I teased before, of someone getting left behind, and there was such a person. It started with the arrival of my mother into Seattle. We swept her from the airport and then her and I went to an incredible dinner with my friends from Austin, Andrew and Christina. Andrew's house (parent's house) in Seattle is located high above a lake, so that when you look out all you see is forested perfection and the moving water below. We had the most delicious, and vegetarian-friendly, meal that ended with coconut-cream pie and left me wondering how mothers manage to bake homemade pies on top of everything else they do.
The morning after this spectacular dinner, we were on our way to Vancouver to cross the border and, just to pass the time, I opened my mom's passport. I was mostly trying to snoop at her international stamps, but unfortunately I stumbled upon an expiration date. It appeared that her ability to leave the US and return had rotted. So we left her in Washington, cruel as it sounds, in a larger effort to go pick up my grandparents in Vancouver.
Vancouver is a unique place. There is water and hills surrounding it in almost a San Francisco-esque manner. The buildings are tall and new and covered with so many windows they almost looks like sparking scales on a standing beast. I was, at first, upset that our hotel was so far away from the town center, where I was set to meet a dear friend, but found that taking the Sky Train into downtown brought back all the delicious freedom and unknowns of international travel. It was almost exactly the same as the Sky Train in Bangkok, except that when I got off, the air was not thick and sticky, smelling of various potent gases and banana peels. No, Vancouver is extremely clean and the people are outside biking, walking and laughing over over-priced pints near the water. As I walked down to the boat docks where the little water planes parked, I realized that I hadn't really been alone like that in a long time. Sure, in Austin I do things alone all the time; I go to coffee shops religiously, I run errands, go for runs, etc., but there is something different about the solitude of walking with no agenda and no knowledge of where you are or what will come. I find myself missing that spontaneity, that dependence on myself, where I want to hold my own hand and skip, but for the realization that I may look rather like a demented Shirley Temple than the independent goddess we all wish to be. I had lots of those freeing moments when I traveled, particularly in Ireland and Prague. In Prague I was famous for being the 'recluse' in our program and wandering to the castle and apple orchards at random intervals of time. Ireland found me in its countryside, wide-eyed and dragging a suitcase up monstrous hills where the sheep looked at me as though I were a complete arse. I even sat alone in a pub, beer touching my lips just to keep my busy, and I found I could do almost anything.
I think we all worry about dependence. That, we will meet someone and lose a bit of ourselves. Or, perhaps we have been with someone a while and worry that it has already happened. We may ask ourselves, when did I start liking college football? Why do I get excited about a hot dog stuffed with cheese when I am a vegetarian? I fear the answer is far too brutal to admit to ourselves. We fall into patterns, we like the feel of the crook of a neck while we sleep, and instead of holding our own hand we let our little palms fall into the stronger hand of a man. I wish I could decide if this loss of independence is normal, good even, or if it is the end of the brightest parts of yourself. Perhaps it is a little of both. I suppose it is natural to 'share' things with another and, to be honest, who would prefer to travel alone? As much as I adore walking across the Charles Bridge at sunset, I still wondered, what are these magnificent colors in the sky without someone there to reflect with you upon them? To smile and casually comment, "Look how the castle glows." I wish this weren't the case, but hey, Paris is kind of a bitchy city when you go there single. I don't need a chocolate croissant and white-lit streets romancing me when my hair is greasy and I just ate an entire Tolberone by myself in my hotel room.
Back to Vancouver......
So I met-up with Natalie. Natalie. My dearest Natalie! This will be our THIRD country to meet, starting with our initial introduction in Peru, a reunion for a festival in Edinburgh, Scotland, and then our Greek feast and clinking pints in Vancouver. I guess clinking pints has been a theme for us. We have drunk our way through many bars, houses and streets around this world and never thought twice about it because we had a greater backdrop of each other. She is never one I waste unworthy anecdotes or trivialities on. After our hugs and squeals when we meet, I must hear only the juiciest, most painful and real parts of her, as she does with me. We can talk for whole days at a time and never bat an eye. The only thing we dare pause for is food. And my, did we feast! We ordered all the food that you wish you could eat, and we dipped and dolloped and scarfed unabashedly. As we ate and talked outside as though only days had passed since we'd seen each other, not years, we watched a horse-sized dog lament and whimper for its owner, who happened to be about ten feet away and eating outside, too. The dog could see the owner but was nowhere near satisfied. It cried, the gut-wrenching tears of need, and was even as desperate as to stick its scone-sized paws on the railing to just get that much closer. Eventually they moved it so it was at their feet, and then it cried for joy, as though it were still devastated because the love was just too much to handle. Natalie and I both had our hands on our cheeks, watching every move, understanding perfectly how the dog felt, and wondering why it is acceptable only for canines to be so damned pathetic. When women, or men for that matter, behave as such, it is practically a convicted crime, worthy of a heart tar-and-feathering amongst your peers.
Moving on to the last parts of the visit. We went to a pub and I tried to compose myself when I saw the beer prices, $8 for a pint? Natalie informed me that that was normal, and that Vancouver was even more expensive than Dublin (which is really saying something). We eventually met a darling couple from Belfast, whose accents I knew immediately as being the same as many people I care dearly about. They were wonderful. Fresh to Vancouver, they had a newlywed kind of hope about them that almost floats off the corners of their smiles. We talked lots about travel, life, politics and, naturally, ended up on the topic of the United States. To be honest, I miss hearing peoples' views on my country. I also love to hear what comes out of my own mouth when I am put in a position to represent 310 million people. You often don't know the volume of your voice until you have the passion of speech. I won't go into details about my political or social beliefs, but there is nothing better than really discussing the things that matter, especially with a beer :-)
And so, the next morning, I awoke in Natalie's apartment, fresh from snore-free sleep (my father has some vocal nasal blockage) and we wandered back to the Sky Train to get me back to my dad and grandparents. We still had to go back over the border and meet my stranded mother. As we walked, she showed me all the boarded up windows from the riots in Vancouver, after Boston won the Stanley Cup. The city was in the news for its violence, something it truly has no business being linked with, and was shamed for the destruction of their downtown. Well, the people of Canada were appalled and, being the rather radiant country they are, the boarded up walls where glass once stood were written over in colorful pens with pictures and words of hope and apologies. The best part, the most uplifting part, was that there was a pancake breakfast happening right in the middle of the city. They were blasting oldies music and dancing while flipping pancakes and serving them to the homeless and anyone who wanted a fluffy morning snack. They were making something right, the way humans can, after something awful has occurred. They were the very example of why, in so much war and evil that you find yourself still believing in people, because at our very core we delight in goodness and community.I find I have to believe that, seeing what I've seen. I wanted to weep, I truly did, when I saw the swaying of arms to "Jump, for your love" and the way everyone sort of blended together, in all their colors and skins, so that they were just one place of peace, one entity of rebirth and rebuilding, and I was unwaveringly grateful to be a part. I knew I was going to be late, so I eventually had to hug Nat goodbye and walk away from music (a tragedy, always), but I loved that Vancouver showed me something extraordinary, and I won't forget it for that. I urge you to see what the city does for you, if you every find yourself hopelessly north and looking to be surprised.
More next time about the final days of my trip in the rugged Olympic Peninsula (though I sit now, in Chico, enjoying the hot weather, cold water and iced coffee that sweats in my hands).
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