Postcard
It occurred to me that I should write a postcard. Then I remembered how absurdly small postcards are.
I
My feet touched the motherland and I never felt such a profound sense of belonging.
It was a cinematic homecoming that stretched well beyond my own memory. For one glorious moment I was certain every unrealized version of my life had begun unfolding before me as I stepped toward my true identity.
Ha! Can you imagine?
I belong at home—on the water, in fact.
The only stories I possess from this place were inherited rather than remembered. My mother maintains that the last time I was in this town, I "shit all over and ruined the clam chowder bread bowl on the wharf." No matter how terribly repentant I may be, I don't believe even the sincerest apology could ever repay what my infant self owes for that bread bowl of clam chowder. She insists the bread there is special, that the salty air gives the sourdough a certain je ne sais quoi.
The only other story circulated to me, but never spoken of in detail, so as to protect my delicate ears, also involves bodily fluids. Apparently my father’s company Christmas party was held in the African wing of the museum. At the end of the evening, with all the confidence alcohol can bestow upon a man with absolutely no business offering directions, he insisted my mother turn left instead of right. (Perhaps my own directional shortcomings may be hereditary.) They sped nine blocks the wrong direction, launching over hills with such enthusiasm that, somewhere between a colorful string of profanities aimed at my mother and another particularly ambitious incline, my father lost control of his stomach inside his prized, brand-new Plymouth Sundance.
So I arrived today hoping to make a few memories of my own. Preferably ones requiring less cleanup. I am, after all, still recovering from the weekend, during which I consumed an unprecedented amount of wine. It turns out it’s too easy to drink more than intended when it’s served from commemorative squeeze bottles.
I’ll admit I had reservations about this trip. It was entirely on another’s whim, and, depending on which budgeting app one consults, fiscally irresponsible. But I am grateful, in a way, because it's during weeks like this that I usually become acutely homesick. Perhaps new surroundings are a providential distraction.
Since transport was already purchased, I attempted to practice frugality by booking lodgings in a district named after a cut of meat. It’s worth tempting fate if the payoff is in my best interest. Though I suppose others would argue that if it costs your peace, it’s too expensive.
I found myself visualizing self-defense moves on the uphill hike from the station to the hotel, but I am pleased to report none of the tactics were deployed. On another note, my travel partner was pleasantly surprised and very happy upon our arrival, as he recognized (recognized) the hotel on sight. More on that later.
Once we’d deposited our bags, one of the first things I noticed was the public transit. We traveled down dedicated lanes in the middle of the street, with passengers boarding from islands between traffic. It’s so brilliantly sensible.
The announcements aboard cycled through several Asian and Pacific languages. I’m accustomed to hearing Karen and Hmong on public transit. Sadly, after all these years, I still couldn’t confidently tell you which language was which. That’s probably something I ought to remedy, but won’t. I’ve no gift for tonal languages.
While I don’t have the final word on the itinerary, I strongly advocated for breakfast at this particular place, responsible for inspiring several failed croissant experiments in my own kitchen. We didn’t meet the famous pastry chef, but it still felt a little like standing on hallowed ground.
After breakfast, naturally, we walked to second breakfast.
The chorizo burritos measured approximately one child’s arm in length and roughly the diameter of a recreational softball bat. You know you’re getting burritos in the right place when the staff doesn’t speak English.
Filled to the brim, we needed to find something to do until elevensies. We climbed into Alonso’s Kia Soul for a thirty-minute ride on the roller coaster to the coast. It took every ounce of concentration not to relive my father’s Plymouth Sundance story. Thankfully, Alonso’s upholstery survived.
Eventually we reached the waterfront, where the smell of fresh fish arrived well before the pier itself, followed closely by the chorus of arguing sea lions, whose domestic arrangements appeared to revolve around one particularly crowded harem.
We did as many tourist activities as dignity permits, sampled a few local specialties, and even attended a magic show. I’m pleased to report that I successfully avoided repeating my earliest achievement with a clam chowder.
The day ended with dinner at a bib gourmand restaurant, which is a wonderfully French way of saying, “This place is excellent, and you might still be able to afford it.” Not quite Michelin-star territory, yet comfortably within reach of ordinary people willing to wait their turn.
It was wonderful. I only wish I could share it.
I’m trying to stay present and enjoy these moments, but I am missing home. I have to remind myself it will be at least another week— patience.
One more day to wait…
II
Today afforded me the rare luxury of sleeping in. One too many rounds for my travel companion with a colorful post-dinner digestif. We couldn’t linger, though. Morning reservations in the “national park” were waiting.
I won’t spend too much time trying to describe it because I’m certain I’d fail. Some places insist on being experienced rather than explained.
What a gift.
I spent the morning flying around with a silly grin on my face like a retriever allowed to ride with the windows down. The wind coming off the water had a way of clearing every unnecessary thought from my head. I made sure to steal a few minutes to share the views. Beyond that, the day wasn't especially generous with solitude.
The landscape feels ancient, but much of what makes it so striking is surprisingly recent. Many of the trees and much of the lush vegetation were intentionally planted throughout the nineteenth century to stabilize the windswept hillsides. Even more recently, the management has changed and it’s become an ambitious urban ecological restoration project. Wetlands have been restored, thousands of native plants have been added, streams uncovered, and habitats rebuilt, all while preserving the historic forest that gives this place its character.
We wandered through eucalyptus and cypress, occasionally stumbling upon hidden batteries, tunnels, forgotten bunkers, and weathered fortifications before emerging onto dramatic stretches of coastline that looked almost too improbable to belong to the same place as strip malls and interstate exits.
He watched me from the safety of a dry rock while I wandered into the surf. The water promptly reminded me that waves don't negotiate, sending one clear to my hips. I laughed and kept running, trying to preserve the feeling before it slipped away.
Time seemed to slow. I stood watching pelicans and gulls shelve themselves upon the rocks while the waves broke against their weathered bases. My thoughts drifted to the encantadas. Wouldn't it be something to sail there someday? I suppose I'd have to learn to sail first.
Maybe we'd be shipwrecked and never make it back to the continent. Maybe we’d…
No.
Take every thought captive &c.
The thing about daydreams is that, for the most part, there is a chance they will answer to reason. You can call them back before they wander too far. It's the dreams that arrive in the middle of the night that refuse to be captured.
As lovely as it all was, I realized I can’t imagine living somewhere without seasons. I like when autumn rewards patience with a harvest, winter insisting on rest, and spring to reveal that dormant isn’t dead— that there is always new life.
Back to reality, there was a 260-foot cliff to ascend.
On the return trip, we made a quick stop at a fountain where tourists were snapping photos and making wishes. One little boy, eager and earnest, squeezed his coin so tightly his knuckles turned white before dramatically over-tossing it clear to the far side of the fountain, where it landed on dry land. Oblivious to what had happened, his grown-ups ushered him away while he protested through increasingly desperate tears.
I slipped around the back, retrieved his coin, and dropped it into the water. I hope I didn't jinx him. My wishes don't seem to come true. On second thought, perhaps they do.
Perspective.
No whinging.
The day concluded with America's favorite pastime. They tell me this pastime is shorter than it’s ever been, but I still managed to enjoy it for no less than three hours. Perhaps I was only told that to encourage me to buy a ticket. The views (and the crab cakes) would have sold me anyway.
I also enjoy opportunities to wear my oldest hat. I happen to think it's developing character with its scruffy, sun-bleached appearance. Others have suggested it's mildly embarrassing. Retirement, it seems, may be imminent.
There is probably more to share, but I’ll save it for another time. Tomorrow is our last day, and I’m crashing hard. I’ve increased my usual 3,000 daily steps tenfold. Fingers crossed, all is well back home and many nautical miles are being logged as well.
III
Our final day arrived with considerably less urgency than the previous two. We had no cliffs to conquer. Just coffee, gardens, and the pleasant business of wandering wherever curiosity happened to point.
Each coffee shop was a case study in minimalism, complete with precisely the correct number of succulents. The patrons wore their hair in every color found inside a pack of highlighters. The coffee was excellent, too. Pour-overs only, of course.
We wandered through beautiful gardens while elderly men and women practiced tai chi and bo staff forms beneath the trees. I was especially delighted by the little black phoebes darting about. I don’t know that I’d seen one before. Perhaps I have reached the age where it’s acceptable to start a bird journal?
Then there were the roses.
The rose garden was so lovely. I've never seen roses so large, nor smelled so many varieties gathered into one place. They reminded me of a single white rose I've kept on my desk this month.
I was leaving the house for the last time, trying very hard not to overthink about the weight I'd placed upon my own shoulders. At a stoplight, a man stood with his family and a cardboard sign that simply read, "Anything helps." I handed them a few snacks from the car. In return, he asked his youngest daughter to choose a flower from the roadside bouquet they were selling. Of all the flowers, of all the colors, she picked a white rose and handed it to me through the window. I choked out a "gracias" before driving away.
I dried that rose and have been keeping it at work. I’m not entirely sure why. A line from a book I just read comes to mind: maybe an end with a future.
I took one last deep breath of roses before leaving the gardens to explore a few brick-and-mortar establishments. Surprisingly, while looking through some records, there was a fundraiser for a similar shop in my town. Apparently, even this many miles away, home still finds ways of saying hello.
Next it was time for lunch. We committed what some would consider a culinary misdemeanor: oysters in July. About ten hours have passed, so I hesitate to declare victory, but thus far I remain optimistic.
We've been back for barely two hours and I'm beginning to buckle. Tomorrow at one o'clock I have a presentation to deliver, and I haven't so much as opened the data yet. I like to think of myself as reasonably responsible, so this is either tremendous confidence or catastrophic denial.
The current plan is to drink an irresponsible amount of coffee and attempt to complete three business days' worth of work in approximately five hours.
Here goes nothing.
Goonight xx