on the steps out front and behind. The museum itself was disappointing- half was Native Canadian (I wrote American the first time, but am correcting it now) which surprised me a bit. The other half was architectural stuff- models like Erica builds with chipboard and basswood. She would have enjoyed it, but it's not anything I'm particularly interested in.

We walked around a ton- there are bears all over- statues like the horses or whatever it was we had scattered around the city. All cities do this with some animal, Doug says, but I can't remember ever noticing it anywhere before. He says I don't notice enough, went on and on today about how writers need to observe everything and I wondered if I am not really a writer after all because I only notice some things- the things that call out to me, the things that are impossible to miss.

The place- Roxy's- we ate last night had leopard print panelling on the walls and a font of an old Chevelle that said something I can't remember. They put mayonaise and mustard and ketchup on the burger, called the check the bill, and had a hockey game playing on no fewer than 8 TVs throughout the place. At every goal and every save, there were appropriate responses from the restaurant patrons.

We woke up early today and were out by 9:30, the 3 hour time difference helping and we went to eat a place down the block. Our hotel is in the middle of most everywhere we want to be and across the street from a Starbucks and some cafes we have yet to explore.

We walked down Robson Street this afternoon, which I guess is the 5th Ave equivalent shopping strip. We didn't get anything except coffee while we were there, but went back tonight to eat at a place- Moxie's, because Doug is rhymy- where the hostess told us she always wanted to go to New York when we told her where we're from.

Before we knew where we were going, we walked through Yaletown, the trendy area that has lots of restaurants we probably can't afford- I guess it's like SoHo, if I have to compare it to something, which I of course don't, but will anyway. There's a pastry shop there that we wanted to eat at but it was closed by the time we got back- we'll go tomorrow.

We spent a while sitting out front across the street from the public library- a colliseum like structure in the middle of the entertainment district (or more towards the edge of it). For as much as Doug loves the place, I think I would get bored here after a couple weeks- it doesn't seem like theres a whole lot to do, not without a car anyway, and I have not even taken the first step toward figuring out the public transportation system. I'm trying to see what he fell in love with so immediately about the place and I get that it's clean and safe and generally nice, but I can't imagine things here being better than home.

My legs are sore from all the walking we've done. It's late, almost 11 here and I don't know hoe quick I'll let my body adjust to Pacific time. Doug is planning our day tomorrow, totem poles and a place called Dead Man's Island, which is fine. I'm not sure I'd know what to do with myself to fill the days here since it seems to be a lot of the same.

Day 6- May 25, 2006 - Vancouver

2006-06-17T00:20:00.000-04:00

We got a start later than I wanted to, though I can't really complain about the extra time spent in bed. I realize I have been censoring the details of Doug and I's interactions since we've been here when he asks for the specifics for his own writing. I'm not angry with him now, though I have been since we've been here. I've hesitated to write about it, knowing that the feeling would pass and I would regret my harsh words after the fact. Sometimes he is unmanageable- he takes things too far and won't listen to my pleas to stop. He is stronger than I am and I've tried to explain how this physicality can be threatening when coupled with the unwillingness to listen. He doesn't get it.

We spend the morning looking for a diner-type breakfast place called the Omeleterry, but when we realize how far it is, we double back to another diner called the Templeton that has mint green walls , a neon clock, and jukeboxes with old time songs. The coffee was good and the table was covered with B-movie drawings that looked like smaller versions of postcards. On the way out, the waitress asks where all the good bars are in New York, and I embarrass myself, revealing that I don't drink. I will feel two feet tall all day.

On the walk to Stanley Park, we pass a couple of filmings- we gather they were for commercials or something of that caliper because there didn't seem to be much of a crew around. At the park, we walk along the water until we got to the totem poles. It's the most touristy thing we've done so far- there are tons of people there and one guy with an accent I couldn't place pulls out a postcard, shows it to Doug and asks where we are in it. Unable to give him an answer, he pulls out a map instead, and we point to the spot that says "totem poles" and explain several times that this is where we are.

From Stanley Park, we walk to the other side of the city- historical Gastown. Along the way, we stop a couple times, our legs killing us and I try to give Doug kisses but he raspberries in my face, getting spit all over my glasses. Having grossly overestimated the appeal of Gastown, we went. There wasn't a whole lot to see, just a steam powered clock that looks more impressive from low angle photographs than it does in person.

Afterwards, we went to Chinatown, not because we were particularly interested in seeing Chinatown, but because we were there already and we figured we might as well see as much of the city as possible while we could. A block away from Chinatown and everything got super quiet- despite the rest of the noise of the city, we could hear ourselves breathing, hear our footsteps hitting the pavement. It was like another city, like walking into a ghost-town, except that there were homeless people everywhere, more in a block than we'd seen the past few days all around the city combined. A pockmocked Faruza Balk lookalike- (the institutionalize Faruza Balk at the end of The Craft)- wanders past, making sure to inform us that it's her "special day". Doug starts talking about drugs, and I try not to listen, hating to be reminded of his own past, and I would rather not think about him that way because I'm sure that were I to meet him then instead of now, none of this would be happening.

We walked a few blocks further into the silent, decrepid Chinatown- "hotels" were being closed down, the area under construction, just before gentrification, and there are areas like this everywhere. We weren't comfortable, so we left before wandering too far into the heart of the area. And I'm not sure if what unnerved us was the sight of such poverty, the way it didn't fit into our idea of this city, the way maybe every city has the same sorts of problems, pushed to the side so as not to disrupt the glossy postcards we send home. Maybe we are on a vacation and choose not to be reminded of such things. We will leave and the place, the people will stay to fester. I can't imagine how some people choose to visit impoverished nations, and maybe it is awful of me to feel this way, but I can't imagine going without feeing a profound sense of Western guilt. And maybe this is the first time I feel like an American.

Hurrying out of Chinatown, we head back toward Robson Street to a date-type restaurant not unlike the place we ate the night before. Except this time, we are tucked away at a 2 person booth at the back instead of seated by the front door. The food is good, the night before's was better and we have been lucky in our eatery choices so far. When I call home at night, the first thing my parents will ask is what I ate for dinner, and Doug will think it is such a silly thing to wonder about when the city has more to offer than food.

Afterwards, we'll walk to the pastry shop we'd tried to go to the night before and it's not what I expected, but exactly what Doug expected and I will get something white chocolate and Doug will get something banana and we will forget to grab forks and eat these exotic delicious treats in our hotel room with our hands.

We're stuffed afterwards and though it's early, I tuck myself under the covers and we watch Tv for a couple hours- So You Think You Can Dance- which we probably wouldn't watch at home, but we are away and so we do. I struggle with the alarm before going to sleep.

Day 7- May 26, 2006- Vancouver-Seattle

2006-06-17T00:08:00.000-04:00

Doug hogged the blankets all night and I woke up a dozen times. I worried that I'd oversleep and be late to the bus, but of course, every half hour I was up and checking the clock. Last night some people checked into the room next to us. The walls are thin, and we hadn't noticed so much until they were there. Doug decided they were American because this morning, we heard them watching The Price is Right before we left. It's probably a good thing for them they showed up when they did and not sooner, or else they would have been subjected to Doug and I's bickering and other noisiness.

We went to exchange money to leave the hotel tip and got breakfast at a cafe across the street from our hotel and afterwards, took a cab to the train/bus station- good thing too, since it started to rain and the walk would've taken us an hour at least. We got stamps at the station- a dollar each- and filled out the postcards we got yesterday, the only form of contact Doug's had with his family or roommate since leaving. We planned on taking photobooth pictures, but the machine won't take our quarters and we gave up trying, cashing our money in instead.

We're on our way back now- and I won't be able to write on the bus much longer. Last night, at dinner and after, Doug and I were talking about drinking, how he is happier when he is. And I was thinking about how the first time I came out to the west coast, I started drinking coffee and how this time, I might come back with a new vice. I doubt it though. There's no reason really, and I'm terrified of the extra calories.

Doug's complaining that he's gained weight since he quit smoking and while I don't mind whatever difference there is, he does, and I have no choice but to give permission for whatever will make him happy. I doubt he'll start again- not on this trip anyway, but who knows.

We've been gone a full week but it feels like months already and I'm sure this is how the summer is meant to feel.

Day 8- May 27, 2006 - Seattle

2006-06-16T21:31:00.000-04:00

The busride wasn't too bad coming down- it was packed and the driver reminded me of Colonel Sanders. Doug read the whole time and I listened to the CDs he brought. I expected the questioning at the border to take longer coming back than going there but the guy was a million times friendlier than the butch braid woman who grilled us on the way in. This guy was more content to talk to us about misconceptions of the weather and the difference between east and west coast.

It was raining when we got here and we took a cab to the hotel. Doug pouted out of hunger (though he's not telling me he was frustrated because he expected me to have everything planned out and we had to wait for a cab instead of going to the closest busstop that I looked up). We checked into the hotel, which has left a lot to be desired-

They gave us a room apart from the main building of the hotel, which means that you could step out of the door to the room and into the parking lot. We can hear all the noise from the main road outside and there's a draft from the half a foot between the bottom of the door and the floor. We got a king sized bed, but I guess they didn't have enough sheets for that size, because ours definitely doesn't fit, meaning that we spend half the night trying to make sure the mattress is covered- (because I'm grossed out by the thought of sleeping with no buffer zone between me and the hotel mattress.)

We walked around looking for food- hungry Doug acted like a jerk to me for not knowing where the good places to eat were and I tried to explain to him that I suspected most of the food places were bars first and restaurants as an afterthought, but he didn't listen and wasn't convinced until we'd walked the entire city.

Back at the hotel, which is in a scummy looking part of town, Doug went out searching for coffee, figuring that there must be a Starbucks within walking distance. There was, but it closed at 6 and it was already well past 8. He ended up wandering around through the crowded Friday night streets, and after giving a passing car bad directions, he came back to the room.

Today we went to the museums. There was a fair/cultural fest going on at the Seattle Center and we didn't look through it as much as we probably should have because we were sticking to our agenda, worried that 7 hours would not be enough time for the 3 museums we had planned.

First up was the Pacific Science Center, where we hit every photobooth in the place. There was a video game exhibit that just opened and we spent a while playing old arcade games, and battling each other at MarioKart. Doug finds games that he played when he was a kid, tells stories, and I point out that these things are before my time.

Afterwards, we got pizza at Zeek's where the waitress was entirely too happy but we were willing to forgive it because the food was good and we were hungry.

The Sci-Fi Museum and the Experience Music Project are connected, and we went to the Sci-Fi one first. It wasn't at all what I expected it to be and is a thousand times cooler in theory. It was mostly books and movie posters displayed but nothing particularly interesting about them. I guess I expect places to tell a story- artists statements or some sort of insight to the genre, an emphasis on historical context- something that I couldn't get just by reading the back of a book or a movie blurb. I was hoping that at least the gift shop would be worthwhile, full of old movie posters and robot postcards, but it was nothing like that. Instead, it was based on Star Wars and Star Trek, neither one of which I needed to come to Seattle to know about.

The Experience Music Project wasn't much better. I wasn't wowwed by it last time I was here, and I don't know why I expected it to be much different this time around, except that Doug is super into music and I'd hoped that his enthusiasm would rub off on me. He wasn't too thrilled either, except for the poster section- a display of show fliers- and really it was more about the art than the music.

Afterwards we walked through the arcade/amusement park. Doug won me a stuffed frog playing Skeeball and named it Dexter after a street a block over from the hotel. We got coffee and went back to the hotel with the intention of going out again later on, but it didn't happen- we got caught up watching the mid-90s teen comedies that we playing on TV.

There's a film festival going on here now- SIFF- all independent films and we were thinking about going to some if we can navigate our way there in the rain.

Day 9 - May 28, 2006 - Seattle

2006-06-16T20:49:00.001-04:00

It was raining hard when we woke up so I was in no rush to get out. We headed over to the Folkfair and the local Mall next to it and ended up getting glorified fast food for lunch and a frozen banana for desert on the way back. The goal was to be out long enough for the maid to come by and make up the room so we could come back just in time to make sure our door was closed and everything was in place. Unfortunately, we overestimated the efficiency of the cleaning staff.

We got back to the hotel to find our room unmade and went into the lobby, frozen banana in hand to alert the desk that yesterday the door was left open after cleaning and the worried man at the desk apologized and assured us that there would not be a repeat of such a mishap.

We walked down to the Pike Place Market, stopping on the way for coffee ant a local coffeehouse- Cherry something. I'm sure Doug will remember the name since he is big on noticing everything and pointing out that a writer needs to notice all that's around him. I point it out when he says it and I may have been insulted except that I am not feeling like much of a writer these days so such things cannot affect my ego.

We spend a while shopping, window shopping mostly, through collectible stores with old posters and Doug salivates over a Bettie Page cutout and I pretend to be jealous just to give him a hard time.

We find a windup toy store that we'd seen an ad for and spend time playing with windup monkeys and food and Frankensteins. We end up buying a couple of robots and some monkeys- one with cymbals and one that flips. I get a robot for Mike and a fire-breathing Nunzilla for Belinda. I get some postcards too but I don't find a mailbox, ensuring that they will come along with me to Portland.

After walking around downtown, we went back to the room to rest. Around 8 we walk a lap around the city looking for dinner, and disappointed and feeling lazy, we go back to the room and order from Pizza Hut which neither of us have had in ages.

Since we're leaving tomorrow, I find myself recapping the Seattle experience. The bums are pushier here, we've noticed, following for blocks. And though it has nothing to do with that, I don't like this city very much. I mean it seems like they've got a lot of festivals and stuff, but the city itslef feels dead, unwelcoming, cold. It might have something to do with the weather, though I am hesistant to lay the blame. It just feels like this is a place that could never be home.

I like to think that I'm adaptable, but I guess it's easy to think that when it's never been tested. Really, I'm awful with change. The other night I got to thinking about what will happen when I go home- that it will be the same troubles tenfold coupled with the responsibility of adulthood- a job and an apartment and paying for this trip. I'm not ready for that, not yet and I feel like something needs to happen between now and then. I need to change somehow. And it's sinking in that I'm done with school forever and I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, except that I will miss some of the people I have spent this time with and I did not expect to miss them at all.

I feel like I've got more adventure in me- and I want to be more reckless than I am and maybe it's better that I'm not, but I have been having the wildest dreams lately and it is wonderful to be able to roll over and send them morning breath express to Doug.

Last night I dreamt that we were apart- in miles, not memories- and I was trying so hard, so desperately to find him because it was important, something was so urgent that it couldn't wait. And I remembered, still asleep that he was there, right there and all I had to do was take him.

I don't know what it is that makes someone a good writer, or a writer at all. I used to think it was a combination of honesty and insight but maybe it's something simpler than that. Maybe you just are or you aren't, maybe it's inherent like everything else and some people just see things differently.

I haven't felt like I'm seeing much. And there was a time, not too long ago that my senses were on high alert, waiting for a pinprick of a chane, looking to recognize the familiar in the new and the new in the familiar. Maybe I left that girl on the East coast. Maybe she is home.

Day 10- May 29, 2006 - Seattle-Portland

2006-06-16T20:42:00.000-04:00

It's a travel day, which means another ride on the train. The people around us are new to the game. We are old pros, setting up and placing our ticket above us, claiming. And part of me wants to brag tjat we rode three days from New York to Seattle, because it feels like an accomplishment, something worth noting, even if we just sat and slept and did nothing particularly remarkable in that time except experience.

The last travel day, to Seattle, I spent the time tracing telephone poles along the roads. I like the ones that look like wire dresses on hangers, all lined up and connected by wires stretched tight, but not too tight, between them. They were only in Canada, and as we got closer to the border, the towers morphed into robots with clawed hands holding wires, and a homeplate missing from their chests. They looked like an army and I imagined them coming to life and marching toward a siege of both countries, radio-ing each other back and forth across the fields, moving half an inch each day so the farmers can't detect the unearthed ground at their feet. They'd commisserate, facing forward, lined up like oil rigs, waiting to simulateously explode.

Some kids find shapes in clouds. I find shapes in everything. And maybe it is due to my lack of artistic talent, my inability to create anything I haven't somehow seen before.

We have been gone ten days and this is officially the longest I've been from home.

Day 11- May 30, 2006 - Portland

2006-06-16T20:14:00.000-04:00

Last night we wandered the streets looking for a place to get food. Unfotunately, everything was closed for Memorial Day and we came back to the hotel room, planning to order something in. I fell asleep before it happened, in all my clothes and despite Doug's urging did not call my parents to check in. They, of course, left a dozen messages looking for me, my mother panicked and ready to fill out a missing persons report and have the Portland police out searching.

I called and things were fine, my parents' craziness momentarily calmed. They are waiting for me to come home, an idea that terrifies me to no end because I am not the least bit ready to do such a thing.

We got breakfast/lunch and then coffee and went to sit in the public circle arena-type place- Pioneer Courthouse Square- where we spent the bulk of the day people watching while our arms sunburned.

We started out at one en where there's a spot where you can hear an echo. It was sort of funny to watch the people walk over specifically for the purpose of testing the myth. My cousin, Greg, who lives in Oregon, called while we were out there and apparently, when my parents couldn't get in touch with me, my father called him, wondering if he'd taken us out to the mountains.

Doug was putting ice cubes down the back of my pants and I was squirming, telling him to stop when a butch feminist a stair behind us said why do you let him do that to you, it's so disrespectful and I, furious that he a: wouldn't listen and b: attracted the attention of the people around us agreed with her. He got all huffy and I knew it was more out of her noisiness than any sort of embarrassment on his part and I could tell it was taking all his self control to not turn around and pop her right across the jaw. I was embarrassed though, and tensed up, sure that she was scrutinizing my every move. Of course she had no right to interject her opinion- aside from the fact that she was probably getting a full view down my pants everytime he pulled the back of my jeans away to slide a cube down- and I should have told her to mind her own business, but at the moment, I worried. I worried that I looked like a girl who was weak, dependent, victimized. I wondered if on this coast, all the times that Doug ordered for me were displayes of my passivity instead of romantic gestures. I worried that instead of it looking like he was taking care of me, it looked like he was taking care of me because I was incapable of taking care of myself. And I know it shouldn't matter much what we look like, what people think, but at that moment it did, because I worried about the truth in appearances. I worried that I would turn into that girl, and I realized that as much as we were watching everyone else around us, at least some of them were watching us too.

There are a lot of young parents around here, here and in Seattle too. While we were sitting, a couple showed up- early thirties tops, with two kids, one about 3 and the other maybe 5, a girl and a boy and the girl was one of the cutest kids I've seen. Some woman had lost her sister and son and come over to the couple for help, presumably because they seem helpful and approachable and the little girl, not knowing what was going on said "Don't worry, me and Christian will help you." They didn't really help though, just ran around chasing pigeons while their father searched the area for people that matched the woman's description- which was awfully nice of him. Ava- the girl- little Ava Marie, and where have I heard that name before, jumped all over the steps and turned to me and smiled proud and said "Did you see that!" and I smiled back knowing better than to engage in conversation with stranger kids even if they are the type that make my maturnal instinct kick in. (But don't tell anyone)

They left and not long after, we left and got smoothies and milkshakes and relocated to the other side of the circle where there were two guys writing poetry and another older guy preaching about Jesus and a ton of wannabe punk rockers and hippie kids scattered behind us. There were lots of people with petitions and political agendas and I am guessing it is that sort of town.

When we were hot and sweaty and sunburnt, we came back to the room to watch Tv and do crossword puzzles. Doug went out to get a pack of cigarettes, as our discussion in the circle gave permission to do so, but he felt guilty and emptied half of the new pack into the trash can as though this would make me think higher of him. It made sense in his head, I'm sure. He was a thousand times more pleasant when he got back and though I'm not at all thrilled with him smoking, I'm sorta okay with it if it means he will be generally nicer to me.

We went out to dinnner at a little Italian place that kept popping up in multiple guidebooks. The atmosphere was alright, casual, but I was expecting the food to be better. It was average at best, and I don't know why I was expecting to get great Italian food in Portland of all places, but it is what it is. Doug had a glass of wine with dinner and was instantly in a great mood when we left the place- though I'm sure this has more to do with me letting him drink than the drink itself.

We got coffee on the way back to the hotel and ordered a movie through the TV, a stupid teen comedy but neither of us felt much like thinking and again it was what it was. We went to sleep around midnight, each in our separate beds- it was cheaper to get 2 twins here than one queen- and I spend the night dreaming of the show the next day.

Day 13- May 31, 2006 - Portland

2006-06-16T19:41:00.000-04:00

We slept late, or rather Doug slept late and I got into bed to wait for him. We finally got out around noon and I worry that we have adjusted too completely to Pacific time. It may hit hard when we get back or we may not even notice the change back as we hadn't really noticed the change to begin with.

A block from the hotel was a sandwich shop and we stopped for lunch. Apparently, at the deli-type places around here, they bring you the food when it's done instead of you waiting at the counter for it. Doug didn't know this, which cause the girl behind the counter to ask him if anything was wrong, addressing him by name.

We walked around, got coffee, went to a local bead store and ended up sitting in Pioneer Square again. But it was later than the day before and not as sunny, so people watching was far less entertaining and we left after not too long. We noticed the same couple of kids playing hackey sack and hanging out on the steps which led us to believe that this is the sort of city that you can live in for a week or two and meet everyone in your sphere.

Back at the hotel, we watched TV- I stumbled upon Passions and Doug regrets that we will miss it the next few days due to travel and actual vacation plans. Part of me feels like this is wasted time to lay around in the hotel room watching bad soap operas, but I try to convince myself that vacation is supposed to be about escape and I guess my trips are always so choreographed that any free time is devoted to sleep. And I don't think that I'm burnt out on travel so much as this city was ill-planned. There is nothing to do but wander through the in-between of west coast life and it feels like this is the halfway point. Everything after this is moving toward heading home.

Doug feels this too, thought not in the same way. When we get back there will be a thousand responsibilities to address, including paying for our exploration. I've been trying not to think of it, and urging him to ignore it too. Right now I am more than willing to give into distraction and there are moments that I need to remind myself of the reality of the situation- that full-fledged adulthood is waiting on my home coast- but I'd like to believe in so many more adventures ahead of me, and if this is in fact a last hurrah of sorts, I feel like it ought to be more. Like I ought to spend months wandering, controlled by things like whim and weather, mapping my course around changes in the wind. And maybe I am not meant for that sort of travel, but I'd like to be.

At night we left the room just after 6, planning to go to a bar for dinner. Doug smoked on the way there, though he resisted at first, citing that he swore never to smoke in front of me. It is the lesser of two evils I have decided and he is quickly adjusting to this new control in his life.

At the bar, I half expected Doug to order me a drink, but he didn't, got just a beer for himself and thanked me profusely for being so understanding. And I am not sure what to make of any of this except that I don't feel anything towards these things because he is old enough to take care of himself and takes care of me more than I let on.

It becomes apparent at the show. We have an hour to kill and not wating to wait in line with the few dozen teenagers that have amassed for the occasion, we divide our time between a music store and searching for an open coffee shop. Back at the venue- the Crystal Ballroom- ten minutes before the tickets said, Doug stops for another cigarette out of sight of the teens out front.

The venue is a three floor walkup- the walls painted with inserts of faux balconies and angels in classical music poses. There were faces inlayed in the columns- laughing comedy faces that led Doug to suspect that this place was once a playhouse. The chandeliers left me guessing otherwise- it was a ballroom of grand proportion in its day with women floating in dresses with underwire skirts on the arms of men with tuxedo tails. There were windows lining the wall, the wall we were facing- one half of the stage- and it was daylight, although rainy and overcast when we went in and I reminded myself to check the effects of this window placement once night fekll, but I forgot about the windows and the world beyond them once the show started.

The less exciting, just for me details are that the show was great: the Lawrence Arms sticking to a lot of stuff off the new album, keeping a sing-along feel to the set and though the songs aren't necessarily my favorites, they were high energy and I was sure I would break into a coughing fit, my throat's revenge for me screaming so loud and so long.

Alkaline Trio opened with Goddamnit in its entirety, which thrilled me to no end. An acoustic set followed, featuring solo songs that I wouldn't identify as their solo acts until well after the fact. I recognize, I sing along. Somewhere along the line, I separate from Doug, though unintentionally. He was wonderful throughout, keeping an arm around me as protection from the evergrowing pit and it made me feel safe and secure in a way that I hadn't thought about before. He is often angry and protective and I know that he is strong- our hotel room wrestling matches have proven so time and time again- but it is easy to forget just how strong until it is tested in the crowd and I am certain he is every bit as capable of protecting me as he claims to be.

I keep moving up though, snaking through the front right corner of the crowd for optimum viewing- one of the disadvantages of being short. And in my weaving, Doug ended up an extra row behind me. I worried that he'd think I was ignoring him, but at the same time I appreciated that he was not bent on wrapping his arms around my waist and locking me in the crowd. Part of me kept waiting for the pit to expand or some poor teenage boy to attempt conversation so Doug could spring into hero action. It didn't happen. I had a great time, though he was annoyed with the crowd, and we left, emerging into the cool night air heading for the hotel.

My voice is not as sore as I thought it would be, but my ears are buzzing like neon signs outside roadside motels.

Day 13- June 1, 2006 - leaving Portland

2006-06-16T19:13:00.000-04:00

I wake up half a dozen times throughout the night, checking and rechecking the clock to be sure I'm up to turn the alarm off before it has the chance to sound. We fell asleep together in what was designated as my bed, but halfway through the night, I felt him get up and move into his own. I had dreams that upset me when I woke up, but I can't remember the details now.

It's raining when we wake up, and after I nag him enough, Doug gets up. We're ready to leave by 10, which of course does us no good since we opt to lay around watching the Price is Right for the hour before checkout. We left- Doug smoked while I checked out and he meant to be out of my sight, but I could see him through the lobby's long windows.

We walked through the rain, I with an umbrella, he without, stopping to get breakfast/lunch at a deli and bypassing the coffee place we wanted to stop at - which advertised a white chocolate caramel coffee- because we were such there was another on the way. There wasn't, and after filling out postcards at the train station- another called Union- we ventured out to find a Starbucks a few blocks away.

We checked our suitcase all the way to San Francisco. Not trusting Amtrak's baggage checking ability, Doug asks the man behind the counter- a small framed old man with glasses and a soft voice- several times whether or not the bag will make it on the bus with us when we switch at Emeryville, or if other measures need to be taken. He, sounding like she, assures us that it will but we have our worries all the same.

The train was late arriving ad hsa been consistently late since. We're chasing a freight train through the mountains and the view was beautiful earlier, but it has since gotten dark so that the windows show only the reflections of the inside of the train.

I'm almost through a book of short stories- How to Breathe Underwater- that Doug brought. It is good, and I can tell it is good because it's making me want to write, making me remember stories about my seven year old self losing a tooth in school, really losing a tooth and insisting that someone stole it, posing that maybe the tooth fairy tracked me down in class, mistook my desk for a pillow. My teacher played along with it, because really, what else could she do.

I got to thinking about my life, in the most general sense, lining up facts and moments hoping to come up with something conclusive. It's hodge-podged at best, a mess at worst, cluttered with inconsistent themes and varying degrees of hypocrisy. And sometimes I feel like I am trying to mold fiction from fact or fact from fiction, trying to pull a plot off of these moments, these story points so I can hold it up in the light- it is thin and goosebumped like chicken skin- and see what shape it resembles. I want to play Pictionary with my memories, performing some sort of high stakes Rorschact test that will tell me exactly where my life is going bacsed on the negative space of where it's been.

Maybe that's what the thought of writing this trip was so appealing. It has a definite start, a definite end. It is self contained and I ought to be able to carve a character arc out of this time. It seems silly now, but at the start of the trip, I had hoped that my daily journal entries would amass to something- some sort of valued truth. That I could hold my thoughts up to Doug's and create prisms, like holding a gem up to the light and casting flecks along the walls, shattered byt there. I want to be disassembled and put together in a way that feels more right. I expect too much and maybe I'm not hoping for that anymore, but smaller things, like that our luggage arrives at the places we're going to.

There was a while earlier where I was uust watching Doug- he was sleeping or near sleep with his headphones on and I just felt lucky, plain and simple lucky, that he somehow fits me so well and I stared at him, studying, hoping that my eyes looked as warm as they felt- warm enough to start tearing- and that somehow this would express love because I was feeling it so strong that it was hard to imagine that it wouldn't come across clear across my face. Because he always asks "how much do you love me?" and this is the answer.

Day 14- June 2, 2006 - en route to San Francisco

2006-06-16T18:12:00.000-04:00

The train was late- really late- pulling into Emeryville sometime between 1 and 2, instead of the 8 am arrival that was scheduled. My faith in Amtrak waning, I worried that we'd missed our bus connection and be stranded outside the city. It wasn't the case though, the stop is a shuttle service to the city, the distance closer than Long Island to Manhattan. We listen to the older couple behind us worry about what stop they ought to get off at, and the man at the front of the bus telling stories about how Amtrak buses left his luggage on the side of the road, that he spotted it by chance and was lucky enough to double back.

We got off in the shopping district and walked to the hotel. It was farther than I thought it'd be and manuevering through midday sidewalk traffic, I was glad we would not be coming back this way. I got showered while Doug watched Clue on and once we were both dressed and the movie was over, we left to get some much needed food.

Walking around, I'd forgotten how brutal the hills are here and if there is a downside to the city, I'm sure this is it. We're planning on getting Muni passes that will hopefully eliminate much of the walking (and thus the problem).

Coming back to the hotel to rest afterwards, we wanted to go back out and explore some more, but I fell asleep, exhausted from the lack of on the train. I guess Doug went out at some point, because when I woke up, there was lemonade and apple juice for me. We haven't quite figured what we're doing here when yet, but I suspect that Doug will sleep late in the morning and I will have plenty of time to decide.

Day 15- June 3, 2006 - San Francisco

2006-06-16T17:55:00.000-04:00

Doug stays in bed, mostly to spite me, which means that we don't get out of the room until just before noon. We walked towards Market, stopping at Lori's for breakfast/lunch and heading afterwards to the Cartoon Art Museum, which had a featured exhibit on music in cartoons and comics. The songs and bands that I recognized I appreciated, but the others- the majority- went over my head. Doug enjoyed it, but would have enjoyed it more had he remembered to bring his glasses.

It seems that most places here don't have air conditioning, or they don't use it yet. Our hotel room has a fan which we didn't discover until this morning, after the discomfort of last night, when we left the window open for air and spent the night listening to the sound of fire trucks. They're different than the ones back home, screechier, and when they pass us on the street I have to clench my teeth together to keep my brain from rattling around inside my head, imploding on impact. Doug pointed out that there are free standing fire alarms on the street corners, and wondered if this had anything to do with their frequency throughout the night.

We came back to the hotel to rest before going out to do laundry. Well really, Doug did laundry and I stood there holding the crossword puzzle book, scanning for answers we may have missed. Afterwards, we dropped off the clothes and went to get dinner, walking all the way down Geary to North Beach, the Little Italy section of the city. It was a Saturday night and everything was packed, and neither one of us making much of a decision, I suggested that we go to City Lights before instead of after eating, hoping that the crowds would die down, trickling out to bars. The plan worked, and we got a couple issues of The Believer and some McSweeneys stuff before heading out to a restaurant at the corner of Grant and Columbus. They sat us by the door which meant that I spent half the time cold and the other half people watching out through the mirror. It was a hot night for bachlorette parties and proms. I don't know much of the details though; facing the street, Doug got a much better view of the action outside.

Heading back to the hotel sometime after 11, we passed through the deserted entirety of Chinatown. Part of me felt unnerved and I don't know why exactly, given that I've come home from the city at later times alone, and maybe it's being somewhere new. I worry that someone can spot me as a visitor and I wonder if people in this town can spot tourists the way I can back home. I wonder if they're looking.

Day 16 - June 4, 2006 - San Francisco

2006-06-16T17:05:00.000-04:00

We got up in time to head to the corner diner, Mel's, and I secretly picked out hotel based on their breakfasts so it was good to sell Doug on the place since he preferred the other local chain, Lori's after yesterday. Feeling adventurous, and reminding ourselves that we are on vacation, we have banana cream pie after breakfast before heading out on our plans for the day.

Twenty blocks straight down Van Ness is the edge of Fisherman's Wharf. It's a long walk, but the route is mostly flat, which makes it not too bad at all. We walked, hugging the water, around the marina, Doug smoking and taking pictures and complaining about being touristy. We went to see if we could get on a tour to Alcatraz today, but it was sold out, as I predicted it would be on a Sunday, and we got tickets for the next available tour, noon tomorrow. And since we were already there, I dragged Doug around Pier 39, going into every store without buying a thing.

As my punishment, we went to the Wax Museum, which Doug's into, though I could take it or leave it. I can't remember ever having been to one before, and this is probably because the whole experience doesn't thrill me the way it does Doug. He goes on and on about his trip to London, and manning the camera, he took a ton of pictures - what seemed like one of every model- the security sensors wailing with the flash of each shot. I imagined the place on fire, the faces melting distorted down to the ground like tiny mountains.

Afterwards, with time still to kill, we went to the Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum, another thing that I probably would have bypassed if I were on a cash budget, but having credit cards and no solid plans for the day, we went. A few exhibits in, Doug and I get in the biggest fight to date, or rather, he gets furious at me, probably rightly so. The reason: there was a machine that takes a picture of your face and flips it, switching the sides, duplicating. The point is to show how the two sides of your face are different. I went first, with semi-hilarious results, but when Doug went, it was a totally different story. You don't need a machine to be able to tell that the two sides of Doug's face would not line up as mirror images, and when the sides were duplicated to match, it was like another person. His all left-side face was absolutely gorgeous, and I said so, perhaps overemphasizing the difference. The image showed what he would look like if he didn't have a ptosis, which is the one thing he is self conscious about above all others (the product of childhood torment) and my comments hit a sore spot with him. He took it to mean that I wished he looked different, which wasn't what I meant, but it's what he thought, and so he ignored me, silently fuming, fleeing as soon as I got close enough to touch him. It was like being in the museum by myself but weighed down by the anticipation of the drama this would cause later in the day. I apologized, he had a cigarette, and things were fine.

We took photobooth pictures and went back to Pier 39 for coffee and postcards and taffy and magic tricks. Doug is particularly excited about using the snapping gum he got there, sure that no one will see it coming because, "why would a 27 year old be carrying around a pack of trick gum."

Planning to go out to the movies, we went back to the room, and ordered a pizza for dinner. I am always a thousand times more ambitious before I eat, because once we were stuffed, I didn't want to move, let alone leave the room. "Tomorrow," I promised, before going to sleep.

Doug's got a thing for Frankenstein

When he was still mad, he was trying to take pictures of himself, but I kept getting in the way:

But once I was out of the picture, he was happy.

Day 17 - June 5, 2006 - San Francisco

2006-06-16T13:55:00.000-04:00

It's always hard to drag Doug out of bed. I got up when the alarm went off, maybe a little before. He refused to move, suggesting that I leave a trail of taffy leading from the bed to the bathroom to entice him. I do, and eats it all along the way, adding to the already massive pile of wax paper wrappers in the garbage.

We walked toward Powell and Market to get our bus passes for the day, walking a few blocks parallel to ours and it was completely filled with homeless people stretched out across the sidewalk sleeping. Now obviously, I've seen plenty of homeless people before, but the concentrated amount was affecting and uncomfortable and irrationally guilt-ridden, we hurried through. I wondered if the locals knew the area to be like this- they must- and avoided it like the pre-Guiliani-era Times Square.

On the way back from getting the passes- that ended up being excessive and mostly unused- we looked for a breakfast place that Doug had read about in a guide book- the Taylor Street Cafe. Though we missed it on the way there, distracted as we were, we found it on the way back, and ducked in, allowing ourselves no more than a half hour to eat. The walls were covered, diner style in classic Hollywood idols- Marilyn, James Dean, Audrey Hepbern. They weren't the typical shots, either, but candids, self portraits. After ordering, Doug went outside to smoke a cigarette and locate an ATM to address the problem of the Cash Only signs we spotted scattered among the idols. I was halfway done with my breakfast when he returned.

We left, practically jogging for the bus station on Van Ness, because when I suggested the idea of riding the Cable Cars down to Fisherman's Wharf, Doug scowled as though I'd asked him to inject dirty needles into his eyelids. Being a tourist- or rather, appearing to be a tourist- is one of the more painful experiences for himn and I can't really blame him for feeling this way. We took the bus, catching it perfectly timed as soon as we got to the corner. It was a single bus, running on gas, not electric wires, and we took it all the way to the Wharf, marvelling at the ease of this trip compared to the previous day's walk which felt like eternity.

The line for Alcatraz was already wrapped around the ship halfway down the pier, and it was still ten minutes to the start of boarding. The warm weather cooled off standing on the top deck of the boat, leaned against the railing because there were no open seats, feeling our weight rolling back and forth with the waves. Doug wrapped the camera cord around his wrist, snapping shots of the Bay Bridge and San Francisco shrinking behind us. I held my breath every time the boat rocked, bracing myself, legs spread for balance, thinking about how in Jaws, the shark attacked the boat from below. And I know there are no sharks in this water, only fish and sea lions, but if enough sea lions got mad they could probably shake up some trouble, right?

As the boat docked at Alcatraz, we waited in the crowd below deck for the doors to open and the passengers to unload. We sidled up to a man in a park ranger uniform stuttering through his talk about the island. He doesn't say a whole lot, nothing I don't know and when we leave, I tell Doug that last time, my brother asked the ranger on duty who he thought was more of a man's man- John Wayne or Clint Eastwood, that last time my brother had doubled the walking time up the hill pretending that his hands and feet were shackled together, shuffling, head hung, eyes wide and dead.

Doug is tired of my sentences that start with "last time".

We did the audio tour, which meant that each spot along the way was crowded with headphone-wearing tourists, doing just what the recording commanded. It's a pretty clever trick, or could be, to instruct tons of people, explicit or subliminally, via tape what to do. In the right hands...

After touring the cell house, which was just as I remembered it, we stepped out into the recreation area where the Bay breeze stung any open skin. We barely made it ten feet before reconsidering, turning back. We took pictures of the city from the distance and hurried to catch the next ferry back before some German tourists who had been eyeing us asked us to photograph them in front of the city.

The battery of my own camera died snapping pictures of the Golden Gate- a good way to go I'm sure- and we decided to stop back at the hotel room to charge the batteries before heading to Haight-Ashbury. The plan had been to take the Cable Car back to Market Street- Doug complaining the whole way- and catch the bus from there but with these new battery charging plans, we went back the same way we came.

Doug was disappointed with Haight-Ashbury, comparing it to the trendier parts of the Village, St. Mark's Place. He is angry about people around him and he is angry so often that I don't know what to make of it anymore.

The area's different than I remember- maybe it's because I was there with my brother, but all I can place are head shops and DJ supply record stores. This time there are tons of "alternative" clothing stores, tattoo parlors. We stop a couple blocks from the park at a local coffee shop and though I offer to stay, Doug wants to leave, head back.

On the way, there was a band recording something at the corner of Haight and Ashbury, and on the way arriving, we'd seen a band photo shoot through a cafe corner window. For some reason, these things irk Doug, ensuring that he will never adopt the carefree attitude of the west coast.

Someone asks us for directions, we shrug apologetically, wondering why we are asked more often on vacation than at home, and whether or not this ought to be taken as a compliment, proof that we could probably fit in anywhere.

We go to the movies when we get back, walking into the theater at showtime. There were a couple of people waiting to get tickets and not wanting to be rude, I walked around the to the back of the line. Of course, not everyone was as considerate. On our way, two soriority-type girls took a look at us and ducked under the cloth dividers. And while they were doing that, another couple of women did essentially the same thing, walking right to the front, which meant that Doug and I had to stand their fuming. I wanted to sit behind them kicking their seats the whole time, but thought better of it.

The movie was okay, just okay and by the time we got out, I felt motivated to start writing again and I think that sometimes bad movies inspire me more than the good ones because I tend to think, "I could do so much better than this" as though there's some ongoing contest no one's keeping score of.

We get back to the room and write out postcards before calling it a night, setting the alarm for an early checkout the next day.

the postcard that had us hysterical for days:

Day 18- June 6, 2006 - leaving San Francisco

2006-06-16T13:04:00.000-04:00

At breakfast, the woman in the booth behind us talked nonstop to her three companions, who struggled to get a word in edgewise. Her tone sounded like bragging, but based on the content, I can't imagine that to be the case. She hopes her friends will tell her she is a good person, that she will be successful in whatever she decides to do. She hopes to find her impression of herself in the way her friends see her. She is struggling.

We get pie even though it's before noon, figuring we need the energy for our trip today. The rental car was waiting for us on Mason Street, and greatly underestimating the distance, we walked it- the hills getting steeper and steeper by the block and halfway there I realize that our destination is at the very top of Nob Hill, and this is something that our streetmap didn't tell us. Doug was furious with me when we got to the top, hot and exhausted, and sore from dragging our heavy suitcase so far.

The hotel we picked it up at was a thousand times nicer than any of the ones we'd stayed at and the woman behind the counter was surprised we'd walked so far to get there, considering we'd passed closer ones on the way. Doug called her Ma'am, and she scolded him, went on to say it made her feel old. He apologized- "it's a Southern thing"- and she told us how San Francisco was the happening place to be back in the day, how she saw Jimi Hendrix play when she was little and Doug and I both thought that for someone who didn't want to feel/seem old, she sure talked about the past a lot.

The car was a silver Pacifica, waiting for us in the garage downstairs. Not knowing what a Pacifica looked like and seeing only SUV-sized vehicles parked, we ask the attendant for help identifying it. Sure enough, one of the huge cars was ours and I kept saying over and over again how nice it was (and it was) until Doug told me that such talk would make him nervous about driving the thing.

We lapped the city, Doug complaining about how he hates driving in cities, and drove down Lombard Street, which was exciting, because unlike much of the things we'd done in the city, it was something I hadn't been able to do before. Afterwards, we went to the outskirts of the city to Ocean Beach and the Sutra Baths, the ruins of a bathhouse along the shore that'd been destroyed by tidal waves. I'd wanted to show Doug, but at this point he was mad at all the city driving he'd done. We parked and he smoked, refusing to walk uphill to the paths, but following my leave when I took off.

We worked our way down, taking photos and spending a good amount of time in a cave that leads out to rocks, and the Pacific a sharp drop below. I'm sure that if I were to live out here, this would be a place I frequented- peaceful and pretty, plain and unusual all at once. We sat for a bit, watching the water attack the rocks before heading for the car and the long drive ahead.

We get out of San Francisco, but there's construction on Highway 1 in the way of our path and we have to find an alternate route around. We drive for forever around San Pedro, a small town tucked into the mountains, that doesn't even get a dot on the map of California that the woman at the car rental place gave us.

Finally, we double back, searching for radio stations to help pass the time. Doug has a knack for finding Spanish polka stations, but there were some classic rock ones and we were set, or set enough given that Doug had some mix cds to help out along the way.

Back on 1, we drove through artichoke fields and "666" written in sticks on a sand dune. Following Doug's lead, I tell my sister that we'd seen a hobo devil along the side of the road, with a broken horn and a thumb out to passing cars. I finished telling her as we plunged into the mountains and lost the call. She didn't sleep that night.

Losing cell phone and radio reception, we enter the stretch that gave reason for this route of the trip- the road that hugs the coast, bending and curving through the mountains. There's no guardrail, and I , hanging halfway out the window with the camera in hand, realize that perhaps I have a fear of heights I was never aware of before. It is beautiful, the covers cut into the land, the isolation of each passing beach. It goes on for hours, with spots along the way to pull over and marvel at everything before you. We stop a couple times, but never for longer than a minute, never long enough to turn off the engine. I step out, keeping a hand on the door because I'm sure that Doug would see the humor in leaving me out here, with no reception, no nothing.

We passed through Big Sur, which Doug seems well informed about, Beat enthusiast that he is, but I know only from Brautigan poems. It was forest, all forest and mountains and I had vague flashbacks of Reggae on the River in a similar setting two summers ago.

After a couple hours of watching the coastline, we were ready to leave the wind-y roads, and truth be told, I was a little sick from all the twists and turns. We were aching for civilization- food and streetlights and radio stations. When you're staring at it long enough, the water, the cliffs, the patterns they make, it all starts looking the same.

We passed Hearst Castle which my father was excited about for some reason when I called home from a lookout point after spotting some sea lions coming out of the water. Doug pulled over at my squealing and went to take pictures while I talked on the phone.

The towns just past the scenic overlook were small, quaint beach towms carved into the sides of the mountains facing out. Doug said this is what Italy supposedly looks like and I do not know enough about Italy or the suppositions about its landscape to confirm or dispute his statement.

There are factories and farmlands and it is hard to believe that people live out here year round, and it shouldn't be that surprising since it feels like spring/summer constantly, except that it looks like the sort of place that could be covered in snow and forgotten.

We have to go another few towns until Highway 1 mysteriously disappears- transforming into the main street of a small town and ending in a train station parking lot (appropriately enough.) This is as good a place as any to stop for for food and gas- no it's better because it is young and the street signs are written in the font they use for Renaissance Fairs and there are statues of cats playing violins with inscriptions that read "Hey Diddle Diddle".

We go to a restaurant boasting the best burgers in town, which Doug tries and confirms without comparison. After the meal, we go searching for coffee and find a Starbucks a block down, feeling as though the whole town is watching us pass. There's a college nearby and this seems like the sort of place where everyone knows everyone and can notice the smallest stone overturned. (Yes, Starbucks has made it to such places.)

Sleepily full, we leave San Luis Obispo behind and locate the highway- now 101- and head through the darkness. There aren't sights to see along this way and we decide that when we get close to Santa Barbara we will stop for the night. We pick this mostly arbitrarily, because it is a dot bigger than the others, because it is a name I can recognize.

In Santa Barbara, sometime around 11, we drive the main strip twice and finally stop where we spend more than I'd wanted for a room and where the man behind the counter asks me what state New York is and I try not to chuckle, but can't help exploding once out of the lobby, out of earshot.

I fall asleep almost immediately after getting into one of the two beds in the room. There are other details that Doug would kill me for recording, that I have hand-written to remember the start of the inside jokes that formed that night.

The motel is nicer than many we've been to but we don't get to appreciate the room much, or the swimming pool outside because we have plans to leave early the next day. There are still miles to cover. There is no time to slow down.

Day 19- June 7, 2006 - En route (Santa Barbara-San Clemente)

2006-06-16T12:29:00.000-04:00

In the morning, I rushed Doug to get ready so we could fully enjoy the free continental breakfast the hotel provided. Still bitter about the price of the room, I was tempted to load up my pockets with bagels and bananas but after coffee and juice and chocolate chip muffins, I was sedated enough- my anger calmed- it seemed worth it now, I rationalized, adding up the cost of an average breakfast for two in my head.

We left, heading South for L.A., with only the map of California in its entirety to guide us. We barely used it, opting instead to follow freeway signs that listed miles, how far we were, where we were going, options.

We pull off at Sunset Blvd because it is familiar sounding and we weave through streets until the signs announce Beverly Hills and I start singing and humming theme songs and Doug curses excessively to emphasize just how much he hates driving in the city. We keep driving, doubling back over ourselves and normally this would be enough to become familiar with the area, for us to learn our geography, but the street names never stick. And I wonder if this is because I'm worried about ending up here, because I am worried about so many things involving the future.

Despite my urging to pull into a gas station for a road map, Doug finds the freeway again and insists on moving on. Later I will tell my parents that we spent more time there than we did, spent it better, exploring the city enough to get a clear sense that this is not where I want to be. This is true enough really, and I have told worse lies before.

We keep driving, the coffee from breakfast wearing off and earlier that day, before L.A., we stopped to buy the new Less Than Jake album, which we suspected would be perfect Souther California driving music. We were right, mostly, and by the time we leave L.A., we have half the songs memorized, or the choruses anyway.

Spotting a Starbucks on the side of the road hours later, sometime around dinner, we pull off. I listen to a guy on a date talk about how most people want to be off just living life but he's at the point where he wants to settle down and start a family. He talks loud, overpowering, trying to give his words more weight than they deserve and I think I see his date flinching from the force of his voice. He's emphasizing every other word like some warped version of iambic pentameter and I wonder if he is speaking this way to command attention. I hate him. The girl is Asian, with too much eye makeup and straight hair draped halfway down her chest. She nods along to his words but never offers any of her own and I'm not sure if she is convinced by what he says or knows better than to get in the way of this self-important train.

When the drinks are ready, I sit in a big armchair to wait for Doug. From across the room, I can feel a man staring at me. He is drinking icewater and thinking that this dark haired, dark-rimmed glasses girl does not belong in this bleach blonde beach town. He communicates this to me telepathically and I, also telepathically, tell him he is right.

Doug comes out, suggesting the nearby Oceanside as a place to stop for the night, but looking around, I say maybe we should get a room here. It is a quiet sort of beach town and though he'd had his mind set, I am paying and he agrees. We drive the main road lined with hotels, stopping at the first, which misadvertises, overcharges and Doug picks the next place to stop, a motel across the street.

The woman behind the desk says $60, even with Doug half heartedly trying to talk her down. I sign for the room and she looks at my license. "Oh, you're from New York! What are you doing all the way out here?" I'm surprised not to have gotten more of this. I tell her we've been working our way down the coast for the past three weeks and I don't know what makes me as friendly as this except that I am glad we are not in L.A. "How did you get the time off?" She sounds amazed and I tell her that I just graduated college and that this is my last hurrah before the real world. Saying it out loud makes me feel sad, as though I only have a few days left to live before stepping in front of a firing squad.

She gives us the keys, real keys, not cards, and we go up three floors to an adorable room. As if proof of the beachiness of the area, the walls are lined with blue backgrounds of palm trees and oceans with a shower curtain to match. There's bamboo hanging to designate the closet, and it is doesn't smell like the bamboo we hung back home. There's an armoir with enough space for Doug and I to fit inside comfortably (we don't, but we think about it, take the measurements). We can see the water if we open the curtains and we're the last room over so there's no neighbor noise. In short, it is perfect.

We watch TV- back to back episodes of So You Think You Can Dance?, while thumbing through the brochures Doug snagged in the lobby. I am trying to sell him on Disneyland, but he resists, and I'm sure it is based on cost alone. We go out to eat, grabbing fast food at Jack in the Box because it is late and that it the only thing open- we can tell by the crowd inside. Doug is officially broke and we still have a city left, which makes him worry and makes me worry for him.

Back in the room, quiet, worrying, we fall asleep.

Doug's impression of L.A.

Day 20- June 8, 2006 - San Clemente to San Diego

2006-06-16T11:37:00.000-04:00

I get completely dressed and ready to go, hurrying Doug along, slightly panicked that we won't make it out in time, before I realize that somehow in setting the alarm the night before, I set the clock ahead an hour, and this is something I would do at home, but have not done away, and Doug uses this extra time as justification for staying in bed longer and I let it comfort me because for the first time on the trip, I've woken up tired, been unwilling to get up, and now I know why.

The hotel leaves a free newspaper on our doormat, and we take one last look around the room, sad to move on, wondering if this place is as good as it gets. I check out while Doug smokes outside. The night before, while pulling our massive car into the overhang parking lot, it scrapes against a pole and I do not see damage in the dark, but in daylight, the scratch is noticeable, chipped paint on the panel and door handle, and I don't know how much I will be charged for this, but I'm sure that I will be, and I try not to thing too much about it because when I do, my stomach churns preparing to expel its contents to make room for the taste of defeat.

We leave the hotel heading South, for San Diego, and Doug has his heart set on stopping for breakfast in Oceanside since we didn't stay the night there, and he pulls off the highway just as I've forgotten his announcement of these plans. We stop at an authentic roadside diner along the old route 101. The people in these parts are big on patriotism, with signs that announce their support for "our president and our troops". They are in the windows in the diner, in the back windows of cars on the main road. We count naval and marine bases on the way, figuring that they are the cause of this attitude, because from where we stand, there must be reasons.

The food is good enough and on the way out we grab a map of Southern California, which I say would have been helpful the day before but ends up not being all that helpful at all. We get back on Route 5, and take it straight South toward Tijuana and I think of all the old joking about running away to Mexico and sometimes Doug suggests this and sometimes I am tempted to give the okay.

We follow the signs for the San Diego Zoo, which Doug decides will be our first order of business in town. We'd avoided other zoos along the trip, figuring that we would get more than our fair share of animals once we got down here. It was overcast, and we hoped this would deter families from visiting the zoo, but once we pulled into the parking lot, our hopes evaporated. It was packed; the entrance lined with half a dozen school buses and I tell Doug that when I was little we used to take trips to the Bronx zoo every three weeks and he stops me midsentence to say that he knows, I've told him before, say it every time we are at any zoo. I feel like my mother.

We spend a few hours there, and I'm not sure that the details are worth going into since Doug captured them so extensively in photographs. Maybe I expected more from the place, the reputation, but there wasn't anything particularly thrilling about being there. I left feeling like I had seem most everything there before scattered somewhere along the East Coast and I do not know if this is actually true or if it is just a feeling.

When Doug started driving through downtown, I called our hotel for directions and it wasn't far, and we got there, checked in. The hotel is nothing special, no TV channels, no charm, no comforter on the bed (until the maid brought it a couple hours later) and I wondered if we'd gotten spoiled, if we would be disappointed with anything that wasn't San Clemente.

Once we were settled, we went out to eat, and Doug and I argue most when we are both hungry, stubborn but playing indecisive and finally we pull into a chain restaurant we spot off the highway. We eat, and get drinks and it never sits well with me just how well versed Doug is with alcohol- reminds me that he has lived many lives before me and we talked about this in San Clemente, I think, briefly, me trying in vain to express my resentment that my future cannot contain the sort of exploration that's found in his past. And it's not that I want it particularly, except that I worry that having a boyfriend so constantly has me missing out on some of the more ridiculous points of being young- something I barely feel anymore.

I fall asleep almost immediately after we get back to the room. It's because of the travelling, but Doug blames the alcohol. Halfway through the night, I get up, stumble through the darkness towards the thin light at the window where the curtains don't come together completely and, my morning breath hanging in the air, lean down to turn off the air conditioning, not remembering how it got switched on in the first place.

Day 21- June 9, 2006 - San Diego

2006-06-16T00:08:00.000-04:00

It started out playful, or half playful given that I was genuinely aggravated that he refused to get out of bed after the alarm sounded at nine. And in all fairness, I warned him, several times, that if he did not get up within the designated time, I would pull the covers off of him, which I did after ten minutes of threatening, to prove that he ought to take me seriously when I say such things. He is cranky in the morning, consistently, and I should have calculated this into my attack, but I didn't, and when I crawled over him, cooing with exaggerated early morning enthusiam, he flung me off the bed with one swoop of his arm. I stop just short of the wall, and try to counter, but he is curled up, clutching his shoulder, and I know that the fight is over.

It happens from time to time; his shoulder pops out of place- the result of one of many past injuries that never healed right, a less obvious scar- leaving his arm dangling along his side and I imagine the joints inside trying to find each other, the muscles loose like stretched cotton, and it is at times like this that he seems breakable, he seems real. I sit on the edge of the bed, watching my hands move along themselves, watching him out of the corner of my eye, wanting very badly to stay mad, not knowing what to do.

After what feels like too long, he gets up, and heads past me toward the bathroom. Maybe I ask him if he's okay. Maybe he doesn't answer.

He stays mad the carride over to Sea World, and we skip breakfast because I know better than to talk when he is in these moods. In the parking lot he has a cigarette, and I'm sure that it is only partly because he wants one, and more because he wants to spite me. But either way, he is better off when he's through and will even agree to holding my hand the whole way to the ticket gate, and I have to take these little things as small victories, even when they are not.

We go in, and have to search for a map of the place, since we don't get one on the way in like we should. There's a group of boys, waving the maps at each other and I'm tempted to pick off one of the smaller ones, grab his map and run, certain that his child legs are no match for my grown-up ones, and there's probably some mother nearby, with her head turned, who would certainly notice his getaway and scold him for trying to leave the group, paying no attention to his hysterical pointing, which would only get worse the farther away I get. And maybe when I realize he is no where near me, I will hide behind the safety of a Shamu statue and taunt him with the stolen map, certain that he is still watching me, and will be scolded more when he is too distracted to keep up with his group beginning to move on without him.

Just before I'm about to put my plan into action- and I was this close, really- Doug comes back with a map for us and I narrow my eyes at a freckled five year old to let him know just how narrowly he's escaped.

We plan our day around the shows we want to go to, the first being the Shamu "Believe" show which starts at noon. Anticipating a crowd, we get on the line already forming, and stand there for forty-five minutes, in front of a boy whose kicking range lines up directly with the middle of my calf.

I told Doug about the only other time I'd been to Sea World, the one in Florida, the summer before fifth grade, when my mother's bulging belly demanded that our family of four take a vacation before we became five. It was empty then, and August, and I can only remember the vaguest sorts of memories, the ones that can be confirmed by photographs of me soaked in a woodstock tie-dyed t-shirt and electric blue lycra knee length bike shorts. I do not tell Doug these details, he does not need to know.

We hesitated before sitting down, and the place filled up around us. Doug picked a seat in the soak zone and I swore he wouldn't be happy if we ended up wet, but he was certain that we wouldn't- that the designated area was misleading, mismarked, and as long as we were towards the back of it, we'd be safe. I'd end up drenched before the day was through.

It's not surprising that the show was geared toward a young audience. It started with a video of a kid rowing out to the middle of the water to befriend a whale he'd seen swimming by. The following sequence involve the whale eating the child, to serve as a poignant reminder that these are wild animals and you should not try this at home. The audience of course got hysterical, kids crying, and mothers outraged, clutching their babes to their chests explaining that the whale was only playing with the boy as the screen showed the boy's piecemealed body being savored by the other whales that had come to enjoy the feast.

Okay, so that's not what really happens in the Shamu video. (A girl can dream, right?) What really happens is this little kid befriends the whale because he has a carved whale tail around his neck, and then the trainer comes out. He holds out the very same whale tail necklace, which of course can be purchased in the giftshop for $19.95, for everyone to see to be sure that we, the audience, are following him on this leap. How lucky that he had this studio quality childhood archival footage handy, or else we would never know just how deep his love for his job really goes. Completely ridiculous, completely laughable. My sisters would have loved it.

The show went on with lots of jumps, tricks, and sentimentality. It wasn't all that entertaining, but the kids were eating it up, despite there being hardly any Shamu (or Shamutz, Shamu's West Coast Jew cousin, who exists according to Doug, despite my skepticism about the abundance of Jewish whales in San Diego.)

The highlight of the show, by far, was the audience participation segment. They chose a kid volunteer of course, a blonde ten year old with a forgettable name. When she stood up, there was a ring of wetness along the seat of her jeanshorts, the byproduct of sitting on the still wet soak zone rows, and the little boy sitting directly behind us screamed "Look, she peed her pants!" which of course is absolutely hilarious not only because he really thought she did, but because he expected that by screaming it out, he would somehow be doing something to correct the situation. His mother quickly scolded him, "She did not!" but not loud enough to undo the effect. Doug and I were in stitches, coughing out our laughter through the girl's personal introduction to Shamu. I wonder if she heard it, and if she did, if it's the sort of thing that could cause a lifetime of trauma, leaving her to compulsively tie sweatshirts around her waist for years to come.

After the show, we wandered around the park, checking out various water life: sharks, piranhas- I like my fish with teeth- and we still had some time to kill before the next show, a dolphin exhibition, so we went over to a section called Wild Arctic and waited on line for the ride to get in, not knowing entirely what we were waiting for.

It ended up being a motion simulated helicopter ride- the kind of things that Doug loves and I hate, reading and rereading the advisory signs before buckling myself in. He made fun of me the entire time, for gripping the armrests at every descent, clenching my teeth in anticipation of the fall. He cheers loud and hyper-excited from the back corner when a voice announces that we've landed safely and I can't help but laugh.

Preshow at the Dolphin Stadium, there was a guy with an acoustic guitar warming up the crowd. He told awful pun-ny jokes between songs, and Doug, hateful as he is, developed a certain sort of intolerance for him and his singing which may have culminated in the flight of blunt objects and an eventual trial had the show not started up.

The girl announcing the show had a voice high and squeaky like small cartoon animals- the kind that grates on my nerves but little kids eat up. In high school, she probably answered the family phone dozens of times to receive an overenthusiastic "hi little girl, is your mommy home?"

Watching the show was like playing Echo the Dolphin for Sega, but without the sound of sonar and without the control. It was by far more interesting than the Shamu show, particularly when the dolphins and porpoises started splashing the spectators in the soak zone rows, which, from the safety of the top section, was hilarious.

Things got even better when a "volunteer" from the audience first tripped when walking up and then proceeded to fall into the tank, screaming as a dolphin jumped around her. Sure it was staged, but it was entertaining, and didn't Jerry Springer prove that's all that really matters?

After the show, we walked across the way to wait for the next one, a 4D scary movie involving 3D glasses and seats rigged to create the sensory effects that would match the onscreen action. We figured out what was for what pretty quick but that didn't stop me from jumping almost every time. It was good, not scary but good for what it was and I would have loved to been able to drag my sisters in there, hyping up the terror so that once they were inside, they were wound tight enough to respond to even the slightest breeze. On the way out, Doug took the 3D glasses as a souvenir. Why he needs a cheap pair of 3D glasses from Sea World is beyond me, but it made him giggly the rest of the afternoon.

The plan was to go on the two free rides and get gifts for my sisters before heading out for food. We stopped at the first ride, a raft rapid ride, and watched the people getting off of it, hoping to evaluate just how wet we'd get. The kids coming off were drenched, so we bypassed the ride, heading for the second, a roller coaster called Atlantis that we'd spotted from the freeway. We wait on line twenty minutes to get on. Every third minute, I remind Doug that I don't particularly like roller coasters, and I don't particularly expect my complaints to change the situation, but I figure they are warranted since I was a good sport about the motion simulated ride earlier in the day. Doug interprets my distaste for rides to be fear instead, and taunts me the whole way up the line. "Oooh, someone's afraid, oooh."

We'd done our homework, watched people get off the ride and estimated that we could escape relatively dry provided we avoided sitting in the front seat where the water splashed over on the impact of evert fall. Guess where they seated us.

Just to clarify, I'm not afraid of roller coasters, though there's no convincing Doug. I just don't like them. I don't like the leave your stomach in the air feeling when you drop, or the floating out when you turn. And it's not that I have visions of falling to a certain death or getting caught between the gears, I just don't like knowing that I am going to feel things that I don't want to feel and being helpless to stop them. Doug delights in my discomfort on the ride and the photograph that captures it. Also amusing to him is that out of everyone in the car, I am the most soaked; my jeans clinging to my skin entirely, my shoes squishing with every step. The girl in the seat behinds leans forward while getting out- "Man, you got drenched." Yeah.

We scower every gift shop for a shirt for my sister, and it's partly hard to find something decent for her, partly that I want to torment Doug with shopping, and partly that I am hoping to dry off in this extra time. After an hour, we leave, still soaked, with a Sea World bag in hand.

We'd wanted to go straight to dinner, but i am dripping water and squeaking so we stop at the hotel to change, and then go out and stuff ourselves with our first and only meal of the day. We stop for coffee on the way back to the hotel and when he get in there, there's a bunch of kids sporting squatter punk fashion and Doug says you lose all your street cred when you go into a Starbucks and it is all I can do to keep from laughing.

Day 22- June 10, 2006 - San Diego

2006-06-14T18:49:00.000-04:00

I wake up to turn the air conditioner off in the morning- he always sets it before bed and I end up freezing halfway through the night. I dream, but I've lost track of the details and I realize it would have been far more productive to keep a dream journal than these daily summaries because I have dreamt more adventures at night than I've had during the day. Doug has had only nightmares.

Somewhere along the line, I fell behind in my writings and I'm sure this is the reason my entries are less than inspired. I'm sure that I've had more insights that would have been better captured had they been recorded at in the moment. I'm not sure that any of this matters anyway. It is not honest enough to be important or relevant, and I blame this, unfairly perhaps, on my lapse in writing. It is overwhelming to try to catch so many details.

We went to Seaport Village today- a shopping district along the water, which I explained to my mother in comparison to South Street Seaport, which is perhaps inaccurate since I can't remember ever having actually gone to the South Street Seaport, just reading about it in a class on consumerism.

There were flea market style booths set up with vendors selling jewelry and hand carved wooden baskets and other such things. I suspect that this is the weekend atmosphere and not the everyday, though I have no real evidence to support my suspicions and I am not particularly interested in putting in the effort to confirm or deny this guess. I went into all the stores, looking for gifts for Stacey and Erica and my sisters. But mostly, Doug wanted to people watch and an outdoor market on a Saturday is as good a spot as you can ask for.

We were followed around in the stores by the people that worked there. I didn't notice, but Doug told me after the fact. I was focused on the over-friendliness of the cashiers, thinking about how I have too much city cynicism to be able to handle this kind of perkiness on a daily basis.

I'd spotted statues on the drive down, lining the water and I wanted to get a closer look so we put more money in the meter and started walking. They were mostly water themed, presumably by local artists, since I did not recognize any of the names (though this shouldn't mean anything, since I'm not all that well versed in sculpture artists.) Half of them were interested, and we stopped to take pictures of the ones we liked best, the ones that left elaborate shadows on the pavement before them.

It was worth the walk, the weather was nice and there was plenty of opportunity for eavesdropping along the way. there was an obscene amount of pedicabs there, the drivers- they are called drivers right?- speaking a language that Doug identifies as Russian, though he has no experience with the Russian language so I imagine he must have been guessing at best. I can't imagine they get enough business down there to necessitate the volume of empty pedicab traffic, or how they can get riders when they are all clustered together, but maybe that's not the point, maybe I don't get it.

Doug stopped to take pictures of a docked pirate ship and a half naked old man walking along the pier. He's taken nearly all the pictures on the trip, with the exception of the Highway 1 scenic shots which I'm sure he would have liked to take had he not been driving.

We get back to the car with a minute left on the meter. We headed out on our way to Old Town, where we planned to go to a haunted house, but after driving through the area, Doug was not thrilled with the touristy feel of the place and the lack of parking. After doing a couple laps around, including a detour around a park where a (Spanish) wedding was taking place, we abandoned the idea. The area was packed with people and old time shops boasting the origin of California and Doug questioned the historical accuracy of this claim and it is not important enough to me to bother investigating it, though the way Doug talks, it seems that he is hoping to uncover a scandal that will have some sort of consequences for everyone involved.

We ended up going back to the hotel and relaxing for a bit, nursing our leg muscles and letting our stomachs anticipate dinner. the hotel offered a list of attractions with directions to them, one of which was the mall, so figuring that there would be restaurants there, that's where we headed.

Considering how anti-chain I am when it comes to eating out on vacation, all the spots we ate in San Diego end up being places we could eat at back home. We are just too tired to scout out the local hot spots like we'd done in the earlier stops on the trip. We ended up going to Applebee's, which is funny because I associate it as such a Long Island thing and I never go there when I'm home for just that reason. I found new reasons though, since everything was subpar and had I known that would be the case - I should have suspected though, really, shouldn't I have- I would've suggested we get pizza from one of the dozen places that shoved fliers under our hotel room door.

It wasn't that late when we got home, but there was nothing particularly good on TV worth staying up for. I fell asleep to the colors of Doug flipping through channels.

Day 23- June 11, 2006 - San Diego

2006-06-14T18:21:00.000-04:00

I watch almost the entirety of Pretty Woman while waiting for Doug to get ready. He comes out of the bathroom and pretends to sniffle at the TV. I throw a pillow at him and he goes to the sink to shave.

At breakfast Doug orders strawberry stuffed pancakes, despite expressing his distaste for strawberries a few days earlier. "There won't be that many," he insists, ignoring the photo that shows pancakes overflowing with strawberry goodness. The meal comes just like the pictures and he stares at it, then at the back of the waitress as she walks away and I am certain that he is putting a curse on her for tricking him so. He scrapes half off, and I pick them off his plate as he helps me finish the non-strawberry parts of my breakfast.

We'd scouted out the Mission Beach area the night before, mostly unintentionally, out of curiosity and lack of something more productive to do, and decided to come back the next day. It's like every other beach town, really, and this was part of my motivation for trying to hustle doug out of bed before noon. (Which didn't work of course.) Beaches on Sundays are packed, and this was no exception, especially since the weather was gorgeous- sunny and warm. We drove laps around the main street, pointing out the VW buses, the classic cars lining the side of the road, and the locals that held the same position each time we passed.

We finally got a parking spot on our third lap, and after wandering through the amusement park and several souvenir shops, we went looking for the boardwalk. I haven't found any boardwalks out west that are like the boardwalks here, or maybe I'm not looking in the right place. Instead of grainy planks of wood ten feet off the sand, we find pavement separated by a three foot concrete wall. Doug guesses that this is why there are more skaters and bike riders than we'd see back home, identifying the bicycles with big swooping handlebars as beach bikes.

I wished I'd brought my bathing suit, and I asked Doug if we could go back to the hotel to change, not expecting him to say yes, and he of course, refused, telling me that if we went back we weren't going out again, which I knew to be a lie since he would surely be hungry later and there was no food to be found in the room except for the candy cigarettes that remained from San Francisco and I was sure he'd forgotten about those.

We stayed out in the sun long enough to change color. I held the inside of my arm against the outside, pressed hard into the skin so that my fingerprints remained in the seconds after I moved my hand away. Back at the room, I filled out postcards to my family. Despite my insistance that it was silly to send out postcards the day before leaving, my mother demanded them, and I'm convinced that contained in the highlight reel of her day is the trip to the mail slot awaiting news from me.

After going out to dinner, we get back to the hotel in time for Sunday night cartoons and Pretty Woman is on again, and my pouty lip has no effect whatsoever on Doug, who insists we are absolutely not watching it. Just like every other night on the trip, I fall asleep before him, waking up briefly when he turns the lights off on our last night away.

Day 24- June 12, 2006 - leaving San Diego

2006-06-14T17:06:00.000-04:00

I set the alarm for nine, but didn't need it. I barely slept last night, a combination of Doug pinning the blankets underneath him, and my own neuroses. I kept thinking about how a month is such a long time to be away and worrying about all the things that could have changed in the time that we were gone, all the changes that will have to happen once we're back. Instead of feeling more prepared for the future, the trip has reinforced the fact that I am not at all ready to be a grown-up.

So I was up early, and ready to go early. Doug, of course, was not. "Let's just stay," he said into the pillow, as he's said on every checkout day of the trip. But I know he means it more this time than most, and I want to agree with him, crawl under the covers and barricade the door with hotel furniture. "We can't," I tell him, wondering if he can sense my hesitation. He groans, makes weak arguments and eventually succumbs to my nagging- which has proven to be a much better weapon than the physical attacks I used earlier on the trip- and heads for the shower.

He comes out soaked, towel in hand. "What are you doing? Don't you ever dry yourself?!" As though I don't already know the answer to this. Twenty four days straight, twenty four hours a day, and you get to know the ins and outs of a person, the things you aren't supposed to see. He snaps the towel at me and it doesn't hurt, but I yell an exaggerated "OW!" hoping it will deter him from future attacks. It doesn't.

He jumps on top of me, pinning me under his weight. "Stop, I'm ready to go, you're getting me all wet." And he laughs like a teenager in health class. "Not like that," I roll my eyes, putting all my strength into pushing him up by his shoulders.

"Ugh, I'm dead." He relaxes his muscles, so I feel the full force of his body weighing on me.
"No, you're not," I argue, trying to navigate my fingers towards his extremely ticklish armpits.
"Yes I am," he says, keeping his eyes closed and letting his tongue hang out the side of his mouth for cartoonish emphasis.
I get my hands up to his ribcage and he squeals a little- in a way that will always make me laugh- and gets up, finally to finish getting ready.

We check out with twenty minutes to spare and in my still rushed state, I forget to take a picture of the sign outside our hotel room that warns that the area is contaminated with all sorts of hazardous chemicals.

Our flight's a red eye, leaving just before 10 and we have the rental car till 7, so we have the entire day to spend. We get breakfast at an IHOP, which I haven't been to in years, and when we sit down, I think about reciting a joke Stacey told at work the week before we left- "If girls with big breasts work at Hooters, where do girls with one leg work?"- but I resist, sure that it will elicit eyerolls and headshakes rather than laughter.

We go to the beach, because it is close and free, both of which are key drawing factors at this point in the trip. He, self conscious, refuses to put on a bathing suit and lay out on the sand, and I, not wanting to be the only one tanning, carry mine in my bag throughout the day. We sit at a picnic table, with our notebooks in front of us. I can write in public, and I do, but he is distracted people watching, and his thoughts don't make it to the page.

We talk loudly about going home, planning out a movie night welcome home party, confirming it through a string of text messages. We talk not so loudly playing the "Am I as big as her game" which is exactly what it sounds like, except that sometimes it is genuine concern and sometimes it is exaggerated silliness.

A woman asks if she can sit with us, and I say yes, sounding overly friendly, and she sits at the opposite corner staring out at the shore. I lean with my back against the table, facing Doug, and we talk about the things we've seen, the things we've done. I lean my chin into his shoulder and it smells like smoke, and I think about how I may start to associate this smell with him instead of my father, and though the sun is beating down on me, I shudder, thinking about how this seems like the sort of transfer that Freud would have a field day with.

We count down the hours, walk through the amusement park area, Doug still trying to convince me to go on the rides with him, I laughing at his proposals. He stops at a quarter machine and gets a couple of rings, hands me one and makes fun of me when I put it on my left hand, and hold out my arm, mock admiring.

We find the Simpsons video game in the arcade and camp out there for a dollars worth, feeling young, feeling like a team.

There was still time to kill when we were done, and part of me regretted booking such a late flight, but a bigger part of me wasn't ready to go home. We walked around outside, our arms deepening in the sun, and got dinner before heading to the airport.

We dropped off the car and the exchange was so quick I barely had time enough to grab the bags out. Doug had been worried the entire way there, about the scratch on the driver's side panel and I had tried to shrug away the problem because it was already too far out of our hands for it to do much good worrying about it. We expected the guy to lap the car, inspecting, before giving us the okay to leave- this is what we saw the woman handling the car in front of us doing- but our guy was not interested in such formalities and hopped into the driver's seat waving "see ya" to us, and we hurried onto the shuttle, feeling like we'd gotten away with something, knowing that we wouldn't really.

there was extra time at the airport, enough time that the ticket gate wasn't even open yet and we used the spare hours studying the other passengers, guessing about their lives. when we check in, the guy behind the counter is super serious, and though I want to address him by name, the way my brother does to anyone wearing a nametag, I resist, sure that he would not appreciate such gestures. "He's a serious Cyrus," I tell Doug, walking over to the metal detectors. "You're such a dork," he says, eyeing the sign that says he can't bring his lighter on the plane.

I have to take off my shoes, but Doug doesn't, and the guys working the conveyor belt don't seem to know what they're doing. The guy at the metal detector takes a long time looking at my license and then says "West Hempstead, huh." and I say yep and he tells me his sister lives in Bellmore and I say, "Oh, that's right there," trying to sound interested, and he says, "I know" in a tone that old men use to prove they know what's going on, and tells me he's a New Yorker too.

We sit staring out at the runway, half listening to the passengers next to us, showing each other pictures of their kids, their grandkids, and I will never understand such interactions. Doug and I are far more interested in speculating loudly whether or not there will be snakes on this plane, making many jokes that have probably been made before.

When we board, Doug is angry with me, because he suspects that I have put him in an unnecessarily uncomfortable situation by booking the window and aisle seat for us, and leaving the middle one open between us. Despite my explanations that should someone show up for the seat, no one would argue about getting an aisle seat over a middle seat, he is sure that the seat assignments are strictly followed and he will end up in an all out brawl over the technicality. No one shows up, we have the whole row to ourselves, and I resist the urge to say "I told you so" over and over again because he is in a sour mood, not wanting to go home, and I know better than to poke the bear.

"What's that movie? With John something." "Cusack?" "Yeah." "Say Anything?" "Yeah." We don't even need to talk anymore, I think, as we're taking off. Then we hear the ding.

Day 25- June 13, 2006 Home

2006-06-14T16:48:00.000-04:00

Despite being stretched out across the entire row, I can't sleep on the plane. I keep thinking that maybe if I was running away from something concrete instead of theoretical, maybe it would have pushed me more. Maybe I wouldn't have come back. It is a silly thought, I know- safe after-the-fact bravery that will never be tested.

The flight is quick, and I would have never thought that five hours would seem like short travel time before spending three days on a train. When we land, part of me wants to stay in the air, and part of me does. I don't know if I've changed in the way I expected to, if I've changed at all, and I'm sure it's the sort of thing that will take years to come into focus in hindsight.

My sister is waiting for me at the door when we get back. I expect her to wrap her arms around my waist- as high as she can reach- but I have to coax the hug out of her, and it makes me wonder if I seem like a stranger. I tell her she's gotten bigger, and I'm not sure if it is true or if I have been gone for long enough to details to fade in my memory.

I spend the day catching up- family, friends. I'm exhausted but it is impossible to fall asleep. I blame it on my body still being on West Coast time, but I know that it is more than that. When I fall asleep, it will be the next day and the trip will officially be over. My bed had seemed more enticing on the planeride over. Now it looks small and lonely and my room has a smell I've never noticed before. It feels messy and unlived, boxes stacked along the floor, and I can't remember if this is the way I left it or if it has taken on a life of its own in the time I've been gone.

I curl up facing the wall, but can't get comfortable. I realize I am no longer used to sleeping alone, and the feeling of dependency scares me in a way that makes my eyes tear up with weakness. I press my back against the wall and it's cold, but I remind myself that I can warm it up with my body heat, and this makes me feel powerful enough to fall asleep.

I wake up in the middle of the night and don't know where I am. I sit up, blinking into the darkness until it hits me: I'm home.