Patrick and I in New York City, friends reunited after three years. 

City Mouse or Country Mouse? I Can't Pick, I'm Both...

Saturday morning Dana ran errands while I went into the city to meet Patrick. We started out at the Union Square Market and I made a point to say hi to more cousins I’d never met. Audrey’s cousins run a honey stand there every Saturday and when I found the jars that said "Wolfgang and Sons, Climax, NY" I walked up to the man behind the table, held out my hand and said, "Hi, we’re related." He looked at me like I was crazy and then his eyes got wide as he said, "Oh, you’re Jessica! Hi, I’m your cousin Walter!" He’s a jovial man in his fifties, with a shock of white hair and broad shoulders. His wife, Noni, was there and just for giggles I call her my cousin too. They asked how many bathrooms my Civic had and I pointed to the trees in the park. "That many." They laughed. I stayed with them for a little while, still soaking up the surprise that I had unknown family ties, and then said my goodbyes.

Patrick and I walked all around the East Village and I was sad because I made us lost. I used to know every street, every bodega, every single little nook and cranny of that place and now I realize just how long I’ve been gone. Still, we eventually found St. Mark’s Place and I took Patrick to Search and Destroy, an "alternative" shop to say the least. It has THE GREATEST collection of vintage clothes, which are accessible once you make your way past the inflatable dolls, dancing phallic toys, and porno displays. I took my youngest brother there once, when he was about 14, and he left the place shaking after seeing a large poster of someone using someone else’s face as a toilet. I take all my visiting friends there, actually, just for shock value.

That picture was actually gone, and so were a few other stores that I used to frequent, which was a little disappointing. One store was going out of business as we walked past, a little shop that sold wooden goods, like toys and bowls and beads. I guess now that St. Mark’s Place had become a mecca of trendiness, there is no more use for a shop selling handmade wooden chess sets and unfinished dowel rods. It was very sad.

We went to one of my favorite restaurants, Dojo’s, and I pigged out on their carrot tahini salad dressing, the one I used to buy in bulk and put on everything - rice, tunafish, eggs. It is The King Of Condiments. I can’t find it anywhere else in the country, not like they make it. Patrick ordered a seaweed salad and we didn’t realize it was black seaweed. It looked like someone opened a can of Skoal on his plate but it tasted really, really good! We reminisced about the times we spent out west and it was like being there all over again. He has a much better memory than I do. We wondered what happened to our third musketeer, John - he hasn’t been heard from since going back to Denver and finding out that someone stole his checkbook. We worry about him a lot.

The sun was absolutely gorgeous and we got ice cream from the good old Mr. Softee truck, which we ate in Mercer Park while I explained the finer points of my college internship, the one at the sex education website. Patrick was dumbfounded, he almost dropped his ice cream. He had no idea that in America, cleaning and schlepping sex toys all over the streets of New York City could help you graduate from college. I didn’t either, until I had to do it.

We found ourselves back in Union Square Park, lying on the grass and talking about where we want to be in the next five years. Patrick is a farmer at heart. He owns his own back in Ireland but knows there’s very little money to be made at it, so he’s a salesman instead. It all sounds too familiar, as my father, with the Master’s Degree in Agronomy and the wish to simply live on a farm and grow things, works as a carpenter. We almost had our own farm when I was little but the farming industry really bottomed out. There was nothing he could do except take odd jobs and learn carpentry in the meantime. Still, both my dad and Patrick hold onto the dream that someday they’ll be able to farm again. My answer was more mainstream - job in social work, husband, house, kids, dog. White picket fence. I know it’s trite, and sometimes I get frustrated with myself for wanting it, but deep down it’s all I really want. Lying there on the grass, hanging out with Patrick like we’d been friends forever, I knew we always will be. I don’t think anything could ever change that.

We went to my old place of work, City Crab, and got drinks while I caught up with old friends. I was getting pretty spoiled being able to drink whenever I wanted to and not worrying about my breathalyzer. I was nervous, somewhat, to see everyone again because I had worked there while in the thick of things with Sean and was a constant basketcase. I think back to how I acted, the things I said during that time and shudder. I didn’t want to make a cameo appearance as That Crying Girl From Three Years Ago, but everyone assured me that my drama was a mere drop in the bucket compared to the antics that have gone on since I left. When they filled me in, I was astounded. It seems that some of our friends have developed drug problems and it’s wreaking havoc on their lives.

Patrick had to go to dinner with his family so we made our way back to Union Square. He headed west to Chelsea and I hopped on the N to Astoria. Leaving him was hard because we never know when we’re going to see each other again. He told me now it’s my turn to visit Ireland. The way my finances are I wonder if I’ll ever be able to. Anyway, I went back to Astoria and Dana and I decided to stay in for the night. That’s how you know someone is your best friend - when you are only in New York City for a few nights and on Saturday you don’t feel cheated by spending it all with them and not going out on the town. We bought groceries and wine and I made a mess of her kitchen cooking a stir fry. Poor Dana almost lit herself on fire trying to light the stove burners and after my pulse returned to normal I giggled over memories of my own old apartment woes, like The Unflushable Toilet and The Leak Of Unknown Origins.

After dinner we watched an incredible film called "Iron-Jawed Angels" with Hilary Swank and Frances O’Connor. It was absolutely amazing. It’s a true story about the history of women’s sufferage and I highly recommend it to anyone, male or female. (I’m talking to you, Miss CannedItalian - get it from Blockbuster or wherever but just make sure you see it!) We watched it and by the time it was over I was exhausted. I passed out while Dana, ever the busy bee, stayed up doing god-know-what and then woke up early the next morning saying she was going to the gym. She amazes me.

I hibernated on Sunday and wrote and wrote and wrote. I thought about Emmet a lot, how much I missed him and how I wished things were different. Dana came in and out all day and we finally decided to head into the city around 9:30. We went to Duke’s, an old haunt of mine where I thought for sure I could find some old friends, which we did. We hung out with "Ken J.", who, even though I don’t have to use the last initial to differentiate between him and the other Kens we worked with at City Crab, will always be Ken J. He’s been hit by a cab since we last saw each other and he pulled out his fake front teeth to prove it. That was odd. He relayed the story and I was just glad he wasn’t brain-damaged - he is one of the wittiest, smartest people I know. Teeth or no teeth, he still is.

Dana and I went to a wine bar in Gramercy after Duke’s. While we were there and laughing it up pretty hard at the bar, a drunk guy beside us leaned over and slurred, "Are you, like, really hammered or something?" We weren’t, and it burned me up that a guy would assume just because two women are laughing and joking around that they must be drunk. What a douchebag. I was mean to him so he would go away, and he was too drunk to object. Then Dana and I, unhammered, headed back to Queens for more drinks. We went to an Irish pub and shut it down at 4, then went for lox omelets at a diner. Another night spent coming home at the crack of dawn - I love the city life.

I had to leave the next day. It was time to make my monthly visit to Maryland. It was odd, somewhat, knowing that that night I would be sleeping in my own bed. I’d gotten so used to being a guest everywhere. I still think Dana is crazy and incredible for getting up and making it to work that morning. We said goodbye and I went back to bed for a little bit, sad that the last time I would see Dana for awhile would be for 30 seconds before she went to work on a Monday morning. I packed and hopped back on the train for my grandmother’s house.

My phone had died over the weekend because I couldn’t find my wall charger. I had no way of getting in touch with my grandma to let her know to expect me, or to check on her. When I got back to her house, there was a black van in the driveway and I freaked out, thinking it may be a medical van of some sort. I grabbed my bags and hurried in. The front door was wide open and my heart was in my throat. I said, "Grandma?" as I came in and she popped around the corner from the kitchen, all smiles. She had on her good apron. I came into the kitchen and saw my Uncle Vinnie, my grandma’s big brother! He’s a Catholic priest so I usually have to mind my mouth around him but I still love hanging out with him. He’s 86 and always has great stories about our family.

He was there with his friend, Father Francis, and another young Vietnamese man who is here on an exchange program with their church. The five of us sat around drinking coffee and I was laughing so hard as the older people at the table bitched about old people, the way they always go to the damn early-bird specials and drive like idiots. It was hilarious! Then Vinnie and Grandma started reminiscing about being kids and told me many stories of their sister, Dorothy, who liked to climb trees and beat up the boys. I learned so much about my family in that short hour.

The guys had to be getting back to the church so they loaded Vinnie’s wheelchair into the van and were off. I’m going to visit them at their church when I go back out on the road. I packed my own car and got in, charging my phone and asking my dad what the best way to the Jersey Turnpike was. I kissed my grandma goodbye and she laughed at how loaded down my car was. "Please be safe," she said before she closed the door.

I got on the road, with plenty of cash for the tolls, and after crossing the Verrazano Narrows Bridge I was well on my way home. I made it there by about 5:30 in the evening. My mom was home. She hugged me before I took the dog out in the yard to play. That night he cuddled close to me in bed, and when the twin bed got too small for the both of us he moved down to the floor beside me. I was home. It didn’t feel like I’d ever left.

I Heart New York But I Do Not Heart Driving In It

Leaving Coxsackie I got right back on the Interstate. Audrey and I had eaten a wonderful breakfast of biscuits and honey that was sticking to all the right places and some of the wrong places, too, like my rapidly-expanding ass.

I toyed with the radio and sang along to almost every song, including Billy Joel’s "We Didn’t Start The Fire", which I have, in fact, heard before contrary to popular belief in Mexico. I also caught up on the new hip-hop joints that have come out in the last couple weeks too - I’ve been listening to Pete Yorn and The Frames almost incessantly since being in Geneva and after being in the thick of domestic bliss for days in Coxsackie I wanted to listen to gangstas rap about da Cristal and da hoes in da hood. You may not know this, but I can rap every Ludacris song on the radio word for word.

While driving southeast I listened to plenty of hip-hop being broadcast out of Concord, Connecticut, which I never thought of as being a mecca of urban African-American (yes, I am a bit obsessive about being politically correct sometimes) culture, just like I never knew about the huge underground wigger subculture in Burlington, VT. Erik told me there is a great wigger subculture pulsing in rural Vermont - "because there’s no black people around to kick their ass for being wiggers!" he says. It makes sense when you think about it.

Anyway, I was glad to know that Concord was diverse and not just a bunch of old crusty wasps playing tennis and drinking martinis. I bounced around in my seat to 50 Cent’s "Disco Inferno", singing "You can catch me swooping, Bentley couping, switching lanes - ha ha!" as I merged onto the exit for the Triborough Bridge in the Bronx. Okay, people who are unfamiliar with the Bronx, I’m going to do you a big favor right now by instructing you as follows: Do not drive in the Bronx. The Bronx was not meant for vehicles. Period. The roads were built back when horses and buggies were considered hot rides and to compensate for expansion all the city did was build more roads that are elevated over the hodge-podge of crappy roads already there. It is almost as bad as Boston but at least Boston has an excuse, the Big Dig. The Bronx has no excuse, it just sucks to drive in. Great to visit, man, but hell on wheels. Seriously, if you ever go, do yourself a favor and hoof it or get a cab with some other poor soul at the wheel trying to navigate.

I learned this the hard way. Being the brilliant person that I am, and blessed with such amazing foresight, I brought only a minimal amount of cash with me from Climax, which I quickly burned through on tolls. This left me bereft of cash and slumming through my change holder to get past evil-eye giving toll booth workers, so I made The Worst Possible Decision and exited on some random street into the belly of the beast known as Bronx street traffic. Bronx Expressway traffic is bad enough, but the street traffic is the one that will kill you.

So here’s little me, in a black Honda Civic, blonde as a sunray and pale as snow, trying to find an ATM without getting a) too lost, or b) to far away from the interstate. I failed at both and ended up almost at the Hunt’s Point Market, where (sadly enough) hookers brazenly march up and down the streets in broad daylight and being carjacked is as common as misplacing your keys. With all the valuables I had in my car - namely, everything I own - I wasn’t about to risk it. I flipped a U-turn and found the highway again, figuring I would write a check at the next toll booth if I had to.

The next toll was for the Triborough Bridge and as I weasled my way to the booth I strained to see who was working it, because that would define my approach. It turned out to be a middle-aged black guy, so I turned on the "Oops!- I’m-such-a-stupid-little-girl-and-I-tried-so-hard-to-find-an-ATM-but-I-got-scared-look-at-me-almost-start-to-cry-I’ve-been-traumatized!" act. Had it been a woman I may have tried the "Okay-look-you-know-how-it-is-I-just-ran-out-of-cash-and-couldn’t-find-an-ATM-so-come-on-help-a-sister-out?"spiel but this was a guy. And it did not work at all. He rolled his eyes as he sighed and said, "Okay, ma’am, I need your license and registration." I gave it to him and he begrudingly started copying the information down, instructing me to pull over to the side of the highway and wait there with my blinkers on. The New Yorker behind me was pissed off at the wait and honking, because, y’know, horns have been clinically proven to speed up many processes and this was clearly no exception.

As I pulled over to the side and out of the icy glare of the person behind me, I thought I was really in trouble and would be ticketed for not having cash, which I couldn’t afford, and started to tear up for real. Anytime I have to face cops, I don’t know what it is but I just bawl. Maybe it’s guilt over feeling like a criminal but sweet damnation, I do it every single time. When I got my DUI I think I cried for three hours straight, which was AWFUL because I was handcuffed the whole time and couldn’t wipe my face or blow my nose. I don’t ever want to see my mug shot, EVER. Although I’m sure was a big hit at the 2004 City of Laurel Police Christmas Party, where they probably showcase the ugliest ones from throughout the year.

I was holding it in as I watched a young Irish-looking cop approach my car in my rearview mirror. He spoke with a thick Brooklyn accent and laughed at me for getting so upset. "Ma’am, you’re not in trouble," he said. "You just gotta send a check for $4.50 in this envelope and you’ll be fine. Can you do that?" I managed a weak nod and asked him for directions to Northern Parkway, in Queens, which would take me to Long Island. He gave them to me and I drove off, cursing my teary-eyed reflection in the rearview mirror for being such a freakin’ baby about everything!

The cop’s directions were spot-on and soon I was speeding along the Long Island Expressway on the way to visit my grandma, my mother’s mother. Audrey and the gang belong to my dad’s side, so I was eager to get to Grandma Meiselbach’s and see if I could find out any interesting stuff about my mom’s side as well. I got there in pretty good time and soon my grandma was making me a sandwich in that perfect way that grandmas do.

When I was in high school and college my grandma always had some tid-bit about me to brag about. But once I graduated and moved to LA, it was as if that all stopped. Suddenly I wasn’t the Dean’s List Granddaughter with the Magna Cum Laude honors and shot at the big time. I quickly became more of the Lazy, Do-Nothing Chick Who Stores Her Crap In The Basement While She Waits Tables In Los Angeles For Who Knows How Long, and it was a little obvious. When I visited my grandmother during that time she didn’t seem excited to see me anymore, and I won’t lie, it did hurt. Now it’s not so bad that I’m writing this book, but it still makes me feel as though I’ll never return to that status. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll never be as skinny or as cool as I was in college for the rest of my life.

Being on this trip seemed to up my status in the eyes of The Grandma, though, and she seemed happy to see me, especially because I cleaned the stuff out of her basement. Going through those boxes was like opening a time capsule from three years ago. I realized just how much I’ve changed, how much I’ve grown in the past few years as I went through notebooks and journals and photo albums. When I left my New York City apartment it was under less than ideal circumstances. After my roommate got the eviction notice it was almost as though we were refugees fleeing the apartment and we tossed everything into boxes without stopping to decide whether or not we’d ever need it. Like paper towels. And stained coasters. Old bedding, spiral notebooks with class notes and love letters to my ex-boyfriend scribbled in them, unmatched Tupperware containers. My grandmother looked at me cock-eyed when I opened one box and she saw all of the random things in it, like plastic fruit and used tealight candles, as if to say, "This is what’s been taking up space in my basement for three years?" All I could do was shrug and give her the sheepish grin, the one that says you’re right and I’m wrong.

My aunt Bobbie lives with my grandma and she came home for dinner at five before going to her second job at Sear’s. While she was home we joked about the dynamics of our family, how my mom babies my brothers and how all three of my parent’s kids are clueless in their own way. We tried to figure out what my brother Kevin will be when he grows up - I said gym teacher, she said restaurant manager. After dinner she went to work and my grandma and I played a board game and I have to say, she got me totally hooked on it.

It’s called Rummy-O, but she calls it Rummy-O, maybe because she didn’t notice that there’s no tail on that Q. Anyway, it’s like a cross between dominoes and gin rummy, and it’s great fun. She even plays with a group of other women in the neighborhood, who’ve all lived there about 50 years and known each other for just as long. Rummy-O seems to be the new Bridge in East Northport, NY. Maybe someday they’ll have a section dedicated to it in the Style Section of the newspaper.

We had so much fun playing it and I’m so glad I was never one of those obnoxious kids who doesn’t know what to say or do around old people. I love the elderly, I’d actually prefer hanging out with them to hanging out with kids my own age most of the time. Most of the time they lack the drama and the vacuousness of the young. My grandmas are no exception, and they always have interesting stories to tell. This visit was great because I got to hear some new ones.

Bobbie came home around 10 as my grandma and I called it a night. She went to bed and that left me and Bobbie up talking. It was a somewhat frustrating conversation. I’m an idealist. My aunt is a realist. Quite a pessimist, actually. What followed was her lecturing me for 45 minutes on how everyone is out to get me, how no one, especially a man, is to be trusted. It was the polar opposite of the way of thinking in Coxsackie. She actually made a lot of sense on some points, like never give it up too quick to a guy no matter how sweet he is, but overall I disagreed with a lot of things she said. "All guys are after is sex, always, there’s no exception. Life’s a bitch, that’s all there is to it," she said. I didn’t have the heart or the energy to object, I just nodded and thought, "People are good. And it’s what you make of it" to myself.

I went downstairs to check my email on the house computer before going to bed. I got an email from my friend Corey - it was a chain letter with a picture attachment basically saying, "This picture was taken with only the guy in it and after it was taken he passed out and died. When the picture was developed there was a ghostly woman behind him. There are witnesses. They say there was no one behind him when the picture was taken. This is not a joke or a fixed image. Send this to blah blah blah...." Then I clicked on the image. I was so stupid to do it in the middle of the night, alone in the basement of a house I’ve always suspected was haunted, a seven-bedroom house with only two bedrooms inhabited and plenty of rooms for goblins to frolick in. It was the fakest, most horribly spliced Photoshop bungle ever, but still it chilled me. I am such a freaking baby, and I left all the lights on as I went upstairs to bed. I knew my grandma would be mad, but I was hoping the "I thought the house was haunted" excuse would work the next day over breakfast.

I went to bed late after working on my blog and woke up early to go walking with my grandma. I’m determined to lose some weight after tipping the scale at 140. Yes, I put that on the Internet. 5'6" and I weigh 140 pounds. And even my grandma made a remark about how heavy I looked when I arrived, and today when my mom asked how much I weighed and I told her, she said "EW!! That’s way too much for you!" so it’s time to start working out and eating less. My grandma pointed out all the houses being remodeled and for a second I wondered why they were. Then I remembered that to people who worked in the city, Long Island, strip malls and all, was the country.

We had to walk single-file on the sidewalk of the busy main road, where runaway forsythia branches reached over their owner’s fences and I remembered doing the same thing when I was 8 years old and my brother Tommy was 2, our littlest brother in a stroller as we walked with our mother. That was the summer we spent a month in East Northport, the summer after my grandfather died. I remember hearing my grandmother say she wish she would die too, playing in the hallway while my parents tried to calm her down in the kitchen. Now, years later, she can talk openly about his death but still mouths that silent prayer after saying Amen at grace, the one she started saying in 1986. Looking closely, I think the last words are "I hope you still love me."

We drove around, she and I, taking boxes of coasters and Tupperware and schoolbooks to Goodwill, and then going to the nursery for flowers. I can’t understand the logic of buying perennials only because I’m a lazy procrastinator. If I had a garden and bought perennials, they’d be dead before I got around to planting them. It’s easier in a Honda. Anyway, we ran errands and then later, after dinner, we played Rummy-O again - this time it was me, Grandma, Bobbie, and her awesome boyfriend Steve. It was so fun! And this time, when I went to bed, I turned out all the lights but kept my phone light on until I hid under the covers.

I was only at my grandma’s a couple days before heading into New York City on Friday morning. I camped out at a little coffee shop I used to work at in college with a soy latte and my laptop, waiting for my best friend, Dana, to get out of work. It was the coffee shop where I met my abusive ex and out of the corner of my eye I thought I could see myself from five years ago chatting up a Sean from five years ago. I could remember every word of that conversation and loved the innocence of it, a far cry from the curses and venom he would spit at me later, telling me to kill myself because ridding the world of me was the only useful thing I could do. The odd thing was, he said that a lot. And for awhile there, I believed him. My nurses were just glad it didn’t work.

Being there was like seeing the whole relationship unfold again, only with the benefit of hindsight. Days earlier, during that conversation with Bobbie, she thought I was crazy when I said I wouldn’t change a thing - every punch, every name I was called, it all made me who I am today and I like who I am. If I hadn’t gone through that, I may not be on this trip right now. And I know for damn sure that I will never settle for being treated like less than a goddess from now on.

I got a lot of work done, and it would have been more but I ran into an old friend. Eric was a production assistant when Sean and I had our own amateur production company and the two of them had worked together at a coffee shop on the Upper West Side. Now here Eric was, working at the coffee shop on the Upper East Side and saying, "Yeah, man, I haven’t seen Sean except for once, like, last year and he said he was living in Jersey or something." Ah, sweet, sweet karma. We caught up and he told me I was a freak for typing IM’s while looking at him. He mentioned having an anniversary of "one year clean and sober" and that he moved out of "that crackhouse I was living in, remember that one in Spanish Harlem?" It was great to hear that he was. Later on, he let Dana and I drink for free, "since I can’t anymore."

Dana and I picked up right where we had left off on Thanksgiving when we last saw each other and I realized why I don’t feel bad about not keeping in touch with anyone from college; she is all I need. We dished on how we hate the Bush Administration and loved people who hate the Bush Administration and I called my friend Patrick, who was visiting from Ireland. He and I met when I was driving across the country the first time, in Denver, and together with one other guy we drove my Accord through the Rockies to the Grand Canyon. I haven’t seen him since we got to Los Angeles and he went north to San Francisco, so I was excited to see two of my best friends in one trip. We made plans to meet at the 86th and Lex subway station.

I thought the three of us getting together would be so great, I had no idea it would be like putting baking soda in vinegar. Well, it wasn’t that bad, but Dana and Patrick didn’t get along as famously as I had imagined. I felt bad, but it’s just one of those things you can’t predict. By the end of the night, they buried the hatchet and we all had a fabulous 4 AM breakfast at The Viand, a Greek diner I’ve been going to since freshman year. All the waiters are the same and Manny asked me where I’d been. It was great.

Me and my lovely cousin, Nancy. 

Me alongside Chuck's gorgeous 1930 Model A Ford. We drove it down the street and little kids yelled, "Whoa!" Chuck honked the horn and it made that "a-OO-ga! a-OO-ga!" sound. It was awesome... 

"Holy Crap, We're Related?"

I headed west on the Massachusetts turnpike towards Albany and through the Berkshires. The sun had burned through the clouds in Boston but the skies were overcast in the mountains and fog rested on the treetops. It was beautiful - although it wasn’t snow, the Berkshires did seem dreamlike on account of that frosting.

I took out my Pete Yorn CD, well on its way to being worn out at this point, and switched to the radio to see what I could find. I love the slogans for stations I’ve never heard. For instance, in Pennsylvania there’s a country station called WBOB, with country stars claiming, "This is [insert country star], and when I’m in Central P-A, I keep my knob on BOB!"

There’s nothing much to say about driving on the interstate. I wish I could think of something interesting or profound to say about it but only two words come to mind: writer’s block. Seriously, anyone who’s ever driven for hours on an interstate without traffic knows you just fall into some sort of zone and the only thing you can concentrate on is staying awake.

I was only taking the interstate because I was in a rush to get to the Albany area. My grandmother’s cousin, Audrey, lives in Climax, NY, right outside of Coxsackie, and I promised that I would go visit. I’ve only met her three times but had fabulous memories of spending a couple afternoons at her house as a child, and she had visited Maryland right before I left on this trip. From there I knew I would have to haul ass to New York City and Long Island so I rushed to have adequate time to visit in Coxsackie.

I made a fatal mistake at one point and accidentally got into the E-Z Pass lane on the Mass Turnpike. I wanted to be an honest person so I paused to let the camera take a picture of my plate number and then wondered about my punishment - and if I would be able to talk my way out of it - all the way to Albany. My cousin told me later to expect a ticket and a bill in the mail - Fun Fun Fun! That’s just what I need.

I am fucking broke. It has nothing to do with anything, I just had to say that.

Anyway, I got to Climax - another one-stoplight town - not knowing what to expect. And I got more than I ever dreamed.

Audrey lives with her son, Bruce, and his girlfriend, Susan, in an old farmhouse at the dead end of a long road on a hill. It is straight up Green Acres. And it’s magnificent. Audrey and Susan, who I’d never met, were sitting on the front porch waiting for me. The sun was glorious and the lilac trees in the side yard were giving off the most beautiful smell. Bruce was on the riding mower, making smaller and smaller circles and the aroma of fresh-cut grass mingled with the lilacs. The whole space between the house and the street, while small, is a flower garden and it seemed as though every bloom had popped out to see what was going on. Ducks in the pond across the street were pecking at each other and splashing. The family dogs - Bailey, Jake, and Sasha - barked in the windows and made themselves heard over the mower. It was honestly one of the most gorgeous places I’ve ever seen. As soon as I got out of the car and looked around there was no more question as to where I want to raise my kids. I’m not saying Climax, NY, just someplace in the country where nature isn’t being chased off and layered in strip malls and stoplights.

Audrey hugged me and showed me around the house as the dogs followed, which was awkward because the house is so old and narrow and doesn’t really lend itself to three huge animals barging around. Still, even a way-faring stranger could see it would be boring and empty without them. Susan made me a sandwich and gave me leave to raid the fridge as much as I wanted. Audrey showed me the backyard, which was spectacular - it had a few different gardens, a grapevine set up, and two old barns. It also had what Audrey called "Ed-henge" - a huge arrangement of rocks that look like the pi-symbol ones from Stonehenge. Some guy named Ed who used to live there made it and everyone likes it so they just call it Ed-henge. It was awesome. I got pictures but they’re film, not digital so I still have to work on getting them up on this site.

Audrey’s daughter Nancy came over with her boyfriend, Chuck. I haven’t seen her since I was 8 and to be honest, I don’t remember meeting her. There is photographic evidence, though, so I know it’s a fact. Anyway, while they were there and we were all looking at pictures of my trip so far and Bruce and Susan’s trip to Hilton Head the week before, Audrey went and got a big bag of pictures. She opened it up and set a small black-and-white photo of a baby, a little girl, two women, and an old, old woman in front of me. The date stamped on the side read, "37".

"That’s your grandmother," she said, pointing to the little girl. "And that’s me," as she pointed to the baby. "And this is my mother, and that is your great-grandmother, and that," she said, as she pointed to the old woman, "That is your great-great grandmother. Your grandma and I, our grandma." I could feel my face freeze into a look of shock and guilt. You see, I always knew Audrey and her late husband, Charlie, as "Audrey and Charlie". Not Aunt Audrey, or Cousin Audrey, or anything like that. I’m sure someone told me years and years ago that she and my grandmother were cousins but I guess I didn’t remember it as I got older, and everyone just assumed I knew, so I always just assumed that she and my grandmother were just good friends. So that left me sitting in the kitchen, looking around at all these unfamiliar faces and realizing, "Holy crap! These people are my family!"

For those of you who don’t know me, I am a family fanatic. I love holidays if only because they give us an excuse to get together. Some people dread family get-togethers but not me; I live for them. So this was like coming to Coxsackie and getting the best present ever - more family! More people to love, more people to count on. More people to brag about using the prefix "My-cousin-so-and-so", like ‘My cousin Bruce plays guitar in a really good band!" It was the greatest epiphany a big sissy like me could have.

So the next few days in that house were like heaven for me. Bruce and Susan grilled steak and chicken and steamed asparagus from their garden. We watched "The Simpsons" and "Family Guy" and "Antiques Roadshow". Susan and I got happy on a jug of Gallo chardonnay and Audrey and I went driving around the little towns in the area. We ate at Nancy’s one night and Chuck took me for a ride in his 1930 Model A Ford. I learned that not only does no one lock their front doors, nobody locks their car doors either - AND they leave the keys in the ignition!!! And no one's car has ever been stolen in that area!!! Audrey made sure I was fed well and did my laundry. I helped her hang it on the line outside and loved the smell of my suitcase when I put it away. I even raked part of the back yard - mowing had left grass clippings all over and Bruce and Sue were chiding each other on who would rake them up. Since neither one wanted to, I did it as a thank-you gesture. For all my friends who know me as a prissy little snot, picture me sweating out there pitchforking grass clippings into a wheelbarrow and rolling it around the yard - in designer cargo pants and Ugz slippers. I’m sure I was a sight to see. But honestly, I was so happy. I loved the idea of the simple life - go to work, come home, do some yard work, cook some food, laugh a lot, hang out with the dogs. What could be better?

Spending so much time with Bruce, Sue, and Audrey was great too, not only because they’re my new-found family, but they also put on no airs. Some people try to keep up with the Jones’ or impress others around them but not those three. Susan isn’t even shy about showing a picture of herself taken before a test for sleep apneia, where her face and head are wrapped in intermittent strips of white tape and about twenty wires are stuck to various parts of her. It’s so refreshing, especially after coming back to the East with traces of that LA, "Oh-jeez-gotta-put-make-up-on-to-get-the-mail" attitude still clinging to me.

My cousin Nancy (I love writing that!) and her friend Mary-Jo took me out for drinks one of the nights I was there. I caught them looking at me funny a few times, as though they were in awe. I knew there wasn't anything in my teeth, so I asked what was up. They both just said, "We can't believe that you're just out on the road doing this. I would never have the guts to do something like that." I get that a lot, honestly, and the thing I find almost sad about it is that I'm willing to bet that most people do have the drive and the ability to make their dreams come true, they're just hindered by fear and societal norms. For instance, Susan looked at me like I was crazy when I told her I gave up my health coverage to travel. I don't know, growing up without it it's always seemed more of a luxury than a necessity to me. And face it, it's not "normal" to live your life in a car the way I am right now. But it's what I want to do.

Anyway, Nancy and Mary-Jo told me stories about growing up in Climax that were the polar opposite of everything I've ever experienced. Both have lived in the same town all their lives, know the same people, married guys they'd known since kindergarten, got divorced, and started dating other guys they'd known since kindergarten. Actually, that's not true - Mary-Jo's boyfriend moved to town about 8 years ago... but he still feels like a stranger sometimes, like a secondary character in this play that's been acting itself out for 40 years. Still, it seems so different from my transient life so far.

I didn’t want to leave on Wednesday and they didn’t want me to either. The day I arrived, Sue told Audrey, "She’s so cute, I want to keep her!", thinking that I couldn’t hear. By the day I left, I almost wanted her to make good on that, to tie me to a chair and force me to stay. I knew I had to be getting on, I had more family and one very-bestest friend who counts as family to see before the week was out. But the time I spent in Climax, getting to know my "new" family, will be a highlight of this trip no matter what I see from here on out. I could end up on Letterman or go skydiving in Bryce Canyon or do any amount of exciting things but, even this early in the journey I already know, some of the best memories I could ever make have already been made, raking grass clippings and looking at old pictures with my family.

A Christening, A Wheelhouse, and A Friendly Green Monster.

At the small grocery on the corner of Hancock and Billings, I listened to the clerks complain about everything from road construction to the Irish immigrants who felt they owned the parking lot. Their attitude was casual, both with each other and with customers. "Come on, come on," the male clerk said to me, in a familiar, condescending tone I usually reserve for my brothers or closest friends because they know I don’t mean it. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not so I just did as I was told. This was the first time I’d really come across people that were familiar to the point of rudeness - I’d met plenty of people who were extremely friendly and those who were standoffish but it was the first time I’d met someone who was so ridiculously offended by me trying to be nice as I asked if they sold stamps. It was disheartening so I was looking forward to going to church, upping my chances to meet happy people.

All that walking, finding the mile marker, buying the medicine, going to the ATM to get toll money for the turnpike, strolling through the Asian district of town and trying to read the signs and I still had twenty minutes to spare before church. I stopped into a tiny diner called The Wheelhouse and ordered a coffee at the bar. I wasn’t feeling well but people-watching doesn’t take much effort. I observed the interactions between the cook and the waitresses, the owner and the customers. The cook expertly broke eggs over the open griddle two at a time, one with each hand, and folded them into neat squares as they cooked. He was tall, lean, and average-looking; he reminded me of a Simpson because his hair seemed to be the same color as his skin. The kind of man you would walk by on the street and not notice, a Mr. Cellophane type. He was quiet and seemed in his own world, yet saw each regular come in out of the corner of his eye and started their order before they could sit down. I liked watching him operate under the radar and knowing that without him there wouldn’t be a Wheelhouse.

I don’t like to stare, so I doodled on a napkin as I made mental notes and killed time. I wrote a letter to Emmet, asking him if I was mistaken and if he really did care about me the way I had let myself care about him. I threw it out when I got to Albany.

It was clear to see that I was a foreign object and therefore not to be trusted. I got odd stares from everyone, especially after penning my napkin ode, and even though I would have loved to stay and prove that I am not a freak, it was time to leave. I walked a few doors down to the town Episcopal Church and fell in step with a group of elderly ladies. The sun was out in full force by 10 AM and they said hello, remarking, "It’s finally nice out but it’s still so cold at night!"
"Oh, this is nothing! I was in Maine the other day and it was in the teens at night," I said. They oohed and aahed as we entered the church, then were distracted as they saw friends gathered in the back of the tabernacle. I slipped past them to find a bathroom and followed signs that led me down a set of stairs and into a nursery.

As I came down the stairs I heard a woman exclaim, "God has blessed me! I am grateful for his gifts!" She was in the nursery, a motherly type of about 40, with shoulder-length black hair and a white sweater. She was hanging a poster of Jesus and speaking to no one in general. I liked her conviction, though. In the back of the room was another mother-type, with short red hair who was arguing with a boy of about 10. He was a big kid, and upset that he was being asked to behave himself. I ducked into the tiny bathroom, where I could hear their conversation in spite of myself.

"I don’t WANT to sit down!" the boy said.
"But don’t you want to be a good boy? God is watching you, He sees your sins every day."
"God damn God, then!"
"Watch your mouth, please. There are other children here. You are the oldest and you should set a good example. The other kids look up to you."
"That’s because I’m the oldest. And they want to be like me."
"Exactly! That’s why you should act accordingly."
"Well, I can do what I want."
"You should be wanting to behave and prepare a glorious way for the Lord, in your heart."

By then I was done and ready to stop unwillingly eavesdropping. I silently wished the woman well as I slipped back up the stairs and into the church. The mass was incredibly similar to the Catholic ones I attended as a child, and this one was a double-whammy as it had a free bonus Christening. I also had no clue what I was doing as I went up to receive communion. Rather than walk up and get the host put in your hand, cross yourself, then walk away, the congregation was going up to the altar and kneeling on a bench with their hands out over a rail. The priest looked everyone in the eye and said, "The body of Christ, the blood of life" as he put the host in their hands. Then another man came past with a goblet of wine and each person dipped their host in the wine, then ate it and went back to their seats.

I must have been a sight and a half kneeling there at the bench and looking back and forth to make sure I didn’t mess up. I almost prematurely ate the host twice before I understood the routine. I’m also not a big fan of wine-soaked unsalted crackers, so I just dipped the tiniest edge of the body into the blood, enough to give it some color. Putting it in my mouth I was assaulted by a wave of memories of childhood Sunday mornings, those spent walking slowly away from the altar under the careful gaze of my father, trying to figure out a way to either season the nasty cracker or stick it under a pew.

Also, there were about 5 books we were working out of and I kept getting confused, and my phone went off three times during mass. I had set it to silent before mass but forgot to turn off the tinkling message tone. That was pretty embarrassing. But no one seemed to mind, and when the priest instructed us to "share the message of peace" by shaking hands, three people got out of their pews and walked over to mine to do so. (I was sitting alone in my pew.)

After mass I chatted briefly with the priest and some of the elderly women, who were all pleased to hear that this was my inaugural visit to an Episcopal church. Then I ducked out to check my messages - they were all from my grandmother, wanting to know when I was coming to visit.

I walked the half-mile back to my car and settled in to cross the great state of Massachusetts. I found the freeway, found the exits, and found the turnpike all without problems. Perhaps that’s the only completely positive experience Boston would allow me - leaving. As I drove out of the city heading west, I passed Fenway Park and waved to the Green Monster. Maybe someday I can come back to Boston and leave with more great memories. Maybe Boston and I can kiss and make up.

Free an' easy,
That's my style,
Howdy do me,
Watch me smile,
But fare the well me after while,
'Cause I gotta roam
An' any place I hang my hat is home!
Sweetenin' water,
Cherry wine,
Thank you kindly,
Suits me fine,
Kansas City, even Caroline,
That's my honeycomb,
'Cause any place I hang my hat is home.
Birds roostin' in a tree pick up an' go,
An' the goin' proves that's how it oughta to be,
I pick up too when the spirit moves me.
Cross the river, round the bend,
Howdy stranger,
So long friend,
There's a voice in the lonesome win'
Keeps whisperin' roam!
I'm going where a welcome mat is,
No matter where that is,
'Cause any place I hang my hat is home

This is a one-room schoolhouse in Maine that I forgot to post after the pieces about Maine. This is in the town of Gray, near the Maine Wildlife Park. The ramp has been added so handicapped visitors can go inside. 

Paul Revere's grave, Boston, MA. Note how small the stone is compared to the flowers. 

The Balloon Clown in Boston. Oh, how I wanted to trap him and talk to him for hours! 

Paul Revere, Limestone Memories, and Clouds Over The Ocean

The next morning Emmet had to go be at work at 8, which meant leaving at 7:30. I was going to get up and go with him so I could pick up my car and tool around the city, but he said to stay at his place and sleep some more. "Nothing really goes on in Boston before 10 on a Saturday anyway," he said.

Part of me kind of found that idea exciting - I wanted to see what went on in Boston before the
city stirred for the day. Just like in the forest, where the prime time to see wildlife is in the early morning when the fog is still hanging, cities often showcase their most interesting tenants between 4 and 8 AM. But the events of the night before, although everything had worked out with the parking garage people in the end, had left a bad taste in my mouth and the thought of getting two extra hours of sleep sounded nice. Emmet got up and ready for work, then tucked me in and kissed my forehead. "Sweet dreams, babe," he said as he closed the bedroom door.

I was excited that he hadn’t seemed to mind the fact that I wouldn’t have sex with him. Usually when a guy is after one thing and it’s obvious that it won’t happen, they lose interest faster than a fruit fly. But Emmet being so sweet to me after being denied anything was a good sign in my book. It gave me a lot of fuel for the daydream machine later on in the day when I braved the streets of Boston again.

I had decided to stay another night in Boston because Emmet was supposed to get out of work at 1 in the afternoon and we were going to hang out. He was determined to show me the nicer side of Boston. "This city has a lot of assholes," he had said the night before, as we were driving out of the garage. "But for every five assholes there’s one person that’s just super nice."

I took the city’s train, the T, into downtown and walked around Boston Common for a bit. The clouds that had been lurking around in the early morning had been chased away by the sun as I climbed the stairs out of the subway station. Vendors were selling Boston souvenirs on carts around the park and it was easy to see that this was the first nice Saturday the city had enjoyed so far this year. Locals and tourists alike were fanned out throughout the grass and soaking up spring. Everyone was happy. It was a beautiful sight.

I left the Common and headed in the direction that all the tourists were going. I figured by doing so I may see something interesting, unlike all of the other places I had been so far where I wanted to stay as far away from anyone wearing a large-rimmed hat and carrying a camera. But it’s much easier to get lost in Boston than in a town with one main road, so I followed the crowd like a lemming. We walked up a narrow, brick-laden street with tall concrete and brick buildings on either side. It was a stark contrast to the sunny park, and noticeably colder.

Just a little ways up the block was a very old cemetery, with dark-gray limestone gravestones and lined with a cast iron-fence. It was square, set in a courtyard amidst three of the tall brick buildings. The fourth side was open onto the street. Two large oak trees grew near the center, shading the graves from the shadows already cascading from the buildings. A huge concrete memorial, probably 40 feet high, sat dead center in the yard, with the name "Franklin" carved about 6 feet up. A sign on the iron fence told visitors that this cemetery was the final resting place for such noteable Americans as Ben Franklin’s parents, John Hancock, and Paul Revere.

I really wanted to see Revere’s grave and pay my respects to the man without whom America may have been very different. When he alerted his fellow colonists of the impending danger of the British troops he not only saved many lives, but he was instrumental in the series of events that led to our being a free nation. I poked around the grave stones, looking for any that stood out from the multitude. Each of the stones were very dark, faded, although the carvings on them were deep and easy to make out despite their obvious age. Most of them were uniform in that they each had a half-skull bordered by vines carved on the top. It gave them an eerie look as they sat shrouded in shadow. The words and names on the stones were carved in Olde English, using f’s instead of s’s, and proved the dates, most of which were between the late 1600's and middle 1700's.

I walked the outer edges of the grove, where large monuments sat, looking for Revere’s grave. I passed John Hancock’s but didn’t see any that matched so I began to walk the inner circle.
There, close to the furthest edge of the graveyard from the street, sat a tiny tombstone with the name "Revere" carved in thin capital letters. I marveled at the size of it; it was no taller than one foot and only about 4 inches thick. Its width was surprising as well, approximately one and one half feet from end to end. Someone had set a small American flag in the packed dirt to the right of the stone and a bouquet of wilting yellow flowers wrapped in plastic was set in front. To the left of the gravemarker was a larger monument made of concrete, about 3 and a half feet high, that read, "Paul Revere", with his birth and death years, presumably erected by people who wanted more recognition for the man than was originally given.

I crouched in front of the small grave for awhile, charged by the knowledge that an American icon was a mere six feet below me. I wondered what he looked like when he was alive. So many times I think about people who are famous for one reason or another, people I admire for their work or contributions, and I have no idea what they look like. It’s an odd feeling, admiring a stranger. It gives you a sense of connection and disconnection all at once. Still, I was excited and glad that I was able to see Paul Revere’s grave. I whispered, "Thank you", brushed the soil off my knees, and continued following the crowd of camera-carriers and "I (heart) Boston" t-shirt wearers.

We meandered down narrow streets and past immense churches of all kinds. Lutheran, Congregationalist, Catholic. Each had opened their doors for visitors and passers-by, and I wandered into the Congregationalist one. It was white inside, and lined with red velvet booths. I had never seen pews arranged into booths rather than all facing the altar before. It reminded me of a train car and I wondered if this was an aspect of the Congregationalist service - emphasis on the people around you rather than uni-directional worship. It seemed a welcome change from the usual fare, assuming you agreed with everything the people in your booth had to say. Knowing me, I wouldn’t have lasted six minutes in one with someone who is homophobic, but I would have liked to attend a service there anyway. My schedule impeded joining them the next morning, however, so I simply moved on.

I passed Old City Hall, where a bronze statue of a donkey sits in the courtyard, representing the liberal majority view of the city. It is life size, and I really wanted somebody to take a picture of me on it - I knew it would make my grandma so proud, photographic evidence of her Democrat granddaughter - but I was feeling unusually shy for some reason. I couldn’t bring myself to ask anyone around me. Perhaps it was lingering nervousness from the night before - it’s been a long time since I’ve had to slap a guy for being too forward and I’d forgotten how unsettling it can be.
I kept walking and found a shopping district. There was a street festival going on and I made my way slowly past the booths and carts of roasted nuts, smiling at babies, taking pictures, and trying to erase the image of the Pakistani security guard from my mind. A man dressed as a clown was making intricate balloon animals and he paused to let me take a picture. He was a salt-of-the-earth type, an older gentleman with unfortunate teeth but twinkling blue eyes. I noticed his thick Boston accent as he talked to the children watching, although he said nothing to me. He wore no make-up or red nose despite the silly, brightly-colored outfit and red afro-wig, and people walking by giggled at the sight.

I popped into a couple of shops because I am a total chick and couldn’t resist the soft pink and green tops on the mannequins in the windows. I didn’t buy them, but I did pick up a new wifebeater for $3.00. Am I the only one that finds that name a bit unsettling? I love the shirt but I think a new moniker is in order, don’t you?

I knew I was close to Fanueil Hall, which Emmet had pointed out and recommended the night before. I asked a policeman where to find it and soon I was headed in the right direction, passing about 42 Dunkin Donuts on the way.

Dunkin Donuts got its start in Massachusetts and it is obvious. I truly believe that the whole of the city of Boston would crumble were it not for the 7,000 Dunkin Donuts that hold up the buildings and anchor the neighborhoods. Their sheer numbers are like that of Starbucks in New York or Ben and Jerry’s in Vermont - you can stand at the window of one shop and see the same shop across the street and down the block a little ways. You can wave to customers in one shop from the other. In the movie "Best in Show" they used that situation as a joke but it is absolutely possible. And that scares me. Don't get me wrong, I loves me some Dunkin Donuts. But I don't like overkill, even if it is yummy donut overkill.

Luckily, there are only two Dunkin Donuts in Fanueil Hall. The rest of the place is made up of stores selling funky things, bars, restaurants, and carts selling everything from Boston memorabilia to jewelry. I putzed around and around and around waiting for the clock to hit 1. Emmet hadn’t called and I couldn’t get through to him. Walking around alone, I pictured getting together with him later on in the day - picking a flower pot in the park to meet at, catching sight of him as he walked towards me, jumping up from my seat and running to him, him picking me up in a bear hug with a kiss, placing me back on the ground, grabbing my hand and twirling me around as he did so. Then we would walk arm-in-arm while he showed me all his favorite parts of the city. Let it never be said that I don’t have an active imagination.

I wanted to pick up a little something for Emmet, a gift of some sort and I racked my brain trying to think of the perfect thing. I had noticed a turntable and a record collection in his room that morning as he was getting ready for work - guys, turntables and record collections are a sure way to impress the ladies, trust me, as long as the records are cool, like James Taylor and Janis Joplin albums (which Emmet had) - and I told him how awesome it was that he had them. He admitted that he couldn’t play any of them because his turntable needed a new needle.

Walking around thinking up gift ideas, I figured it would be great, a sure way into his heart, to pick up a turntable needle. I decided on a gift certificate to a store that sold them instead, since I had no idea what kind he needed, but for the life of me I couldn’t find any. I asked around and learned that finding that kind of store would have meant taking the train to some town just outside the city and I was not about to leave my comfort zone, small though it was. I got him a Bart Simpson bookmark instead, for two reasons: 1) I had noticed a bunch of Simpsons figurines on a shelf in his room, and 2) I had also seen a book splayed open on his dresser to mark a page, the spine cracked almost into a full circle. This way he wouldn’t have to ruin his books.
It’s silly, I know, but I was very grateful for his late-night rescue tactics and excited to meet someone who had pretty much every quality I looked for in a guy.

I didn’t hear from Emmet until 5 o’clock, however, and I was tired from walking around all day on little sleep. We decided that I would pick up my car and meet him back at his house and then decide what to do from there. I got the car FOR FREE, after parking it in the garage for over 24 hours! Digash, bless his heart, had left a note with the teller instructing her to let me pass with no charge. The bill came to about $60, which she voided and raised the metal arm, letting me through. That Digash, what a guy!

I got on the highway and entered North Quincy, and promptly got lost, of course. Emmet had to talk me back to his street by phone. Finally, I pulled up in front and he hugged me hello. "Did you have a fun day?" he asked.
"Yep, and I got you a little something, too!" I answered cheerily.
His Irish accent was disgustingly adorable as he said, "Oh, did you now? Oh, my, come on upstairs, I want to see!"

I followed him upstairs to his room, passing his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend on the way. They seemed nice enough during the 3.6 seconds I saw them. Then Emmet led me to his room and sat on the bed, pulling me onto his knee. "Whadja get me, whadja get me?" he teased as I opened the bag. I handed him a card first, one I had picked out with a puppy on the front. Inside it read, "Thanks for lending a hand." Underneath, I wrote, "Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good. – Richard Rodgers", and signed it. It was a quote from "The Sound of Music", which he had on vinyl in his record collection. He got it right away, looking up from the card and planting a huge kiss on my cheek that made me blush. Then I handed him the bookmark, explaining why I had chosen it and apologizing for being too scared to venture out and find a turntable needle. I could tell he was touched as he told me how silly I was for apologizing.

We looked at each other blankly as we tried to decide what to do next. At this point it was about 6:45 in the evening and we were both exhausted. We laid down on the bed to think about it and ended up taking a huge nap until about 9:30. Sure, we felt guilty and lazy for wasting prime going-out time on a Saturday night, but neither one of us had slept well the night before. He works for a moving company and I had marched up and down the streets of Boston all day, so we were both a little worn around the edges.

When we woke up, it seems Emmet had gotten a fairly good rest, because he was suddenly frisky. I won’t lie, I was very tempted to give in. He was so cute and sweet, how could he possibly be anything but wonderful? It took a lot of will power but I politely declined, saying I was hungry and we should go get something to eat. He grudgingly agreed and we ended up at a place in Quincy, a small pub with TV’s on the wall. Suddenly, it was as though I had disappeared even though I was sitting across from him in the booth. The Red Sox game was going on over my head. Try as I may to make conversation or ask him a question, it was in vain. Eventually I gave up and turned my attention to my chicken breast wrap and the Wizards-Heat game on the opposite wall.

Another one bites the dust. There were clouds over the ocean of Fantasy Land that night as I realized that my disgusted side had been right all along, again. When you get right down to it, all guys are after one thing. When they don’t get it or right after they do get it, they lose interest, stop calling. This was no different.

It was the deja vu all over again when we got back to the house. The next morning he got up and left for work at the same time, I stayed in bed and slept some more, and when I got up I made the bed and left a thank-you note on his dresser. But I knew that it was silly, that I probably wouldn’t hear from him and if I did it would be minimal at best. My novelty had worn off quickly, and truth be told, it broke my heart. A week and a half later it still hurts. I had really liked this one. I had high hopes. I held out hope for the rest of the day, but by Monday it was obvious that he had put me out of his mind since I hadn’t put out.
And Emmet, if you read this... check your mailbox.

Anyhow, he went to work and I, surprisingly enough, went to church. I tried to go to a Lutheran church in the neighborhood but I couldn’t find one. I did stroll past an Episcopalian one whose mass started an hour from when I found it. That left me with an hour to kill on the streets of North Quincy so I set out to find a convinience store for some Midol and water. On the walk to find one I found something that will forever stick in my mind when I think of Quincy, Massachusetts.

Hancock Street, the main drag through the town, is lined on one side by strip malls and the other by houses and apartment complexes. The intermittent stoplights and business side of the street remind me of Rt. 1 in Laurel, just a mess of concrete and neon and wires. The house and apartment side is a bit kinder, but not by much. Still, when I was walking on the house-bearing side of the avenue, I saw a large limestone tablet, much like the ones I had seen in the cemetery the day before, except much taller and without a skull carved on it. It was set upon a concrete mount and it had the same sort of Olde English carving as the graves, although rather than years of birth or death, it read:

Bofton — 6 milef
Plymouth — 98 milef
Fouth Bofton Bridge — 3 milef

Obviously, the F’s are meant to be S’s, and it was clear that this stone had served as a mile marker when the area had been dirt roads and farms. Hancock Street, I’m guessing, served as a main thoroughfare between Boston and Plymouth in the early days of the colony, and I could not get over this starkly-contrasted piece of history sitting forgotten in the middle of a churning suburban tableau. I ran my fingers over the rough letters, wary of the natural oil on my hands and not wanting to ruin it. Although this stone had survived the harsh winters of coastal Massachusetts for nearly 400 years, 9 wars, and the choking overgrowth of the city, I still felt as though one touch could break it. With my luck it would be mine. I didn’t have my camera with me to capture the stone, backlit by the morning sun and framed by a driveway and chain link fence, but I will always carry that image in my heart - that testament to those who traversed Hancock Street in horsecarts long before Muffy and Buffy sped down it in their Beamers.

Me and Emmet. 

I Live In Fantasy Land And I Have Oceanfront Property!

WARNING: This posting contains NO sex, but does have sexual references. Any reader who is related to me and/or would be really, really freaked out at me talking about sex, or who is young, read no further! And for the record, I had to cut this entry short due to time, but please be aware that it contains, I repeat, NO SEX.

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Emmet parked his truck right next to my car. I hopped out and opened my doors. He got out too, following me around to the other side of the car and holding out his arms, smiling and saying, "Weigh me down!" I laughed as I threw a pair of pajama pants and a shirt to wear the next day into a backpack and didn’t need his services. We got back in the truck and he talked more as he made his way expertly through the construction-embattled streets of the city.

"I couldn’t believe you were working in the bar. Do you work too much? I think maybe you work too much. Bars are for relaxing," he teased. "When I came in and I saw you working, I said to Paul Hannow, I said ‘Hannow, who is that girl over there?’ and he said, ‘Oh, that’s Jess, she’s writing a book’, and I said to him, ‘She’s a nice-lookin’ girl’, and he said, ‘You’re right, she is a nice-lookin’ girl’. Then I left and I came back and I was sad I didn’t see you. I’m glad I found you now. Do you like country music?" I had noticed that a mix CD of modern country hits was playing on the stereo.
"Yeah, I like it a lot actually."
"Really? Yeah, me too. Look, I even have a Stetson hat!" He pulled a white cowboy hat from the backseat and handed it to me. "Try it on."

I put it on and it was big. I pulled it down over my left eye like I’d seen cowboys do in the movies and checked my reflection in the visor mirror. "Does is look okay?" I asked, turning to him.
"Not quite. You see, it’s covering your face. You’re really beautiful and I like looking at you. So you gotta put it further up on your head." We were stopped at a red light and he leaned over to adjust it to his liking. "There. That’s better."

I was losing my nervousness but keeping my guard up all the same. The last thing I needed was to fall in love with an adorably sweet Irishman in Boston. I looked straight ahead so I wouldn’t see how cute he was. His demeanor and his kindness and his wonderfully geeky glasses and brilliant smile, they were killing me.

He wore a gold ring on the ring finger of his right hand. "I like that," I said.
"Oh, thanks. It were me dad’s engagement ring."
There was a story swirling in his voice, so I settled in and listened closely.

"When me dad proposed to me mother, she went out the next day and bought it for him. It were a big deal because there wasn’t a lot of money back then. Then they were married and me mom started cooking, and me dad kept getting fatter. So he had to take it off and he put it in a box. Then they moved to another house and the box with the ring got put in another box and it went in the garage. Right before I moved to America I wanted to spend some time with me dad so I said ‘Let’s clean out the garage’. Aye, we were throwing boxes into a dumpster without even looking inside! I went to chuck one over and me dad said, ‘Hold on. Put that one to the side’. I didn’t think nothing of it after that til it were the last box. He reached inside and he pulled out a wallet. I asked ‘What’s in there that ya kept it, money?’ and he said, "No, what’s in this wallet is worth more than money’. Sure enough, there was the ring inside. He had never told me the story. He told me then, then he gave the ring to me and I’ll never take it off."

It was a great story. Too great. I was falling for this damn kid against my will so freaking hard! I fought it and fought it all the way home. The hardest part came when he stopped at a Dunkin Donuts and asked if I wanted anything. I asked him for a bottle of water and stayed in the truck while he went in. While he was gone, the CD changed and another one started. Track 1 was one of my favorite songs of all time, we’re talking Stranded On A Desert Island Top 10 Favorites, "Ain’t No Mountain High Enough", the Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell version, not the Diana Ross duet with herself. When Emmet got back in the car, I was dancing around the passenger seat.

"That’s more like it, now you’re smiling!" he said as he climbed in with two bottles of water.
"Yeah, I love this song!" I chirped.
"It’s a good one," he said and he started singing along. Then I started singing along, heinously really, because my voice still had that I-Was-Crying weak tone, and pretty soon we were pulling into his driveway and singing like idiots.

We mounted the stairs to his place and it was quite dark inside. Rather than turn on lights, Emmet held his hand out behind him for me to grab ahold. I did, and he led me through the apartment to his room on the other side, softly stroking my pinky finger with his thumb as he did. His room was your typical young guy’s room, with the pre-requisite stereo, commemorative beer cans and poster of a hot girl in a bikini. I couldn’t begrudge him, he was only 22. "The bathroom is down the hall to the right. Go ahead and get changed or cleaned up and then you can sleep in here. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight."

"You don’t have to do that, I can sleep on the couch," I said.
"No, no, don’t be silly. You’re a guest, you sleep in here."
"But I–"
"Sssshhhh," he said. "It’s fine. I’ll sleep on the couch. Come here." He pulled me to him and hugged me. He was so tall and thin that I rested my head on his chest and wrapped my arms all the way around him. He kissed the top of my head and stroked my hair. I was in very dangerous territory. "Must....not....develop....feelings....," my brain struggled to warn me. It was a losing battle.

I padded barefoot to the bathroom and got ready for bed. I stared at myself in the mirror in half-disgust and half-excitement. "What if this is it? What if he’s the one? Did all of this happen for a reason just like meeting Jean and Bonnie and Bob? Could this be the night I tell my kids about, the night I met their dad?" I threw on my red snowman flannel pants and a green sweatshirt, I bet I looked very Christmas-y, and got out my toothbrush. My disgusted half said, "What are you freaking thinking, girl? Are you crazy? This is just some guy who’s going to try to use you, just like every other guy you’ve ever met in your whole life! He’s no different! He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing! Don’t you dare start to like him! And may I remind you, Jessica, that you’ve felt this way about every guy you’ve ever dated since the age of 11?! What makes you think that this will be any different?!"

"Easy," I answered myself. "I live in Fantasy Land and I have oceanfront property!" I spit out my toothpaste and went back to Emmet’s room.

He had made the bed, which was unmade when I had first gone in, and turned one corner down for me. Right when I noticed that, I knew it was over. I had fallen and I had fallen hard and fast as usual.

He went to the bathroom to get ready for bed and I took a seat on the couch. Next to the front door there was a key holder with hooks, Painted on it were the words, "Cead Mile Failte". I don't speak Gaelic, and to me it looked like "See-ad My El Fail Tee". When Emmet came back I asked him to read it for me. "Oh, honey, it says 'Kay Ad Mee Le Fall Chuh'", he said.
"What does it mean?"
"A hundred thousand welcomes." He squeezed my hand and looked into my eyes as he said it.
"Well, thanks!" I said.

I got up and went into the bedroom. He followed me to show me his handiwork in making the bed, he was quite proud. "Well, good night," he said, as he hugged me again. We were still for a long time.

I pulled my face out of his t-shirt and rested my chin on his chest. "Thank you so much. I don’t know how I got so lucky to make a friend like you."
"Oh, are you kidding? I was just thinking the same thing," he said.
He cupped my face in his hands and tilted my head to look at him. I looked away. I was still on my guard a little bit and was trying not to get hurt. "What are you thinking?" he asked me.

What could I say? What could I possibly say that wouldn’t sound freakish? I could have been honest and said, "Well, Emmet, I was just wondering if you and I will fall in love and someday get married. I was also thinking about what color I would like our kitchen to be painted and what we should name the kids. Do you like the name Emily for a girl?"

This is how my mind works. This is why I’ve never had a successful relationship. This is why I will die alone. And if you think it’s annoying and trite just reading it, try living with it.
I didn’t say anything freakish, I just looked into his eyes, sighed and said, "Too many things." He leaned down to kiss my cheek. "Well, goodnight," I said and let go of his elbows, which I had been holding onto. My hands slid down his forearms to his hands and he laced his fingers around mine.

"Um, do you think I could maybe just lay down beside you for a little bit, until you fall asleep?" he asked.

A big, huge red flag started waving wildly in my head. I may have oceanfront digs in Fantasy Land, but they’re not on Whore Island. As twisted as my brain is and as quickly as I fall for someone, it doesn’t mean I want to sleep with them right away. If anything it makes me want to wait longer. "Emmet, I can’t.... you know. We can’t.... I...," I stammered.
"Ssssssh, I know. I’m not asking you for sex. Don’t worry, babe." He stroked my cheek. "That’s not the reason you’re here."
"Okay."

We crawled into bed and I laid my head on his shoulder. We held hands and he reiterated that he wasn’t trying to coerce me to sleep with him. "Sex isn’t even the best part of being with someone, y’know? Think about the greatest time you ever spent with a lad."

I didn’t have to think hard at all. It was my first date with Sean, the one that stuck in my head long after things had gone sour, the night that we had shared our first kiss and then stayed up until dawn talking about our favorite books. The night he read passages of Vonnegut out loud to me and introduced me to the world of David Isay. The night I told him about the cancerous cells that had been found during some routine tests, the ones I was preparing to have removed, and he showed me the scar tissue around his tear duct from his rare optical cancer surgery. There
was no sex that night, or the night after, or the night after that.

I told Emmet about it and he said, "See, sex isn’t that important." I agreed, and we cuddled close together despite the stuffiness of the room, our fingers still laced together.

Needless to say, Emmet didn’t sleep on the couch that night.

As we were falling asleep, I thought about Brian. I felt guilty lying there snuggling with Emmet, but he had basically just told me that he was "seeing" ("fucking") other people so I was trying not to think about that. It hurt to hear it.

I didn’t sleep well that night. It was hot and Emmet’s bed was uncomfortable. He only had one pillow and I kept ending up without it. I also woke up at one point having dreamed about Michelle, the woman from the bar that day. I dreamt I saw her wearing a long black dress and sitting on some railroad tracks. As I approached her, she started laughing softly and crying softly at the same time. She was holding a basket of dead flowers. Her hands and wrists were dusty, covered in dirt from the soft dust around the tracks. "Honey?" I asked. "Are you okay? What are you doing here?" As I got closer, she laughed and cried harder, dropping her basket of flowers and showing me her wrists. Through the thick brown dust I could see deep cuts and gritty blood dripping down her arms. I gasped and then I woke up.

The next day I wanted to call her but it seemed an awkward conversation to have with someone you barely know. "Um, hi, Michelle? Yeah, hi, it’s the girl from the bar yesterday. Well, glad to hear you’re doing well, I know I only talked to you for 15 minutes but I just dreamt that you killed yourself last night so I was checking to make sure it was just a dream. Later!"

Right before we fell asleep, Emmet told me I was "the total package - smart, brave, ambitious, and beautiful". I don't think I will ever tire of hearing that, even if it's a lie coming from an Irishman. I love beautiful lies.

*sigh*.... Fantasy Land. Oceanfront property. That's me.

I had to shave my armpits in the bathroom of a Dunkin Donuts in Haverhill, MA. I don't know whether to be ashamed or proud of this picture. You tell me. 

My goal is to have the wickedest arm tan by the time I'm done. 

The view of mainland Maine from North Haven Island. 

North Haven, New Hampshire, And Big, Bad Boston.

The next morning Larry and I woke up early and I followed him to the North Haven Island ferry station in Rockland, about 20 minutes north of Waldoboro. I didn’t have any coffee before leaving the house and the vending machines had been removed from the waiting area by the Department of Homeland Security. That was good to see, since everyone knows vending machines do attract terrorists.

Larry drove his van onto the ferry and we stayed inside to escape the swells washing over the sides of the boat. The morning was a bit windy and there was a chop on the water that rocked the ferry as we moved ahead. My head hurt a lot, probably a combination of drinking with the girls the night before and skipping my morning caffeine, and I didn’t have a bottle of water handy in the van. Larry had aspirin and I had a sip of his coffee to wash it down and it seemed to do the trick for the most part.

Somehow we got on the topic of religion and he told me that he doesn’t like to choose. "I’m a different religion every day of the week," he said. "On Mondays I’m Buddhist, on Tuesdays I’m Taoist, Wednesdays is polytheistic day, Thursdays I’m miscellaneous, Fridays I’m Muslim, Saturdays I’m Jewish and Sundays I’m Christian. Why limit yourself?" I was cracking up as the topic changed to homosexuality. I told him all about my biggest gripe with Christianity, the thought that loving someone of the same sex is a sin, and he told me all about his cool cousin, Ricky The Homo.

"When I was younger, I went to visit his apartment and there were all kinds of weird clothes in the closet, even for the 70's. And I asked, ‘who lives here, a clown?’ My aunt said, ‘no, those are Ricky’s!" Larry told me that Mainers, even gay Mainers, aren’t ones to be flamboyant and it was a culture shock for him. Later on, he mentioned Ricky again when we were talking about the differences between men and women.

"Men are really good at parking cars and driving tractors and fixing things," he said. "But we’re terrible at communicating. We’re not social. Ricky The Homo, he was social. He could talk to anyone, make friends with anyone and they would adore him. But not me. I can’t do that."
"Well, you made friends with me," I offered.
"Yeah. Yeah, I did. But I’m alone a lot. I don’t always want to be. I want to be able to ask someone how their day was, and be asked how my day was. Solitude isn’t always by choice."

I know that he had been married at one point and it ended badly, but nothing else. He mentioned family, siblings and cousins that lived in the area and I felt sad that someone with so many ties to his community could still feel so lonely. Then again, I feel the same way a lot. It’s very easy to do sometimes. It doesn’t matter how many people you know, if you can’t find anyone who understands you, it’s hard. That’s how I felt most of the time that I was in Los Angeles.

The subject changed again as I realized I was getting very seasick. Larry had asked me before the ferry started if I was prone to nausea and I proudly said, "No way, not me!" Well, you learn something new every day I guess. I doubled over in my seat and started groaning. I tried closing my eyes and it only made it worse. I was so lucky I was with Larry because he’s grown up on the water and knew just what to do.

"Don’t close your eyes and don’t look at the water," he said. "Concentrate on the trees."
We were close enough to North Haven at this point to see some detail on the island, so I focused on the tree tops. Larry explained the technique as he guided me towards feeling better.
"The water is moving and the boat is moving, so closing your eyes or staring at the water won’t help. The trees are stationary. If you look at the trees, you can concentrate on a fixed thing and also remind yourself that you’re almost there. You can watch the trees get closer."

His voice had taken on a slow, soothing tone as he instructed me on what to do.
"Just look at the trees, keep your eyes moving back and forth over the horizon of trees. See each individual tree top. And concentrate on that farm house on the hill, too. Do you see the flag? Look at the flag. Now look back over the trees and scan the tops again. And see around that corner? That’s the harbor. Look at that red barn. It has laundry hanging on a line next to it, do you see it? The colors, just focus on the colors, how they differ between the trees and houses."

It was working, a little too well. His voice was so soothing that as my nausea subsided he lulled me right to sleep! I woke up again as the ferry was docking and we drove off the pier.

The town of North Haven has its hub right on the water. It consists of a few churches, a gift shop, and a couple of other little stores. Larry waved to each person as we drove slowly through the narrow streets, calling out the window to each. "Hi, Bob!" "Hey, Cathy!" There was a little cork-and-wood bulletin board mounted on a fence that held handmade fliers, like one would see inside a community center except this one was outside. It was heartwarming to see.
There is one grocery store, one post office. An airplane flies to the island each morning to bring the mail, which the mailman then delivers. Only about 350 people live there year-round, although the population in the summer swells to near 700. Everything is clean, for the most part untouched. It was gorgeous.

We drove straight to Larry’s house show he could show me around. He pointed out different parts of the island as we went. "Look, we have punks, look at the punk tracks!" he said, pointing to a set of swiggled burn-out tire tracks on the road.
"Are they really bad punks? Do they cause much trouble?" I asked, knowing I would be severely disappointed if the answer was yes.

"No, they’re just people. Mainers work hard and they like to play hard. So you see some silly tire tracks sometimes. But overall, it’s not bad. There’s just not much to do out here."
We turned down a gravely road that led to a gravely-er road that led to a circular driveway. The driveway curved around a wooded patch of land, and on the other side was an enclave of gray homes. They were similar in color but all differing in design.

"This is my family’s plot, all this right here," Larry said. He comes from an old New England family, with deep roots in the area since the first European settlers came across. It was gorgeous, a secluded spot on a piece of land that juts out of the main part of the island and is raised up high above the water, offering a spectacular view. Harry’s house was my favorite one of all the houses that were in the lot; it was angular and tall, unlike the other small cottages that ringed the island.

We parked and headed inside. On the porch a squirrel had built a large nest in a galvanized bucket and I noticed deer tracks in the soft earth in front of the house. The front door opened onto the kitchen, which, like the kitchen of the restaurant, looked frozen in time. No one had been in the house since Larry closed it for the winter, but the bottles of spice and boxes of crackers still sat on the shelves and the row upon row of dishes and glasses waited at the ready to be used. It was so neat.

The rooms in the house were small, and the walls were covered with pictures, paintings, plates, mirrors and other interesting things. Most of the walls were wood and lined with bookshelves. It was just like Larry’s Waldoboro house times twenty. There was a woodstove to heat the place in the small sitting room and a fireplace in the grand sitting room. I couldn’t shut my jaw, the place was so amazing. The staircase leading upstairs wound its way around two landings, and each wall was covered top to bottom in small blue and red triangle-shaped flags. "What are all these?" I asked Larry.
"They’re trophy flags from sail boat races that we’ve won, my grandfather, my father and me." There must have been 200 flags in total, and a large square one in the center of one wall read, "1933" in large white numbers. It was awesome.

The upstairs of the house had low ceilings and cute bedrooms. Larry is into feng shui and the rooms have been obviously rearranged to accomodate the energy-flow of the room. A lot of times I wonder if bad feng shui, bad joo-joo led to any of my troubled times when I lived on my own. Would I still be living in LA and loving it if my toilet had pointed in a different direction? Oh, well - I’ll never know.

The house and grounds were breath-taking, and so was the wind blowing in from Pulpit Harbor when we went outside to pick some flowers. Larry insisted I take some daffodils from the garden as a keepsake. I put them in the chest-pocket of my winter coat, which I need on a Maine spring day, with their heads sticking out and their aroma kept me company the whole way back to Rockland.

We ate some tunafish sandwiches and oranges, after which we took another drive around the island. Larry pointed out a ton of cute little cottages that are empty, that belong to "Massholes" who only come in summer. We stopped at a few places overlooking the water to take pictures.

There was so much open space on the island, and the cobalt-blue water was visible from almost every vantage point on the island. Standing there on the edge of a gnarled brush field overlooking the ocean was a freeing feeling, almost scarily so. It reminded me of the freedom that I felt in the desert, the freedom of seeing so much open space and feeling very small.
One one hand I wanted to skip and run, do cartwheels into the wind, and on the other I felt very tiny, very aware of just how big the world is. I hid my body behind the hood of the van as I took pictures, almost afraid of letting my whole self be exposed to the vastness of this scene. The real question is, was I scared of the openness of the space, or just how much it would open my heart to give into it?

I climbed back into the car and we headed back to the pier. I knew it was the last time I would see Larry in a long time. Knowing that I had a place to go and that he would be there, if only for a day, had been comforting, just like Bubbi. I hugged him tight and then I stepped onto the ferry. When I got into the passenger cabin, I looked out the tiny window and the van was gone.

I was still tired, having stayed up late again the night before and writing. The passenger cabin was severely lacking in the comforts of home but I still managed to take a nice, long nap by propping my arms up on the window sill. The waves that had sickened me on the way to North Haven rocked me to sleep on the way back and I slept like a baby. The other passengers shied away from me, thinking I must be some sort of drug addict to be able to sleep like that in a
public place. It was pretty comical.

I got back to Rockland a bit groggy and the first place I went was anyplace that had coffee. I was on my way to Boston and it was only 1:30. I figured I’d make it there by 4, maybe 5 if I took my time. I drove down Rt. 1 again and passed through Wiscasset. I was making excellent time so I stopped to say hello to Greg and get some more coffee.

I poked my head into the bar, which was drenched in the afternoon sunlight. "You said to come back and see you," I said as I came through the door. It took Greg a second to recognize me, but when he did his face lit up. "Hey! How-wah ya?"

We sat and talked like old friends for a long time. He reiterated the moose-watching offer and it sounded like a lot of fun. Hopefully at some point I’ll have time to do it. I also told him all about my DUI and he thought my breathalyzer was hilarious. He almost left the bar unmanned to walk outside and look at it, saying, "I gotta see this thing," but I had parked too far up the street.

Hanging out with him and shooting the shit was some of the most fun I’ve had. We exchanged information and promised to keep in touch. Then I was back on the road for Boston.

Well, kind of. Traffic leaving Wiscasset was disgusting, and continued to be disgusting all the way through Maine, past Kittery, and into New Hampshire. I knew I had to stop at Helen’s to pick up some things I had forgotten - my sneakers and my razor (I was a hairy girl the whole time I was in Maine, GROSS!) - and she had left them on the porch for me to pick up while she was at work. We were both betting that I would be in Lee by 3 o’clock.

Well, traffic was so abysmal that I didn’t make it there until twenty after six. Everyone was gone, at Bryce’s soccer game, so I grabbed the stuff from the porch and left a thank-you note. As I was looking at the map, still trying to figure out a way to get to Boston, although it would be late, Roy pulled up in the driveway with Bryce.
"Um, hey! Long time no see!" he said, laughing.
I was exhausted from driving in traffic and it must have showed. "Yeah," I said, wearily. "I left Rockland at 1:30. Traffic was ridiculous."
"Oh, man. Well, Helen and Emery should be home any minute, too."

As he said this, Helen appeared at the top of the drive. I could see Emery giddily bouncing in the back. When her mother parked, she jumped out of the car and into my arms, yelling, "Jessica! You’re here again!" She wrapped her legs around my stomach and her arms around my neck and cuddled her head into my shoulder, holding on tight. It was the kind of hug a child gives that makes you know heaven is on earth.

We all went inside and the kids were all over me again, it was great. Helen said, "You’re more than welcome to stay another night. Or I hope you’ll at least stay for dinner." I accepted the offer on both, since it was already getting a bit dark. The kids were delighted and asked me if I could stay another week but I had to say no, unfortunately.

I did have more energy to play with them though, having taken my awesome nap on the ferry. We played soccer in the basement while waiting for dinner to be ready. Well, they played soccer and I made a sorry attempt at playing soccer and ended up kicking Helen’s treadmill instead. Hard. It’s still bothering me. I wonder if I broke a tiny bone in my foot, because it’s been almost two weeks and it still hurts really, really bad. Leave it to me - no health insurance and I don’t get hurt hiking or jogging. No, kicking a treadmill at full-force. What an idiot.

We had a great pizza dinner and I opened that bottle of wine I had bought in Wiscasset. After dinner Helen and Roy put the kids to bed and the three of us watched "NCIS", which I had never seen. It was pretty good. I went to bed, having promised Bryce that I would wake up early and watch a nature video with him before he went to school.

We did watch it the next morning, and then I played with Bryce and Emery outside on the swings until the school bus came. Bryce went to school, Helen and Emery went to Tumble Tots, Emery’s pre-school gymnastics class, and I got in the shower and then in the car, determined to reach Boston come hell or high water.

For anyone who has never driven in Boston, keep it that way. There is no high water but it is definitely hell. I made it there in great time, by 10:30 in the morning, but I didn’t find a place the right exit to go downtown until 12:30. I was so freaking frustrated, but I had made up my mind that I was going to like Boston so I tried to forget what a clusterf*ck it was.

I have been to Boston a handful of times but have absolutely no good memories of it. When I was living in New York my evil, abusive bastard of a boyfriend was from the Boston area and we would travel through the city to see his parents a lot. Sean hated traveling. He hated everything, really, hated living in general, but he especially hated traveling and always used this misery as a chance to pick a fight. Him picking a fight usually resulted in me crying and/or having a new bruise or two. So these are the memories I have of Boston - getting yelled at and beaten by my ex in an alley of the Fleet Center bus station.

But I was so, so determined to come to terms with those memories and start to like the city. Once I finally parked, things were looking up. I spotted a tiny pub across the street from the parking garage and, laptop in hand, went in to get some work done. It was still very early in the day and there were only two people inside, the bartender and a pretty brunette lady in a business suit sitting at the bar. I set my laptop up and got to work, ordering an IPA.

After awhile, I somehow got started talking to the pretty lady. We chatted about work and my lack thereof and she said she needed to start getting back to the office. She admitted that she didn’t want to go, and as our conversation continued she confided that her boyfriend had just been diagnosed with cancer. By this time I was standing near her rather than sitting on my stool, because a woman had sat in between us and I was having trouble seeing my friend.
She started to tear up as she explained about her boyfriend’s illness, saying that he won’t tell her what kind of cancer it was or how long he had known about the diagnosis. I imagine that would be so hard and I hugged her to try to stop her tears. I patted her head as I pulled back and offered the only advice I knew how to give.

"I’m not a very religious person," I said. "But I do know that whoever God is, he doesn’t put a mountain in our path that we can’t climb."
That seemed to help a little bit.

Her name was Michelle. She had to go back to work, but before she did, she placed half of a tuna melt sandwich on a napkin next to me, saying, "Don’t say no, you need to save your money." Then she gave me a business card with her home phone number written on the back. "I live in Swampscott. You can stay with me tonight if you need to." She smiled and walked out.

I thought about her a lot after she left, although I decided not to take her up on the offer to stay, because she mentioned living with her boyfriend. There sounded like there was a lot of tension and high emotions running in that house right now, and I didn’t want to add myself to the mix. They needed their time alone.

I kept writing and editing pictures as other people filtered in and out. A curvy, pretty Hispanic woman sat down next to me, reading a romance novel and drinking Bombay Sapphire martinis. I laughed when she ordered because I was jealous - that used to be my drink before I quit drinking for so long, and now a fruitfly could drink me under the table, so I can’t touch gin anymore. Saying hello led to her asking me which school I went to, and soon we were deep in conversation about Los Angeles. She was from Orange County and she came to Boston because her husband got a job. I sympathized - native Californians really hate the cold. She had to go as well, and soon her seat was taken up by a short guy about my age.

He was the typical Irish-Italian looking guy that one would picture being from either New York City or Boston - just a typical smart-ass looking guy. He was short, wearing a blue crewneck sweater and a Red Sox knit hat, and he kept stepping out for cigarettes at 10-minute intervals. I didn’t really talk to him until he played The Clash on the jukebox. But when I heard the first strains of "London Calling", I turned to him with a smile. I got a bad feeling from this kid, but I was determined to cut through it and say thanks for playing one of my favorite songs.
We started talking and sure enough, he was the typical smart-ass guy. He talked a lot of shit about everything I brought up - beer, sports, education - he just loved to disagree with me. Oh, well. I guess even a few good apples go bad sometimes.

To my right was an Asian man in a shirt and tie having lunch, and we got to talking about the laptop. He had been listening to my conversation with the Hispanic woman and the smart-ass and we got to talking about my trip. At one point he told me that he was a business consultant in the area. I interrupted him when he said that and admitted that I have no idea what consultants do, except make a lot of money, and I asked him to explain. His explanation of his job was awesome.

"I work for an American company that wants to do a lot of business in Japan. I get to know the American company inside and out, what their ethics and missions are, and then I hook them up with Japanese companies who have the same sort of mindset. It’s just like setting two of your friends up on a blind date. This single guy is lonely and you have a girl you think he’ll like, you set them up. I’m a corporate matchmaker," he said, with a smile.

"In America we call that being a ‘yenta’," I said, giggling. I really liked the idea of multi-million dollar mergers being based on something as simple as "a blind date". I know it’s really more complicated than that, but I like to fool myself into believing that at its core, business is just a dating game.

Two or three stools down was another guy about my age, tall with Buddy Holly glasses and a black baseball cap. I didn’t pay much attention to him because I was arguing with Smart-Ass Jason and I was on my way to being pretty buzzed, but he did come over during a lull in the conversation and introduce himself. He was an Irish immigrant with a killer-cute accent named Emmet and he wanted to know all about the book and the trip and the blog and all the details. He was very nice but I was distracted because I was trying to get writing done through the haze of beer and shots that kept appearing in front of me from other people in the bar. He didn’t like the idea of me sleeping in my car in the parking garage that night, and gave me a Post-It with his number and a note that read, "Always a place to stay in Boston, Emmet". I thanked him, but I didn’t pay much attention as I muddled through a posting I was doing on New Hampshire.

Eventually, my battery died and I couldn’t find any place in the bar to plug it in. A security guard at a local office building was near me and said I could charge it at his desk in the lobby of the building right around the corner. He was middle-aged, Pakistani, and seemed nice enough so I went with him to plug it in. Before I left I gave my information - number, website, and email - to the bartender so he could check my blog if he wanted. Then I went with the Pakistani guy around the corner.

I told him how I was going to stay in my car and he told me that was not good enough, no one should have to do that, and he would check with his boss to see if I could sleep on the sixth floor, which wasn’t being rented out at the moment. He made some calls but couldn’t get ahold of his boss, so he said in the meantime he could show me the empty sixth floor to make sure it was up to my standards. I grabbed my pepper spray out of my purse, cocked it, and we got in the elevator.

He showed me the offices and the bathrooms on the floor, and while he was pointing out the showers in one bathroom he leaned over to kiss me. I slapped him before he could get close enough, yelled, ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING?!", pushed him hard out of my way and up against the wall in disgust, and ran to the stairs. I made it to the bottom before he got down in the elevator, grabbed my computer from under the desk, and ran out of the building. He had looked shocked at my reaction, almost scared, and I liked that. I also liked that it was the only time in three weeks of traveling alone that I’d had even a small problem with someone. And I don’t mean to toot my own horn but I so rock at beating up stupid boys.

All that standing up for myself made me hungry, so I went to Hooters and watched the end up the Dallas-San Antonio basketball game and ate chicken. Then I was exhausted and full so I went to my car and cuddled up for a good night’s sleep. My car was the only car on the whole floor, a far cry from the afternoon when the place had been packed.

The car was nice and warm and so was my fleece blanket and soon I was fast asleep. Then I got a text message; flipping my phone open, I noticed that it was from a Boston area code. "I didn’t realise I had your number. Have a safe trip. As I said if your ever in boston and need somewhere to stay, just call. Good luck. Emmet."

Well, I didn’t realize he had my number either. I didn’t remember giving it to him, but I just chalked it up to forgetfulness, maybe I had, and went back to sleep. Then Brian called, and we tried to hash out the conversation from the day before. It didn’t work. He ended up telling me that he made out with some other girl at a bar a few days earlier, and then telling me that while I was gone he should be able to have sex with whoever he wants because it’s just sex and it doesn’t mean anything. This led to a heated discussion on the idea of what is meaningful versus meaningless and my feelings got hurt and I was just disgusted with the conversation in general. I got a call on the other line and I recognized it as Emmet’s so I used it as an excuse to get off the phone with Brian, and then beeped over.

Emmet asked how I was doing, if I was okay, if I was warm enough. I said I was fine and dandy, which was good because I knew I couldn’t turn my car on at the moment anyway. The beers and shots were still knocking around in my head and I didn’t think I could pass my breath test. He asked if I would be safe there and I told him that there were security guards manning the place 24 hours a day so I should be fine. He reiterated the offer to stay with him, saying he could come pick me up if I needed and bring me back to his place. After the incident with the Pakistani security guard I wasn’t in a rush to talk to anymore strangers for the night, so I politely declined. Then he asked me if I could at least, for his peace of mind, go flag down one of the security guards and let them know that I would be there so they could watch over me, and then call him back. I said okay and hung up, then waited for one of the guards to drive by on his little golf cart.

I stepped out of my car and flagged him down, giving him a friendly hi. He looked at me like I was crazy. "I’m just going to be here in my car for the night, okay? Just thought I’d let you know. Have a good night!" and then I climbed back into the driver’s seat. Before I could shut the door, he was standing in front of it.

"Uh, miss, you can’t be here," he said, almost nervously. He was young, blonde, blue-collar.
I froze. "What?"
"Yeah, I can’t have you sleepin’ in your car. I just can’t." His Boston accent was very thick.
"Well, I can’t go anywhere. I can’t start my car."
"Do ya need a jump?"
"No, I have to breathe into it and I’m gonna fail it. I’m stuck."
"Well, miss, you can’t be here. If there are cars that are damaged in the morning, you’ll be the one to blame whether it was you or not. You have to go."
I was getting scared. I started to cry.
"So what do I do then? I live in this car. And I’m not just saying that because I use it a lot. I LIVE in it. It’s my house. I don’t have anywhere else to go."
"Well, miss, you can come down to the third floor and talk to the night manager, but I can’t have you sleepin’ here in your car."
At this point I was crying really hard. Boston just does not like me.
"I don’t want to talk to anybody. I’m not a criminal or a vandal. Please just let me stay. I can’t go anywhere else."
"Miss–"
"My name is Jessica!" I sobbed, interrupting him.
He paused. "I’m Tim. Listen, Jess, there’s nothing I can do except bring you down to the third floor and you can explain yourself to the night manager."
"Explain myself what? I haven’t done anything wrong!"
"Well, he can be the judge of that."

My phone, still in my hand, tinkled its little text message tone. "Excuse me one sec," I said to Tim. It was Emmet; it said "You alright?" I didn’t answer. I looked pitifully up at Tim, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

"Just come down with me, okay? I don’t know what else to do."
"I’m scared, Tim."
"Don’t be. Come on."
"I’m not going to do anything wrong, though!"
"Jess, please! I’m just trying to do my job! If you stay here, we’ll both be in trouble."

My phone rang, it was Emmet. "Hello?" I squeaked.
"Sweet Jesus, what happened?"
"C-c-c-an you just come get me?" I cried.
"Yes, I’ll be right there."

Having secured a place to go for the night, I looked up at Tim and said, "Okay, I’ll go talk to the guy." We climbed onto his golf cart and swooped around the columns and corners until we reached the third floor. We approached a brightly-lit portion of the third floor where a few people were standing around. I was nervous but not scared, since I knew I wasn’t going to be kicked out onto the streets of Boston that night.

Tim drove up to the glass-encased office and a man stepped out. He was short, black, and had glasses and a look of concern on his face. Tim started talking as soon as the man was in earshot.
"This girl was sleeping in her car on the sixth floor but I told her she couldn’t. Her car won’t start and she doesn’t have anywhere to go. She can explain the rest." By this time the small man was upon us and I stayed sitting in the golf cart as Tim handed me the floor. I was still crying a little bit, not so much from fear as just stress. I didn’t realize how stressful, lonely, and scary being on the road would be and I had just pushed those feelings down the farther I went. Now that they were loosed, there was no stopping their release.

"I just wanted to sleep in my car because it won’t start and I don’t have anywhere to go but I think it’s okay now beca–"

The manager interrupted me in an African accent, speaking very fast.. "Ssssh, gracious, girl! If you want to sleep in your car it is fine with me. I am a human being and you are like my sister, I cannot put you out on the street. You can stay there for the night, no problem, I won’t even charge you for parking fees. Just please don’t cry, please. I have feelings too, I would not do that. Please don’t be scared. Or do you want to stay in a hotel? I will pay for you out of my pocket. But please do not be scared. I won’t let anything happen to you." This made me cry even more, because I was so happy that a stranger would be so kind. I cry a lot, in case you haven’t noticed.

I explained to him that Emmet was coming to get me and he told me I could call Emmet back and tell him not to worry, that I could actually stay in my car for the night. I did call, and when I told Emmet not to come after all, he asked, "Are you crazy? I’m not going to let you stay in your car, that’s just not fair! It’s not fair that someone should come to Boston and have such a bad time so far. I hate that! No, I’m coming to get you, I’m almost there. Where are you?" I told him to come to the third floor.

The manager, who was Ethiopian and whose name was Digash, waited with me. He asked me why I was living in my car - "Don’t you have parents?" - and I through my tears, which would not stop, I said "Yes, but I’m driving around the country and writing a book about all the nice people I meet. And you’re going to be in it." Tim, having parked the golf cart somewhere, walked over and asked, with a smile, "Aren’t you glad you came down here to talk to him?"

Both Digash and I smiled. "Yes," I said. "Very much."

Emmet got to the garage, drove up to the third floor and I climbed into his green Mitsubishi Montero. "Hey, there," he said. I had stopped crying by this time, but just barely. My face was a tear-stained mess. "Come now," Emmet said, looking into my eyes as he reached over to the passenger seat to wipe my cheeks with his thumb. "Stop this. Everything’s going to be fine. You okay?" I nodded. "Good," he said. "Now where’s your car?"

We drove up to the sixth floor. I was suddenly shy, feeling like a total ass for making such a scene and making Emmet drive all the way from his house in North Qunicy, about 10 miles south of Boston, to come get me. I was fairly quiet and let him do most of the talking. "I got your number from Paul," he said. Paul had been the bartender at the pub I was at that afternoon. "I went out to move my car and it had a flat tire. By the time I got it fixed and then went back in to talk to you some more, you were gone. I asked Paul where you went and he said you left but you had written your number and email down. I got it from him. I’m sorry if that makes you mad but I just wanted to make sure you were okay ‘cause I don’t like the idea of you sleeping in your car. No one should have to do that. It’s awful." I was looking at my hands as he said continued, saying, "Boston is such a great town. It makes me upset that you haven’t had a good time so far. That guy you were talking to today, he was a prick. I didn’t like him. I’m sorry if he made you argue with him over useless shit. I wanted to say something but I didn’t want to butt into your conversation. But that’s the kind of thing I’m talking about - people haven’t been very nice to you so far and that is not cool. I hope I can change your opinion of Boston."

I looked shyly at him as we rounded the corner to the sixth floor. "You’re doing good so far," I whispered softly.