Tales from California: A Rest in Sacramento

When Zach and I first started dating, I soon learned that some of our most enthusiastic supporters were going to be his Grandma Kathy and Grandpa Ray. They sent me a Christmas card glowing with of excitement, encouragement, and an invitation to visit them if ever I should happen to be in California. 

That’s why I was standing at the Sacramento Greyhound station, blinking in the sunlight as I scanned the parking lot for my new host. I felt fluttering in my stomach— I knew I had no right to be nervous, but I still felt a bit of tension. Then I heard a voice call across the lot, “Lisa!” I turned and saw Kathy for the first time, waving at me. I ran over, and we officially met for the first time.

She struck me as short and graceful, with long hair gently tied back and a voice that sounded mature but young in the best possible way. I plopped down in the front seat of her car and she began chatting with me as if I really was her grandchild, not just the girlfriend of one. 

From the beginning, Kathy treated me like an honored guest. Back at her house, I got to see her bold Southwest-influenced paintings, play her piano, and meet her two cats. Her husband Ray got home shortly after, tall, elegant in his own right, with a gentle spirit the showed in the way he smiled. We ate chicken enchiladas and then it was jammin’ time. Kathy brought out her ukulele, Ray began playing a stringed instrument similar to the slide guitar called a pedal steel, and they gave me— what else?— a mandolin. We played a few songs, and although I found it a bit hard to keep up, I had fun.

I spent most of my time there doing what I do on the road when I find a place to rest for a few days: work. 18 students papers were calling my name, and I wanted to get them done before heading to Portland. Kathy gave me the space I needed, interrupting my work only to cook three homemade meals a day. She also introduced me to two new movies. One night we watched Meet Me in St. Louis, which left me feeling ridiculously sentimental about my hometown. The next day, she treated me to a movie at the cinema, The Artist. Although this silent film left me straining to “hear” the words all too often, it was a bold attempt at a genre long laid to rest, which I appreciated. 

And this is Dixie.

Kathy drove me to the Sacramento airport, and we parted with a promise to see each other again. Once again, Sacramento was the last stop on my way out of California. Two years ago I had sat in the airport and felt great hope about my future. Now, I knew that the hope I’d felt then had not been disappointed.

Her ketty-kats were so cute! This is Carlie.

~~~

Tales from California: Super Bowl at San Fran

Here’s where my recapping catches up with my actual blogging, if only for a moment. Yes, the Greyhound bore me away from my sister and LA, and toward my cousin and San Francisco. Alison is my cousin’s name— she picked me up from the bus station, made me pasta for supper, and then let me crash on the couch for 10 solid hours of blissful sleep. The next day, I got a chance to talk a bit with her husband Steve and to meet her five-month-old, Olivia. I spent the day in San Fran, and I returned a little after three o’clock to find the highlight of the day underway: the Super Bowl party!

A few of Steve and Alison’s friends had come over to celebrate the event, including a couple with a nine-month-old to keep Olivia company. I settled onto the couch and began munching on pretzels. I had learned it was the Giants vs. the Patriots, and since I have a deep resentment against the Pats (well… as deep as someone who doesn’t watch football can have), I decided to pull for the New York team. Fortunately, I was in good company of diehard Giants fans. 

I hadn’t actually sat down and watched a football game since last year’s Super Bowl, which consisted of me at a hostel, a lone Packers’ fan cheering for Green Bay as three other Americans pulling for the Steelers were more interested in the snack mix than the game. Hardly an inspiring event. This year was a welcome contrast: football is my favorite sport to begin with, and the testosterone of the watchers is the fuel of a good game. This group of guys did not disappoint: they complained at the commentators, they yelled at the coaches, and they hollered and screamed at every touchdown the Giants made. When Tom Brady threw the final pass and the Giants’ defense batted the ball down and won the game, the guys leaped from their seats in joyful hysteria.

Alison seemed very surprised that I had been so engaged in the game. “I didn’t know you liked football,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” I said, “when you’ve got a good group to watch it with.”

~~~

Tales from California: A Guest Blog

This is part of a letter that Mary sent me a little less than a week ago, as she was headed from San Diego to LA. Enjoy!

~~~

I'm currently on the train, waiting to take off. It's fairly full, and contains a strange array of people. Across the aisle from me is a tall middle-aged man with a big and slightly vague smile on his face, gazing out the window with his face centimeters from the glass, his hands pressed against it, stroking the pane in a never-ending battle to wipe the water marks from the opposite side of the glass. Behind me, a pair of girls munch loudly on sweets, giving their review of each treat loud enough for the whole car to hear, and calling their relatives to tell them that they're on the train, starting to move, and headed out officially. A tall woman in the back is starting to settle down from yelling and cursing Amtrak for making her take all the 'darn' trips, and how she hates trains. And then I look out my window to see rolling green hills and a soft blue sky. Sunlight drifting through the windows, and all is calm. The world is so bizarre and beautiful, joyful and tragic. I am content. 

~~~

Tales from California: Frustrating Farewells

On any sort of trip, saying goodbye is often frustratingly anticlimactic. I envision a tearful embrace, a final set of memory-sharing and promises to stay in touch, a picturesque wave as the train bears one away from the other. 

Although I’ve had some fantastic farewells in my time, all too often, goodbyes on the road are rushed by the urgency to catch a train or hop from one car to the next. So it was with Mary and me. We barely made it to the bus stop in time, and then I scrambled onto it and turned back for a frantic wave through the window. My bus zipped off. I left my baby sister stranded in LA.

I may or may not have cried on the bus to the Greyhound station.

The eight-hour-and-twenty-minutes Greyhound ride kept me suitably entertained: I watched the jagged brown mountains (Tolkien would have called them “writhen hills”) roll by. I got free onion rings at the Burger King lunch stop. I chatted at my row-mate, a sweet round-faced young woman with a gentle smile who had left her native Mexico for a six-month trip around California (it was her mascara that I remember: speckled along the lids as if applied hurriedly, there was something endearing about it). Then she was replaced by a man who had no concept of “this half of the bench is mine and that is yours”— he sprawled into my personal space, hunched down like a vulture with his t-shirt pulled up over his nose. There’s just never a dull moment on the bus.

I thought about Mary a lot. I wondered how she was doing.

As of this writing, Mary is back in St. Louis for a couple of days— then she’s going back to San Diego, where she will soon start her new job as a costumed character for SeaWorld. This has been her goal for well over a year, and although I’ll miss my sister, I’m so happy she’s gotten the chance to follow her dream in sunny California.

Next time we say goodbye, though, it had better be epic.

~~~

Tales from California: An Excursion to Hollywood

Our contrasting views about Hollywood

The last time Mary was in California, she ended up pretending to be Bosnian in order to keep from getting kicked out of a hostel (who would guess that a USA Hostel wouldn’t allow someone from the USA to stay there?). From her description, Hollywood sounded like a conglomeration of rampant debauchery mixed with Disney World meet-and-greet gone horribly wrong. Thus, I was initially not too excited to go there (actually, I wasn’t very excited about going to LA in general), but Mary really wanted to return to her strange haven of memories.

“Why do you like Hollywood?” I asked her.

“Because out there,” she said, “I’m normal.”

Because I love my sister, I went.

Mary and I hopped off the bus at Hollywood Boulevard, and I walked with fake confidence, trying not to show how nervous I felt. However, when I wasn’t assaulted or raped in the first couple blocks, I began to relax a bit. And when I saw the beginning of the terrazzo-and-brass stars on the sidewalk, I felt a burst of touristy joy.

Of course, we saw all the sights: the Chinese Theatre, the Roosevelt Hotel, the distant letters of the Hollywood sign. We shouldered our way through hordes of people trying to sell bus tours, ate flavorful hot dogs at a little restaurant called Scooby’s, and critiqued the costumed characters flocking around the Chinese Theatre (the guy with the homemade Optimus Prime suit was fantastic, but we railed against the stormtrooper who took off his helmet and the woman dressed as a Playboy bunny who just stood around looking awkward and making everyone else feeling awkward). 

However, since neither of us had any money to spend, our tourist options were pretty limited. I was starting to feel a bit faint in the hot sunlight, and we were running low on water. The reasonable solution to this problem? Walk back to Santa Monica, with only a vague idea of the direction. What could be better than planning to trek 12 miles when you’re feeling under the weather? 

Our fast-paced wander took us into the fringes of West Hollywood, past hot-dog storefronts and classy restaurants and ads for homosexual dating sights and glimpses of skyscrapers clustered together that may or may not have been Los Angeles city. Soon we stumbled onto a smooth tree-lined road, which led into the heart of Beverly Hills. I reveled in the smell of greenness in the air, a balm to my stinging lungs. We refilled our water bottles at a park where a Jewish father and his two little girls watched coy in a pond. We rambled past multi-million-dollar houses with gardens of pansies and crisply-trimmed ivy. We found the road that would lead us back to Santa Monica and walked alongside the roaring traffic as the sky grew deep blue and the streetlamps flickered on. 

We were back in the range of our bus day passes, and could hop on one of these handy vehicles at any time. What did we (and by “we,” I mean “I”) say each time we passed a bus stop? “Buses are for wusses!” And we walked on.

This is why I love traveling with my sister.

After at least 12 miles of steady walking, we limped up to the front door of the hostel, swiped our key card, and trudged up the stairs to our room. We had previously bought tickets for the hostel’s all-you-can-eat barbecue supper ($5 for unlimited burgers, chips, and lemonade), so we headed down to the hostel courtyard to claim our well-deserved meat.

At supper we chatted with a man from Russia named Arthur who had a theory that poor breathing habits are the cause of many common illnesses, and with a man from Mexico named Louis who was traveling around the US. After supper, Mary and I thought about what we might want to do.

“I’ve heard the third street promanade is pretty good,” I said.

“Let’s go,” she said.

We spent the next hour (what else?) walking through one of Santa Monica’s shopping district. The shops glowed, the crowds rambled around goodnaturedly, and Mary and I traipsed around as lightly as if he hadn’t hiked all day. When city lights beckon, the miles fall away. 

I reluctantly admitted that, all things considered, Hollywood wasn’t so bad after all.

~~~

Tales from California: Adventures at the Santa Monica Hostel

My first impression of the Hostelling International Santa Monica was of the chilly receptionist who seemed to have a rather dim view on any travelers who wanted to enter before check-in time. Still, with our buy-one-get-one-free discounts (thanks to Mary, who signed us both up for HI memberships), we were each paying $14 a night for lodging two blocks from the Santa Monica pier, so I really couldn’t complain. We left our backpacks there and hit the beach.

This was the day after our adventures in Anaheim (February 2nd, for those who are interested in dates). Catherine happened to be driving her sister to the airport, so she went ahead and gave Mary and me a ride up to Santa Monica, saving us a several-hour bus ride. Now Mary and I were free to explore, and, like usual, just ended up walking along the ocean. 

During my time in the area, I never entered Los Angeles proper, but the city didn’t sit very well with me. My eyes never stopped stinging, and half the time I felt like my lungs were slowly burning away. However, with its cultural nooks and spunky atmosphere and ecletic neighborhoods, I can imagine that, to some, it would be endearing.

The Santa Monica beach was, at least, beautiful enough: it’s hard to ever be discontent when there is an ocean nearby. We walked for a while, down to the Venice Beach pier. Mary napped while I called my boyfriend and called home and watched the sanderlings (tiny wading birds) skitter along the tide-line. 

At least I can't complain about the view!

That night, I left Mary in the park near the pier and ran back to the hostel to grab a sweatshirt. When I returned, she was shaky. She had been approached by some creeper who wanted her to “come away” with him, and when she refused, he yelled at her for being paranoid. I spent most of the rest of the night trying to help Mary get over the incident, and imagining several scenarios of what would have happened if I had seen the guy (they all ended in violence). I tried not to think that Mary and I would be parting ways in just two days, and I would be leaving her to all the creepers in California. I know she can handle herself, but the worry is still there. This is the curse of anyone with a traveling friend.

Finally, I crawled into my bunk and tied a bandana over my eyes so my roommates could leave the light on. I was just drifting into a deeper sleep when a fire alarm screamed into my ears. Awake in an instant, heart throbbing, I fumbled to grab my fanny pack, remembered that Mary was downstairs with my laptop, and leaped out of the bunk to stampede down the stairs along with everyone else on the floor. Some hundred of us crowded into the lobby as sirens flashed from the doorframes around us. Some ambled outside and lit up cigarettes; some huddled together with a language barrier between them and reassurance. I found Mary with my laptop tucked under her arm. Someone demanded, “Who was burning incense on the third floor?” 

Eventually a hostel receptionist was able to shut down the siren and tell everyone it was a false alarm. The word spread through the group in a dozen different languages, and then the journey back to rooms began. I crowded in with the others, and we funneled back to our corresponding floors. I crept back into my bed, but I didn’t fall asleep for quite a while.

It's just not a Mary-and-Me trip until we take a picture in the bathroom. (Will she kill me for posting this? Maybe...)

~~~

Tales from California: A Day in Anaheim

After hopping out of the Greyhound bus into the dusty sunshine, Mary and I had about five hours to kill in Anaheim the day of the Fresh Beat Band concert. We had been emailing back and forth with a last-minute couchsurfing host, Catherine, and she suggested a place that no one could resist: Disneyland! 

I’ve had the good fortune to visit Disney World twice, but Mary had never so much gotten near the happiest place(s) on earth. We walked along the perimeter of the park, looking at the wooden backs of roller coasters peeking through the palm trees. “If I had a ton of money,” I told Mary, “we’d go there right now.”

Fortunately, there was an alternative, which Catherine had mentioned to me: a cute shopping district known as Downtown Disney. Mary and I wound through pretty sidewalks and picturesque flowers before emerging onto the neat brick streets, where the storefronts rose up with a fairy-tale realism only Disney can create. We took lots of enthusiastic pictures and I told her that this was really Disneyland, they had just shut down the rides for the day. Being the generous sister that I am, I spent an entire two cents to allow us each to throw a penny in a wishing well. Mary looked around the stores for a while. And then, clearly, it was time for ice cream. 

Yes, we can get Häagen-Dazs back home, but I swear it tasted better when Mary and I shared three small scoops while cuddled up on the edge of a large planter with the sun bearing down on us and pink mannequins in the Wet Seal shop window staring at us and Lifehouse’s Falling Even More in Love with You washing out from speakers in the background. It was a beautiful day.

Yes, I get very excited about ice cream.

After the concert, Mary and I once again had time to kill, this time while waiting for our couchsurfing host to contact us. We sat in Denny’s and ate spinach chicken salad. We sat in McDonald’s and ate McFlurries that Mary bought. Then, eager to stretch our legs, we hoisted our backpacks, walked out into the damp cool night, and began walking in the general direction of our host’s house. 

Five minutes later, we were practically racing between the half-lit palm trees, bellowing out Disney songs in two-part harmony. I want to be where the people are! I want to see, want to see them dancing! Strolling along down that… what’s the word again?

“Street!” I yelled in response. My phone rang. It was Catherine, our host. She was willing to pick us up. Suddenly, I felt as exhausted as someone who had woken up early, caught a Greyhound, run all over Anaheim, and attended a concert should be. 

Catherine lived with her sister and parents, who all welcomed us warmly to their suburban home. Catherine had mentioned that they were Coptic Christians, so I wasn’t surprised to see the crucifixes on the walls and observe the family’s beautiful dark-haired, dark-skinned features. They had made chocolate cake with caramel bourbon sauce for the father’s birthday, and we all sang for him and shared in the celebration. He told us about the Mediterranean restaurant he owns and laughed hysterically when I said that I had always thought falafel was a kind of pasta. We learned that he and his wife had come to America to escape religious persecution in Egypt. Mary gave Catherine a back rub as we all chatted. I was exhausted, but I didn’t want to go to bed. There was peace in this house, a peace that could be felt.

I slept well that night.

~~~

Tales from California: Staying with V

After Mary and I crashed at Spencer’s house, we moved on to our next hosts, V and her partner Devon. My dad and V had met online when each of them was promoting their son’s bands, and when she heard that Mary and I were in the San Diego area, she offered to put us up for a couple nights. The first thing they did when Spencer dropped us off in a mall parking lot was buy us a massive carrot-cake cheesecake, followed by making a field trip to visit the seals, and then a dinner a the Chart House seafood restaurant, where I ate fresh-caught tilapia while gazing out at the dark ocean rolling in just outside the huge picture windows. It was both unexpected and humbling to be treated with such generosity, all because of an Internet business contact. 

V’s house was part normal suburban, part steampunk haven. The gold-colored mannequin with the long neck who posed at the corner of the dining room caught my attention, and the chandelier and old piano added to the feel of the room. 

When we were there, I did little but scramble to catch up on my work, although I did take a walk around the small town with Mary one of the days. One time V took us to visit her father, and ex-marine who had earned four purple hearts and roses. He showed us his antique collection, let us pick tangerines from his tree out back, and gave Mary a Marine Corps sweatshirt to cover up her disgraceful Air Force t-shirt.

V pulled a few strings and talked to her son about scoring Mary and me some tickets for the concert he was working on as a sound man. Ever heard of the Fresh Beat Band? Me neither, but V got us the tickets, and we were headed to LA anyway, so why not?

The last morning, V got up early to drive us to the Oceanside Greyhound station, a huge sacrifice for her night-owl tendencies. Mary and I caught the bus to Anaheim, where we killed time all day before lining up for the concert outside The Grove. I was feeling a bit awkward, since we were the only people our age without little kids. I was afraid security would make us put away our huge backpacks at the door. 

We got in the door no problem. The security guy heard we were from Missouri and made some sneering comment about our baseball team giving California’s baseball team our star player, and that was all the trouble he gave us. We filed into the auditorium and sat down on the chairs. V’s son came out to say hi and we chatted for a bit, and then it was time for the show to begin. The moment the four actors rushed out on stage, I recognized them— I had seen the corresponding TV show when I was babysitting in Wyoming!

What followed was a ridiculously fun show. They sang about friendship and dancing and friendship again, while wearing bright colors and doing some sort of wholesome hip-hop dance. It was honestly one of the most fun concerts I’ve ever been to. Families across the country agree: the Fresh Beat Band is going on tour, and in New York, scalped tickets are running up to $2,000. 

All in all, V made sure that Mary’s and my last few days in California were different and interesting. From giving me a place to catch up on work to scoring us tickets for the most unexpected concert, V was a vital part of our trip.

~~~

Tales from California: The Beauty of Gumbo

Mary and I spent our last night in San Diego proper with a couchsurfing host, Spencer, who we had met while sailing. Elizabeth came with us to Trader Joe’s, and then Spencer’s apartment, to share in the making and eating of the supper Spencer promised to make. The four of us bustled around the kitchen as Spencer described the proper technique for making perfect gumbo. I chopped carrots, Mary diced celery, Elizabeth showed us a new way to cut onions. The result was, in short, one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten. Creamy, rich, and flavorful, the gumbo filled me with a warmth and comfort.

There is a sense of quiet joy in making food together: the slicing and dicing and stirring and measuring and tasting. Incidentally, last night in Portland I helped make cream cheese brownies with my friend Ivy, and I felt the same sort of inner peace that comes when stirring ingredients together and measuring out flour. It’s meditative, it’s beautiful, and it’s a lot of fun. Viva la cuisine!

~~~

Tales from California: We Sail the Ocean Blue

One Friday afternoon in San Diego, Mary and I returned from our morning walk to get wi-fi to find Elizabeth washing down her sailboat while a few people clustered around eagerly. Today was the day: after a few weeks of having engine trouble, Elizabeth’s boat was up, running, and ready to sail. 

Neither Mary nor I had ever been in a watercraft that was larger than a canoe but smaller than a ferry, so we were pumped about the opportunity. With the sun blazing across the waters and a mild feeling to the air, it was the perfect day to sail.

The crew for the afternoon jaunt included Spencer and Bill from the Navy, Murph and Elizabeth from the marina, and Joe and Mary and I from the couchsurfing world. My job consisted of staying out of the way as Murph took the wheel and everyone else scrambled about pulling on ropes and unfurling the topsail. We chugged out of the marina, past a jetty of boulders, out into the open ocean. I had put on a sweater in anticipation of a cold wind, but the salty breeze felt warm. Elizabeth pulled out a massive bag of tortilla chips, a bowl of salsa, and a six-pack of beer. Murph pointed out a gallon-sized bottle of rum to pass around. 

They rigged up the jib sail, then turned off the motor, and the silence of the lapping waters surrounded us. I would have been content to listen to it, but a party requires music, so Joe pulled out his iPad to stream some Pandora. I soon was distracted from the music, though.

I have a healthy fear of the ocean, and one of the keys to surviving in one is to understand the way the waves fall. If I see a wave that appears about to break that is less than ten feet away, my instinct is to run toward it as fast as I can and hope to duck through it before it crushes me to the sand. Now, watching the swells rise up higher than the deck, starting to crumble into foam at the top as they rushed toward us, stabbed me with fear every time. (Also, Bill yelling, “Oh my god!” every time a wave rocked us did not instill much confidence in me.) I learned that the waves didn’t break this far out at sea. I also learned that watching the reactions of the people around me was not the best indication of how worried I should be. 

Joe looking like a captain

Finally, the ocean smoothed out a bit, and I relaxed a bit more. I ate a lot of chips and salsa. I took half a swig of rum. I watched the iridescent water rise and fall around us, sparkling in the sunlight so brightly it hurt my eyes.

Spencer ended up hurling off the side of the boat, and Elizabeth soon followed suit. Murph said it wasn’t a true sailing adventure until someone got seasick. My stomach felt queasy, but I held up pretty well. I even crawled to the front of the boat and sat with my back against the mast, shifting my weight with the waves, and felt the stiff breeze lash my hair around as the sail canvas flapped and billowed.

When we were nearly back to the marina, someone pointed out a gray shape that surfaced in the water— a dolphin! Soon a pod of them emerged, slipping in and out of the water just a few yards from the boat. I saw their supple skin (one had a scar near his dorsal) and the little groups of three or four who clustered together. “They like sailboats,” Murph said. “We don’t make noise.”

Back in still water, the boat drifted to a standstill. Nobody minded: we gazed back behind us at the setting sun. The sky, washed with pastel, provided a backdrop for the detailed silhouettes of a line of palm trees along the jetty. I would have felt as if I was staring at a calendar photo, if it were not for the topsy-turvy feeling in my stomach, the shifting of my weight as the boat bobbed, the sharp smell of salt, and the wet coldness that rises right as the sun falls. 

Murph was a natural at the wheel

At the marina, the crew docked the boat and rolled up the sails. I sat quietly, still trying to stay out of the way. Murph looked at me sideways, as if trying to figure out what I was thinking. “You enjoy it?” he asked.

I nodded, wishing that I was a more articulate person, wishing that I could convey how wonderful and unexpected it was to be sailing on the Pacific on a sun-soaked California day.

“It was great,” I said.

~~~

Tales from California: Monsters at the Marina

“Nobody lives on their boat,” Elizabeth told me as we walked to the 34’ sailboat she calls home. “That’s the official story around here.” And thus, Mary and I were introduced to the unique community of a marina, a sort of floating trailer park where everyone insists with straight-faced seriousness that there is no neighborhood here— just a bunch of boats with owners occasionally showing up to take them out for a sail. 

For most of the time Mary and I were at the marina, we both sensed a presence of wildness that haunted the creaking corners of the docks, a spiritual disturbance that made us none too eager to walk the quays after nightfall. In Elizabeth’s boat, we were wrapped up in the goodwill of her and her friends, as we crammed as many as eight people into a tiny space to eat, drink, and swap stories. I was inspired to be more hospitable when we stayed with Elizabeth: she didn’t mind stuffing people into the space, feeding us delicious food, and sharing generously of her time and energy. I loved the way she smiled and laughed, and the way she accepted anyone who showed up. Her hospitality was not without downsides, though, and that is how we met Carrie.

The first time I saw Carrie, I just assumed that she was your ordinary pothead who had just had too much to drink: she stumbled into the boat one evening, so sloshed that her eyes wouldn’t focus. Her hair was bleached, her skin was dark with sunshine, her eyes ridged with black liner, her shirt attempting to display cleavage that wasn’t there. She lit up a joint without asking, waving her head side to side as if trying to shoo away a fly. When Elizabeth finally convinced her to leave, she nearly got off the boat on the wrong side, narrowly avoiding falling straight into the murky water.

However, soon we learned that she was not just a pothead: she was doing other drugs as well, living in a constant blank stupor. One night she wandered onto the boat and passed out on the couch before anyone could stop her. Sighing, Elizabeth said there was nothing to do but leave her there. The two of us moved her further onto the couch so she wouldn’t wake up with a horrible crick in her neck. She was dead weight in my hands. Elizabeth asked her friends which boat Carrie was staying on. A guest, they said. Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she said with authority, “She has to go.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

That night, I surfaced from a deep sleep to hear a primeval howl rising like a beast from the darkness. One massive shiver raced down my body as my heart lurched into my throat. The howl rose to a wail, trapping me against the bed in terror, and then it trailed off into a long, barely human-sounding expletive. Now shaken awake, I realized that Carrie was crying out in her sleep. 

Silence fell. I lay in bed, tense, hugging my sister in her sleep, feeling suddenly afraid that a monster would seize her from me.

Again, the wail. It crept from Carrie’s throat, but it didn’t sound human. It was ragged, tortured. Insane.

Without one desperate movement, I shot out of bed and flicked on the light. Mary murmured sleepily and rolled over as I stood by Carrie, staring at her face, which was twisted as if in pain.

“Hey,” I whispered, touching her forehead. “It’s okay, Carrie. It’s okay. We’re here. You’re safe.” 

Her forehead smoothed out, and her body relaxed. She mumbled something and then turned her head, sinking into deeper sleep. I felt cold all over, shaky. I returned to bed.

The last time I saw Carrie, she was sitting on the pavement outside the marina restrooms, soaking up sunlight and smoking a cigarette. She was staring into space. I walked right by her, and she didn’t see me.

If Elizabeth and her friends prevailed, Carrie is no longer at the marina. Wherever she is, whatever she is doing, I continue to pray for the lost girl who wailed in the night. That memory will give me a chill for as long as I live.

~~~

Tales from California: Why I Let a Stranger See Me Naked

Written on 2/8/2012

I’m mad at myself.

I’m mad at myself because, despite all my convictions about privacy, despite the way I railed against the new security systems when they first came out, and despite my absolute hatred of them, I stood for one second in a full body scanner today. The security guy told me to, and for half a moment I hesitated. But my politeness surfaced, my desire not to cause waves, my desire to make things painless and to avoid conflict with authority at all costs. I obeyed. I stepped in to the harmless-looking glass case. It scanned me for less than a second, and then I stepped out. If I didn’t know what it was, I could pretend that it was just a fancy metal detector, rather than a highly-advanced computer that just stripped me naked for some guy in a tech booth to analyze. It wasn’t that I didn’t have enough time. I certainly wasn’t running late or risking missing my flight. I just didn’t want to upset the smooth flow of passenger traffic. I didn’t want to cause a scene.

I am a coward and a hypocrite. I’m trying to let it bother me just enough that I will never do it again, in this or any other issue. I believe in taking a stand for something on principle, and I hate it when I don’t live up to my own standards.

Being brave means not just doing the hard things I’m accustomed to, but to be a little rebellious every once in a while. Challenging the status quo. Making waves. Refusing to be plowed under after they wear you down.

I’m zealous about a lot of causes. Perhaps someday I’ll learn how to be zealous about them on a long-term basis. So far, I’ve not been terribly impressed with my own staying power, but I also believe that the important thing is not to beat yourself up, but to keep trying.

~~~

Last Day

Today is my last day in California. Tonight, I will be in Oregon, to stay for a while, done with traveling for the moment, but certainly not done with the adventure of being in a different city in a different state. Soon to follow on my blog: Tales from California, in which I shall relate all the exciting (and not so exciting) things that happened when I was in this crazy and breathtaking state.

In the meantime, I bid you adieu for the moment. I hope you are having a lovely day.

~~~

A Stranger on the Greyhound

Today I sat on the bus going out of San Francisco with the two seats all to myself. The bus wasn’t crowded at all, which was fine with me: the upholstery looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 70s, which meant the bus was an old one. Limited leg space, grimy windows, and passengers who have no concept of the invisible line between seats are typical on this kind of bus. I was glad to have the space.

As the bus rolled to its first stop in Oakland, the man in front of me got up and asked, “Can I sit next to you?” I sized him up quickly: Mexican accent, in his fifties, receding white hairline, sun-leathered skin pocked with moles, loose denim jacket, reasonably well-groomed, quart-sized multi-fruit juice carton in his hand. “If you want to,” I said without showing any of the hesitance I felt. He left to go to the bathroom, and I looked around uncomfortably. I saw plenty of open seats. Why did he want to sit next to me? Was he being creepy? Did he have something he wanted to talk about? Should I move before he came back? All my friends’ Greyhound horror stories kept flicking through my mind. Maybe it was best to move. No, I would wait, see what he wanted. If he was creepy, I could always move. Or yell at the bus driver for help…

He returned and started to move his knapsack to the seat next to me. In the politest voice I could manage, I said, “You know, there are still a lot of empty seats.”

He glanced around, then looked outside at the short queue of people boarding the bus. “Oh,” he said. “Not so many people boarding here?” That’s when I realized that he wasn’t being creepy— he had assumed a lot of people would board, and he was hoping to save us both from the Russian-roulette game known as New People on the Greyhound. I think he was just as afraid of sitting next to a creeper as I was.

The man quickly moved to his original seat in front of me, but not before giving me the most heartwarming smile I’d seen all day. “Thank you,” he said. 

I smiled back, and my heart felt light. “No problem,” I said, but what I really meant was, “No, thank you.” We both got the two seats to ourselves all the way to Sacramento.

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Thoughts from San Fran

Writing a blog is similar to writing a diary: after a certain period of time, you either have to pound out a terse laundry list of what you’ve been doing, or simply skip ahead and fill in the holes when you have time. Today, I am choosing to do the latter.

As I write this, I’m sitting at a park bench, looking out at San Francisco Bay. Clouds stretch over the heavens like a veil of cotton, with riffs that show off the chalky sky. The Golden Gate Bridge spans the bay about a mile and a half to my left, and the white-and-silver skyline of San Francisco peeks above the evergreens to my right. Having left my sister to the mercy of LA’s smoggy metropolis yesterday, I am by myself, though not alone. 

The walk today up the bayfront and back has left me pensive, trying to process everything that’s happened the past several days. It’s hard to believe that in the past week and a half I have perched on the bow of a sailboat watching dolphins slip in and out of the crystal blue waves, walked along the glittering sand of Coronado Island, and chatted with an ex-Marine who received the purple heart and rose four times. Who knew that on this trip I would be clapping in time to the peppy music of the Fresh Beat Band, a Nickelodeon TV-show-turned-pop-concert getting ready for a tour of the US? Or witnessing the spiritual revival of a Christian who was renewing his faith in God? Or walking from Hollywood to Santa Monica through the green gardens of Beverly Hills without a map or directions, simply because Mary and I were too cheap to catch a bus? 

These memories are all jumbled in my head. I feel like I’ve been on the road for at least three weeks, even though it’s been less than two. I’m not used to traveling at such a breakneck speed. It’s been hard to get work done. It’s been hard for my thoughts to catch up. In three days, however, I’ll be reaching my place of resting after the long trip: Portland, Oregon. There I hope to recoop a bit, organize my ideas, and share some more blogs with you. In the meantime, here’s to San Francisco, the place that I am seeing through fresh eyes and a hopeful heart.

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Too Many Things Happening

An eternity has passed since I last blogged. All that has happened in between is a blur, captured only by terse words and phrases on my iPod notes. I promise I will return to blogging soon, but I’ve spent most of my time with my sister and ridiculous amounts of walking with said sister. Perhaps when I get up to Portland everything will slow down. Perhaps soon I’ll be able to breathe. In the meantime, I must sleep. The Greyhound leaves early tomorrow, and it’s a long way from LA to San Francisco.

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