I have been living here for almost one month, and above all, I have realized but one thing:
There's a lot that I don't know.
In fact, there's a WHOLE lot that I have absolutely no idea about, nor do I possess the capabilities to ever be able to imagine, conceptualize, or understand on any level whatsoever.
A glimpse of this became apparent the first few days when I, regrettably, was forced to admit wholly and honestly to myself that:
I cannot read a map.
My family will find much humor in this, as they have known for quite some time now (perhaps even before I knew) that I have absolutely no sense of directional awareness. I am a smart person and I have many good qualities, but if you ever find yourself lost and desperately trying to find your way and I am the only one to ask for assistance, good luck, because you will 9 times out of 10 not end up in the right place.
This particular slice of reality has become a solid 10 out of 10 fact since the night I decided to go home alone at 1:00am after clubbing with friends on the Champs Elysees. After traveling what was supposed to be only 2 miles between the club and my house, I arrived at my doorstep 4 hours later, map in hand, barefoot and crying.
*I'd like to take a moment to put into the spotlight Paris' public transportation system. Because the metro closes every night at around 12:30am, night-goers are left in a sticky predicament when returning home: take a taxi, which leaves a significant dent in your wallet when taken regularly, walk, which can be impossible when needing to travel long distances, or take the Noctilien--a word that strikes a bittersweet cord with nearly every American studying in Paris. The Noctilien is the all-night bus system that runs all over the city, stopping at every major transfer station at 30 minute intervals.
Although I should take all the credit for the disastrous mishap previously mentioned, from a purely objective standpoint, the Noctilien map and schedule is one of the most confusing and disorganized transportation systems for any normal, competent person to navigate--even more so for those crippled with the inability to distinguish between north and south.
But, I did make it home. And I continue to make it home every night safely because my map- reading skills ARE improving with time.
This is the type of thing you learn when you live in Paris, France.
Speaking of learning, someone recently asked me what I want to gain out of my study abroad experience. I frantically fumbled for answers like "To be a better person!" and "To have a grrrreat experience!" But really, I hadn't ever thought honestly about this question. Perhaps upon my decision to study here, I was hoping to get away from a life dominated by monotony, schedules and alarms, safety and comfort, boy drama, etc., and spend 4 months frollicking merrily through the cobblestone streets and eating crepes by the Eiffel Tower without a worry in the world. Of course, this wasn't the real reason--just a perk.
I soon ended my efforts in finding the "right" answer, assured that my real motivation lurked somewhere within me--I just didn't know how to articulate it. Until yesterday. When I was walking to the metro to go to school, snacking on my usual "pain au chocolat" (more on this later), the answer suddenly became quite clear. To learn.
Well, duh.
This is called study abroad.
There are 2 dimensions of this: I'm studying--learning about philosophy, the French language, and exploring the history of French art, cinema, and music--and it just so happens that these academic pursuits are taking place in another country. And I'm also studying--perceiving, examining, internalizing, interpreting, valuing, judging, fearing, loving, providing meaning for--Paris. France. Europe. The eastern hemisphere. The world outside of the suburbs of San Francisco and the sheltered borders of Santa Clara University. And of course, it is only natural that I come to learn about myself in relation to the place in which i am situated, and furthermore, to discover what I find truly fulfilling without the help of a constant crutch to steady my balance.
In everything we as humans do, we seek to be fulfilled--we seek some sort of pleasure (bear with me while I get philosophical for a moment). Pleasure, I think, consists, of different levels organized in a hierarchical structure of rings around the body, let's say. The widest ring is the furthest from the body, in whose reach are things within sight, smell, and hearing--for example, admiring a painting or landscape, smelling fresh baked bread, or listening to a symphony. This ring, arguably, produces the least amount and quality of pleasure. The next is a ring tied directly to the senses, which produces purely physical pleasure like touch, and also sight, sound, smell, and taste. Another ring is that of the ego, motivated by purely selfish social needs, another ring tending to emotion, and so forth. At the core is a ring wrapped around the soul--the innermost part of the human, elusive and mysterious in its wants and needs, its capacities, its purpose, and its functions. The degree of pleasure that surpasses the outer rings and reaches the center is the most profound, the most valuable, and consequently the most sought. These pleasures--the "pleasures of the soul" as I call them--are what keep us living and striving to reach our full potential (also referred to by some psychologists as self-actualization).
By this time I have finished my chocolate pastry and can be found sitting on a nearby park bench scribbling in my notebook, forgetting altogether about the metro I have just missed. And by this time I have provided an answer for my dear question-asking friend, who so easily probes so deeply into my conscience. It is now my mission, from my Paris days through my Paris nights, to feed the hunger of my soul. And that hunger is to learn.
To learn in my classes, to learn in museums, to learn on the streets, to learn at my homestay, and with all of this, to learn how to live on my own. Now this, obviously, is a BIG thing to learn--something that doesn't come easily or suddenly. Abroad, it begins with the little things: how to time manage, how to coordinate a 5-day trip to 3 cities in Italy with 6 people whom you've never met before, how to ask for directions and order in a restaurant, how to not blow through 15 Euro worth of cell phone minutes/text messages in only 2 days, how to choose the best restaurant for a certain occasion, and most importantly, how to budget the 5-letter word that makes me cringe: money. It has become evident that perhaps I only brought 1/3 of the amount of money I should have, so because of my limited budget (aka I'm quickly nearing poverty), I avoid 30 Euro meals and 5 Euro 1-ounce espresso shots and stick to the very bare essentials: school supplies, metro passes, cell phone minutes, pains au chocolats, etc.
And so i have decided, from here on out, to organize my travel journal entries into a numerical "lesson" form. The first lesson, informally, I have deemed: Learn how to read a map.
Lesson #2 : There exists an infinite unknown waiting to be enjoyed.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Ou est le Starbucks?
I am in France.
When I initially declared my decision to study abroad in France, nearly everyone I knew expressed serious concern for my health.
“Rachel, have you ever eaten a French meal?” Followed by, “What on earth are you going to do?”
My overwhelming response:
“No. And that is a very good question.”
In between visits to the Musee d'Orsay, Le Jardin du Luxembourg, and le Sacre Coeur a Montmarte, I often find myself wondering to what lengths I would go for a Chipotle burrito.
Speaking of iced coffee, there is none in Paris, France. Speaking of “to go” coffee, there is none of that either. This, needless to be said, has been a serious obstacle in my daily routine.
As hard as I have tried to fully immerse myself into French culture and blend in as a true Parisienne, at around 1pm on Monday the 14th, a whole 9 days into my 4 month trip, I found myself doing homework and listening to my pink iPod in a booth at Starbucks. And yes, that large iced latte was heavenly.
After living in Paris for about 2 weeks now, my eating habits have already significantly changed. From growing up on homecooked meals by my mother, whose motto is, "Most people eat to live. I live to eat," to living in a dorm about 200 yards from my university's cafeteria, I am conditioned to having plentiful amounts of food readily available at all hours of the day, everyday.
This means I am in a country with a world-renowned museum, cathedral, or monument on nearly every street corner.
Even more, I am in Paris.
This means I am in a city with more light, more love, more taste, more hair, more smells and sounds, and more people than anywhere I've ever been before. Bustling with rich history, diverse culture, and alluring, mysterious beauty, Paris, France is truly one of the greatest places in the world (and that's not just my opinion. It's fact).
Despite the grandeur, the wonder and awe, and the countless unimaginable experiences I've had thus far, it is only natural that I, Rachel, begin my travel journal with my favorite (and arguably the most important) topic.
Food.
When I initially declared my decision to study abroad in France, nearly everyone I knew expressed serious concern for my health.
“Rachel, have you ever eaten a French meal?” Followed by, “What on earth are you going to do?”
My overwhelming response:
“No. And that is a very good question.”
In between visits to the Musee d'Orsay, Le Jardin du Luxembourg, and le Sacre Coeur a Montmarte, I often find myself wondering to what lengths I would go for a Chipotle burrito.
I can tell you with confidence that it’s not as far as I'd go for a Peet's large iced lowfat latte machiatto with 2 Splendas and a dash of half n half. To go, please.
Speaking of iced coffee, there is none in Paris, France. Speaking of “to go” coffee, there is none of that either. This, needless to be said, has been a serious obstacle in my daily routine.
As hard as I have tried to fully immerse myself into French culture and blend in as a true Parisienne, at around 1pm on Monday the 14th, a whole 9 days into my 4 month trip, I found myself doing homework and listening to my pink iPod in a booth at Starbucks. And yes, that large iced latte was heavenly.
But despite my minor slip back into American comfort, I have done quite well so far. I sip hot, black espresso out of tiny tea cups at the street cafes in my boots and peacoat, gossiping with close friends while watching passersby, and can’t help but think, Ahhh life is good.
After living in Paris for about 2 weeks now, my eating habits have already significantly changed. From growing up on homecooked meals by my mother, whose motto is, "Most people eat to live. I live to eat," to living in a dorm about 200 yards from my university's cafeteria, I am conditioned to having plentiful amounts of food readily available at all hours of the day, everyday.
When I sat down for my first French dinner at my homestay and saw the first course (which I thought was the entire meal), I thought seriously to myself,
"Oh my God. I'm going to starve."
Beatrice, my host mother, cooks simple, heathly, traditional French 4-course meals. For dinner, which I eat at home nearly every night, we typically start with a small vegetable dish--a fresh tomato or mushroom salad, or dark leafy greens dressed tossed in a light vinaigrette. Last night we each ate an entire avocado...with a spoon. Then she clears the table and brings out the main course--either beef and seasoned potatoes, a baked tomato and cheese tart, or an egg and ham quishe, etc. Then she clears the table again and brings out a baguette, an assortment of cow, goat, and sheep cheese from northern, western, and eastern france, and a variety of "pates" or spreads--usually either a type of mustard or a green olive, garlic, and onion spread, or sometimes a mysterious brown substance that looks like a thin block of butter.
*To note, it is respectful and polite to try everything your host mother puts in front of you. If you don't like it, you don't have to continue eating it. Also, you must clear every morsel of food and sauce on your plate. What do you think all that bread is for?
Upon seeing this particular pate for the first time, I hesitantly spread it over my sliced bread as I eyed Bridget curiously. As I lifted it to my mouth I asked, "qu'est-ce c'est?" Immediately after the bite entered my mouth and I began to chew, Beatrice timely responded, in English,
"Ground up liver."
Our eyes locked and I tried with every ounce of my politeness not to spew the mangled liver and bread out of my mouth and onto the table and throw my arms up in disgust.
I swallowed with a smile, and continued eating everything but the mysterious brown substance that looks like a thin block of butter, that I now knew and will forever know is an animal's organ.
These are the types of things you learn when you live in Paris, France.
And finally, dessert. We'll have either yogurt, a fruit salad with fraises, framboises, and peches (strawberries, raspberries, and peaches), or some sort of pastry.
So although in the United States the French have a reputation of eating very small portions and of eating very gross things (i.e. snails, or liver), it seems to me that this perception is not entirely accurate. They don't normally eat gross things and though they don't eat as frequently as we, when they do eat, they eat A LOT. Which for me, feels just like home.
Except for breakfast. In the States, it is not uncommon that approximately 30 minutes after waking up, I've already devoured a three-egg omlette, bacon, a bagel and cream cheese, and a large iced coffee. In Paris, continental breakfasts are slightly lighter.
I'm still learning to adjust on this one.
Despite my intitial pre-judgments and skepticism, indulging in authentic french cuisine is not only healthy and delicious, but also teaches me to learn to appreciate the taste and quality of simple foods. In fact, in Europe, France is known for its unique gastronomical culture. To the rest of Europe, and to me, the French seem to have perfected just that: "the art and science of good eating."
In case you were wondering, yes, i do eat the notorious baguette sandwhiches and pastries. Frequently.
And let me tell you, nutella crepes taste a whole lot better when you're walking along the Seine.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Le debut: Paris, France
Thursday September 3rd; 4:55pm
Scheduled flight from San Francisco to Paris. We should drive into the city a few hours early because the Bay Bridge is closing tonight for construction, and the traffic will be horrendous.
There is no traffic.
2:00pm
Arrive at the San Francisco International Airport and stand in line for check in. 75 lbs of luggage. What? Oh, my flight has been delayed util 6:40pm? I suppose I can get some writing done and make a few goodbye phone calls.
6pm
Board flight 284 SFO to Heathrow aircraft after much anticipation. Two lovely ladies greet me eargerly in seats 45 B and C. Both from the East bay, traveling to Rome to visit relatives. Sandee and Barbara will be my only life support for the next 24 hours.
There is no air conditioning.
7:10pm
Flight 284 leaves the gate 30 minutes behind schedule.
7:20pm
Flight 284 returns to the gate.
"This just isn't our day, is it?"
Says the pilot. Technical problems. Engine 3 blowout. We're working on fixing it and should be leaving shortly.
9:24pm
"We're trying to reach the engineers in London...it's gonna be another hour or so until...Immigration laws forbid passengers to exit the aircraft after...while you wait, our complimentary beverage and meal service..."
There is no air conditioning.
12:09am
One movie, two meals, and three pounds of sweat later. The flight is cancelled.
We will be reclaiming our luggage and receiving hotel vouchers for a nearby Hyatt until the next available flight, tomorrow at 3pm.
(A word: Sandee and Barbara paid for the van from and to the airport, let me borrow their cell phones for emergency phone calls here and abroad, and kept my spirits above the tiring frustration of it all. For them I am eternally grateful. We even took a picture together. They're in their sixties.)
Friday September 4th; 3pm
Flight 284 SFO to Heathrow has been delayed.
4:45pm
We board. Flight 284 SFO to Heathrow leaves the gate, and does not return to the gate.
Saturday September 5th; 10:30am
Flight 284 arrives in London 2 hours behind schedule. Flight officials at the Heathrow terminal 5 security gate redirect me to the reservation kiosk to reschedule the connecting flight to Paris that I've just missed.
2:30pm
I readjust the shoulder strap of my 40 pound bag.
2:31pm
Scolding hot coffee seeps into the fabric my new 70$ peacoat.
Saturday September 5th; 5pm
My arrival in Paris, France. I contemplate running off this godforsaken, cursed steel machine of death and kiss the French soil and hug everyone in sight, but decide against my wild, delirious, sleep deprived impulse as I've been traveling for a total of 24 hours now and I probably smell and I definitely look like shit.
I sit in the back of the bus to Montparnasse and recite words of reassurance.
And so, the adventure begins...
Scheduled flight from San Francisco to Paris. We should drive into the city a few hours early because the Bay Bridge is closing tonight for construction, and the traffic will be horrendous.
There is no traffic.
2:00pm
Arrive at the San Francisco International Airport and stand in line for check in. 75 lbs of luggage. What? Oh, my flight has been delayed util 6:40pm? I suppose I can get some writing done and make a few goodbye phone calls.
6pm
Board flight 284 SFO to Heathrow aircraft after much anticipation. Two lovely ladies greet me eargerly in seats 45 B and C. Both from the East bay, traveling to Rome to visit relatives. Sandee and Barbara will be my only life support for the next 24 hours.
There is no air conditioning.
7:10pm
Flight 284 leaves the gate 30 minutes behind schedule.
7:20pm
Flight 284 returns to the gate.
"This just isn't our day, is it?"
Says the pilot. Technical problems. Engine 3 blowout. We're working on fixing it and should be leaving shortly.
9:24pm
"We're trying to reach the engineers in London...it's gonna be another hour or so until...Immigration laws forbid passengers to exit the aircraft after...while you wait, our complimentary beverage and meal service..."
There is no air conditioning.
12:09am
One movie, two meals, and three pounds of sweat later. The flight is cancelled.
We will be reclaiming our luggage and receiving hotel vouchers for a nearby Hyatt until the next available flight, tomorrow at 3pm.
(A word: Sandee and Barbara paid for the van from and to the airport, let me borrow their cell phones for emergency phone calls here and abroad, and kept my spirits above the tiring frustration of it all. For them I am eternally grateful. We even took a picture together. They're in their sixties.)
Friday September 4th; 3pm
Flight 284 SFO to Heathrow has been delayed.
4:45pm
We board. Flight 284 SFO to Heathrow leaves the gate, and does not return to the gate.
Saturday September 5th; 10:30am
Flight 284 arrives in London 2 hours behind schedule. Flight officials at the Heathrow terminal 5 security gate redirect me to the reservation kiosk to reschedule the connecting flight to Paris that I've just missed.
2:30pm
I readjust the shoulder strap of my 40 pound bag.
2:31pm
Scolding hot coffee seeps into the fabric my new 70$ peacoat.
2:45pm
(Re) Rescheduled connection flight from Heathrow to Charles de Gaulle.
Saturday September 5th; 5pm
My arrival in Paris, France. I contemplate running off this godforsaken, cursed steel machine of death and kiss the French soil and hug everyone in sight, but decide against my wild, delirious, sleep deprived impulse as I've been traveling for a total of 24 hours now and I probably smell and I definitely look like shit.
I sit in the back of the bus to Montparnasse and recite words of reassurance.
And so, the adventure begins...
Saturday, August 1, 2009
At a glance
March 2008
I was flipping through the pages of my chemistry book on my walk home when I first saw her, sprawled out on a pink lawn chair in her front yard, as if no one was watching. I peered behind and around me, feeling almost embarrassed to be in the presence of such seemingly indecent public exposure. And yet, I must confess, I had never seen such a beautiful woman.
I hoped she didn’t see me standing there across the street in my tacky orange sweater, untied shoelaces, and faded blue jeans like some love-struck teenage admirer lurking through bushes. I nearly dropped my book bag hurrying home.
After school the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, I took a left down Rover Avenue and saw her there. She lay, basking, on that chair sipping a martini with two olives, fumbling the buttons of a cell phone in the other hand, unbothered. Sometimes, given the severity of heat, she clutched the bottleneck of a Corona (with lime) or playfully toyed with the twisty straw of a peach daiquiri. I would continue up the block towards my house thinking about what I could’ve said to her, going over all the ways I wouldn’t say “Nice day out, eh?”
I didn’t mind the walk. In fact, I sometimes waited with an almost impatient urgency to find an excuse to escape the gruelingly mind-numbing school routine. I would stroll casually, periodically shooting anxious glances up from the page of a book I was not actually reading to see her across the street. It was a strange obsession, seeing her, observing a form of life that was so foreign to mine.
Every day for months I saw her rosy cheeks and oversized sunglasses, and her long brown thick curls draping over the edge of the headrest. Her legs, long, smooth and golden, glistened in the afternoon sun as she chattered merrily with passersby. The supple skin of her bare stomach clung to the curves of her hipbones. Her jutting clavicle rested above perky breasts and an unpierced naval. A bent leg, symmetric shoulders, timid hands and fingers and manicured nail beds. My eyes danced, tracing her lines, her angles, her hair follicles, every cell that made up her entire body and made her human.
I began to wonder if she was even real. Was she perhaps just a figment of my imagination—an attempt, catalyzed by shallow mindedness, to transform mediocrity, to project a physical entity so capable of achieving constructs of perfection that even I couldn’t turn away? Maybe she was a girl just trying to get a tan, and I had nothing better to do.
Perhaps I would ask for her name. It must be something smooth and classy and womanly like Adrienne. How old was Adrienne? Did she like to play tennis, did she sing in the shower, did she ever wonder how far and how long the bounds of outer space stretch into the unknown? I imagine her being more of a hands-on kind of worker, and who still goes to church on Sundays because that’s what she grew up doing. She no doubt prefers extra whipped cream and nuts on her ice cream sundaes.
My tangential and sporadic stream of consciousness was dizzying, consuming me with an undeniable urge to know her.
I finally mustered the confidence to make my walk down the other side of the street. Taking a heavy breath, I approached her.
“Hello.”
She looked at me, tilting her sunglasses up. “Good afternoon.”
Was she an animal lover, a Republican, a stamp collector? Did she sleep on her side or on her back or on her stomach? How old was she when she lost her first tooth? Could she read a trashy romance novel cover to cover in a single day? Had she been to the Louvre and stood in line to see DaVinci’s Mona Lisa, only to discover how tiny it really is? Did she sometimes eat chocolate before bed without brushing her teeth? What was her favorite color, 80’s band, shampoo brand? Did she fear failure, or clowns, or maybe seaweed? How many siblings did she have, and what was her least favorite flavor candy? What did she want out of life?
“Hot day out, isn’t it?”
“Sure.” She smiled, adjusting her lenses, and continued sipping her drink.
“Have a nice day,” I said, and continued up the block.
I was flipping through the pages of my chemistry book on my walk home when I first saw her, sprawled out on a pink lawn chair in her front yard, as if no one was watching. I peered behind and around me, feeling almost embarrassed to be in the presence of such seemingly indecent public exposure. And yet, I must confess, I had never seen such a beautiful woman.
I hoped she didn’t see me standing there across the street in my tacky orange sweater, untied shoelaces, and faded blue jeans like some love-struck teenage admirer lurking through bushes. I nearly dropped my book bag hurrying home.
After school the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, I took a left down Rover Avenue and saw her there. She lay, basking, on that chair sipping a martini with two olives, fumbling the buttons of a cell phone in the other hand, unbothered. Sometimes, given the severity of heat, she clutched the bottleneck of a Corona (with lime) or playfully toyed with the twisty straw of a peach daiquiri. I would continue up the block towards my house thinking about what I could’ve said to her, going over all the ways I wouldn’t say “Nice day out, eh?”
I didn’t mind the walk. In fact, I sometimes waited with an almost impatient urgency to find an excuse to escape the gruelingly mind-numbing school routine. I would stroll casually, periodically shooting anxious glances up from the page of a book I was not actually reading to see her across the street. It was a strange obsession, seeing her, observing a form of life that was so foreign to mine.
Every day for months I saw her rosy cheeks and oversized sunglasses, and her long brown thick curls draping over the edge of the headrest. Her legs, long, smooth and golden, glistened in the afternoon sun as she chattered merrily with passersby. The supple skin of her bare stomach clung to the curves of her hipbones. Her jutting clavicle rested above perky breasts and an unpierced naval. A bent leg, symmetric shoulders, timid hands and fingers and manicured nail beds. My eyes danced, tracing her lines, her angles, her hair follicles, every cell that made up her entire body and made her human.
I began to wonder if she was even real. Was she perhaps just a figment of my imagination—an attempt, catalyzed by shallow mindedness, to transform mediocrity, to project a physical entity so capable of achieving constructs of perfection that even I couldn’t turn away? Maybe she was a girl just trying to get a tan, and I had nothing better to do.
Perhaps I would ask for her name. It must be something smooth and classy and womanly like Adrienne. How old was Adrienne? Did she like to play tennis, did she sing in the shower, did she ever wonder how far and how long the bounds of outer space stretch into the unknown? I imagine her being more of a hands-on kind of worker, and who still goes to church on Sundays because that’s what she grew up doing. She no doubt prefers extra whipped cream and nuts on her ice cream sundaes.
My tangential and sporadic stream of consciousness was dizzying, consuming me with an undeniable urge to know her.
I finally mustered the confidence to make my walk down the other side of the street. Taking a heavy breath, I approached her.
“Hello.”
She looked at me, tilting her sunglasses up. “Good afternoon.”
Was she an animal lover, a Republican, a stamp collector? Did she sleep on her side or on her back or on her stomach? How old was she when she lost her first tooth? Could she read a trashy romance novel cover to cover in a single day? Had she been to the Louvre and stood in line to see DaVinci’s Mona Lisa, only to discover how tiny it really is? Did she sometimes eat chocolate before bed without brushing her teeth? What was her favorite color, 80’s band, shampoo brand? Did she fear failure, or clowns, or maybe seaweed? How many siblings did she have, and what was her least favorite flavor candy? What did she want out of life?
“Hot day out, isn’t it?”
“Sure.” She smiled, adjusting her lenses, and continued sipping her drink.
“Have a nice day,” I said, and continued up the block.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
A short trip back.
2005 - A series of original dialogues inspired by Larry McMurtry's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel Lonesome Dove.
Dish Bogget:
A scruffy man came ridin’ up the hill on the north side of camp, where our welcome sign is. I could barely see from so far away who he was, but as he came closer I could see that they was two of ‘em. I figured they was coming up to Hat Creek Cattle Company to buy some cattle or maybe to rent some horses. No one come around too often ‘cause it’s a long way up the river, but when they do come around lookin’ to buy something or rent something they always leave satisfied, and we always satisfied too. As they came down near to our camp we all gathered by the sign to greet ‘em. The horses they was ridin’ weren’t very pretty, or well-kept for that matter, so we figured they wasn’t the richest fellas in town, but we planned on greetin’ them just the same as we would anyone else.
Call was the first to say something to them ‘cause the rest of us didn’t know what to say; we always leave important stuff like that up to the Captain. One of them came right up to us and the first thing he said was, “Which way’s the whorehouse?” He didn’t seem too bright. The other fella started talkin’ to Call and the rest of ‘em but the other fella was lookin’ right at me when he said it. I had no intention of revealing Lorena’s whereabouts to an ugly little cowboy on a swaybacked horse. So I said, “It’s over in Sabinas.” Of course that weren’t true, but only because they was no way I could let some fella ride in to Lonesome Dove and right away go lookin’ for a poke. I told him to ride on down the river and he’ll surely see it. “I didn’t ask for no smart remarks, you hear?” he said. “I’ve been told there’s a yellow-haired girl right in this town.” Right then I got so mad, I tell ya, I coulda pulled out my pistol and shot that son-of-a-bitch right in the goddamn face. “Well that’s just my sister.” Of course it was a rank lie, but it got the job done and he scurried off to find his partner and looked to buy some horses.
A few hours later the work was finished and everyone was loungin’ around on the porch feeding the shoats and drinkin’ whiskey, like usual. I decided to ride into town ‘cause I was thinkin’ of Lorie. I figured I’d pay her a visit, and maybe squeeze in a game or two of poker. Lorie whores over at the Dry Bean, the only saloon in town. I don’t think of her as a whore, considerin’ she’s the nicest and prettiest gal I ever come across. Lippy plays the piano and Xavier just goes around cleanin’ up tables. Xavier’s fond of Lorie, he’s always talkin’ to me about how he plans to marry her, but I know she’d never settle for nothin’ like that. I sat down at the table she was at and ordered a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. We was talkin’ and everything was fine, and then Jake Spoon came and sat down at the table with us. That bastard rode into town a few days ago, lookin’ for work after bein’ gone a few years. I don’t know why anyone would wanna come back to Lonesome Dove. Anyway, I could hardly take my eyes off this gal, she was so pretty, and when I did I caught Jake lookin’ at me. Then they started talkin’ and she was laughin’ like I never seen her laughin’ before. At that point I felt myself lose belief in what was happenin’. There was no place in the world I would rather not be than at a table with Lorie and another man, yet that appeared to be where I was. Lorie just sat there, laughin’ and flirtin’ and sippin’ her drink. She didn’t mind me bein’ there, but she wouldn’t have minded if I was a thousand miles away either. For a time, I lost sense of what life was about. I even lost sense that I was a cowboy, which is the strongest sense I have. Right then I was just a fella with a glass in his hand, and that was all I’d ever be to Lorie. I took a drink and then another and then several, and by the middle of the second bottle I forgot about Lorie and Jake and found myself sittin’ on the piano singin’ “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean” while Lippy played.
Lorena:
Life in Lonesome Dove is a bore. Just the same over and over, I don’t think I could stand it anymore. Everyday some fella walks into the Bean lookin’ for a poke, and I give it to ‘em. They all act as if they desperately need me, like they can’t live without me, it’s all just horseshit. That’s why I fancy Jake Spoon the way I do. Most men when they come in they see me and they get nervous but this one day when me and Dish was sitting together, Jake came around and he ordered his drink and talked to Xavier for a while, and I just sat there lookin’ at him, expectin’ him to come over and ask for a poke or a game of cards. Before he even brought his bottle to the table and sit with me I began to want him to.
Jake always compliments me. “My goodness,” he said the first time he saw me, “I never expected to find nobody like you here. We didn’t see much beauty when I lived in these parts. Now if this was San Francisco, I wouldn’t be surprised.” It caught me off guard to hear him say that but from then on he promised he would see that I got to San Francisco, ‘cause he knew that’s where I belong. After several visits with Jake Spoon and talks about headin’ up to San Francisco and startin’ up a new life together, I began to feel like I wanted to play a part in keepin’ him alive, which is somethin’ I’ve never felt before. I mean, I’m used to men thinkin’ they need me desperately, just because they want to get their carrots in me, but Jake wasn’t askin’ that and that made me wonder.
After I had been goin’ with Jake a while, one day Gus came struttin’ through the Bean and came over to me and asked for a poke. Xavier stood behind the bar and just watched, not knowin’ why he would do somethin’ like that. Gus didn’t feel embarrassed or nothin’, he just sat back with his arm hangin’ over the chair as if nothin’ was wrong, as if he didn’t care I was with Jake now. I told him I wouldn’t do it ‘cause Jake’s my sweetheart. Then he offered me fifty dollars so I let him do his business. I felt so horrible doin’ that to Jake. I made Xavier swear he wouldn’t tell a soul. A few days later Jake and me was sittin’ on the bed together and I was tellin’ him about it and about the fifty dollars. Jake lifted his eyebrows like he does, like they was nothin’ he could possible hear that would really surprise him, like he knew it already or somethin’. “He’s a fool with money,” Jake said to me. “I reckon he got his poke.” He wiped sweat off his forehead and wiped it on the sheets. “Now that you’re rich you can loan me twenty,” he said. That was when I knew Jake didn’t really love me, and perhaps I didn’t really love him neither. I just kept starin’ out the window as if my mind had already left Lonesome Dove and moved up the trail. Jake sat up again and put his sweaty arms around me. He always said he loved the way I smell in the morning’, so he sniffed my shoulders and my throat. He did it again. I didn’t stop the attentions but I didn’t encourage them neither. I just kept thinkin’ that any other man woulda beat me black and blue after what I did with Gus.
The day before I left town I heard a knock at my door. It was Xavier. He was standin’ on the stairs cryin’ his eyes out. He said, “Is it true, what Jake says? You’re leaving?” I nodded and told him my plans about San Francisco and gettin’ the hell out of Lonesome Dove. He said, “I want to marry you, don’t go Lorie. If you go I don’t want to live. I will burn the place down. It’s a filthy place anyways. I will burn it down tomorrow.” He kept goin’ on and on and he wouldn’t stop even after I told him to. “If Jake kills me I would be better. I can give you everything.” Then he started pullin’ money outa his pocket, and the sight of it made me feel tired. I knew right then and there that no matter what plans I made or how I tried to live, some man would always be lookin’ at me and holdin’ out money.
Dish Bogget:
A scruffy man came ridin’ up the hill on the north side of camp, where our welcome sign is. I could barely see from so far away who he was, but as he came closer I could see that they was two of ‘em. I figured they was coming up to Hat Creek Cattle Company to buy some cattle or maybe to rent some horses. No one come around too often ‘cause it’s a long way up the river, but when they do come around lookin’ to buy something or rent something they always leave satisfied, and we always satisfied too. As they came down near to our camp we all gathered by the sign to greet ‘em. The horses they was ridin’ weren’t very pretty, or well-kept for that matter, so we figured they wasn’t the richest fellas in town, but we planned on greetin’ them just the same as we would anyone else.
Call was the first to say something to them ‘cause the rest of us didn’t know what to say; we always leave important stuff like that up to the Captain. One of them came right up to us and the first thing he said was, “Which way’s the whorehouse?” He didn’t seem too bright. The other fella started talkin’ to Call and the rest of ‘em but the other fella was lookin’ right at me when he said it. I had no intention of revealing Lorena’s whereabouts to an ugly little cowboy on a swaybacked horse. So I said, “It’s over in Sabinas.” Of course that weren’t true, but only because they was no way I could let some fella ride in to Lonesome Dove and right away go lookin’ for a poke. I told him to ride on down the river and he’ll surely see it. “I didn’t ask for no smart remarks, you hear?” he said. “I’ve been told there’s a yellow-haired girl right in this town.” Right then I got so mad, I tell ya, I coulda pulled out my pistol and shot that son-of-a-bitch right in the goddamn face. “Well that’s just my sister.” Of course it was a rank lie, but it got the job done and he scurried off to find his partner and looked to buy some horses.
A few hours later the work was finished and everyone was loungin’ around on the porch feeding the shoats and drinkin’ whiskey, like usual. I decided to ride into town ‘cause I was thinkin’ of Lorie. I figured I’d pay her a visit, and maybe squeeze in a game or two of poker. Lorie whores over at the Dry Bean, the only saloon in town. I don’t think of her as a whore, considerin’ she’s the nicest and prettiest gal I ever come across. Lippy plays the piano and Xavier just goes around cleanin’ up tables. Xavier’s fond of Lorie, he’s always talkin’ to me about how he plans to marry her, but I know she’d never settle for nothin’ like that. I sat down at the table she was at and ordered a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. We was talkin’ and everything was fine, and then Jake Spoon came and sat down at the table with us. That bastard rode into town a few days ago, lookin’ for work after bein’ gone a few years. I don’t know why anyone would wanna come back to Lonesome Dove. Anyway, I could hardly take my eyes off this gal, she was so pretty, and when I did I caught Jake lookin’ at me. Then they started talkin’ and she was laughin’ like I never seen her laughin’ before. At that point I felt myself lose belief in what was happenin’. There was no place in the world I would rather not be than at a table with Lorie and another man, yet that appeared to be where I was. Lorie just sat there, laughin’ and flirtin’ and sippin’ her drink. She didn’t mind me bein’ there, but she wouldn’t have minded if I was a thousand miles away either. For a time, I lost sense of what life was about. I even lost sense that I was a cowboy, which is the strongest sense I have. Right then I was just a fella with a glass in his hand, and that was all I’d ever be to Lorie. I took a drink and then another and then several, and by the middle of the second bottle I forgot about Lorie and Jake and found myself sittin’ on the piano singin’ “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean” while Lippy played.
Lorena:
Life in Lonesome Dove is a bore. Just the same over and over, I don’t think I could stand it anymore. Everyday some fella walks into the Bean lookin’ for a poke, and I give it to ‘em. They all act as if they desperately need me, like they can’t live without me, it’s all just horseshit. That’s why I fancy Jake Spoon the way I do. Most men when they come in they see me and they get nervous but this one day when me and Dish was sitting together, Jake came around and he ordered his drink and talked to Xavier for a while, and I just sat there lookin’ at him, expectin’ him to come over and ask for a poke or a game of cards. Before he even brought his bottle to the table and sit with me I began to want him to.
Jake always compliments me. “My goodness,” he said the first time he saw me, “I never expected to find nobody like you here. We didn’t see much beauty when I lived in these parts. Now if this was San Francisco, I wouldn’t be surprised.” It caught me off guard to hear him say that but from then on he promised he would see that I got to San Francisco, ‘cause he knew that’s where I belong. After several visits with Jake Spoon and talks about headin’ up to San Francisco and startin’ up a new life together, I began to feel like I wanted to play a part in keepin’ him alive, which is somethin’ I’ve never felt before. I mean, I’m used to men thinkin’ they need me desperately, just because they want to get their carrots in me, but Jake wasn’t askin’ that and that made me wonder.
After I had been goin’ with Jake a while, one day Gus came struttin’ through the Bean and came over to me and asked for a poke. Xavier stood behind the bar and just watched, not knowin’ why he would do somethin’ like that. Gus didn’t feel embarrassed or nothin’, he just sat back with his arm hangin’ over the chair as if nothin’ was wrong, as if he didn’t care I was with Jake now. I told him I wouldn’t do it ‘cause Jake’s my sweetheart. Then he offered me fifty dollars so I let him do his business. I felt so horrible doin’ that to Jake. I made Xavier swear he wouldn’t tell a soul. A few days later Jake and me was sittin’ on the bed together and I was tellin’ him about it and about the fifty dollars. Jake lifted his eyebrows like he does, like they was nothin’ he could possible hear that would really surprise him, like he knew it already or somethin’. “He’s a fool with money,” Jake said to me. “I reckon he got his poke.” He wiped sweat off his forehead and wiped it on the sheets. “Now that you’re rich you can loan me twenty,” he said. That was when I knew Jake didn’t really love me, and perhaps I didn’t really love him neither. I just kept starin’ out the window as if my mind had already left Lonesome Dove and moved up the trail. Jake sat up again and put his sweaty arms around me. He always said he loved the way I smell in the morning’, so he sniffed my shoulders and my throat. He did it again. I didn’t stop the attentions but I didn’t encourage them neither. I just kept thinkin’ that any other man woulda beat me black and blue after what I did with Gus.
The day before I left town I heard a knock at my door. It was Xavier. He was standin’ on the stairs cryin’ his eyes out. He said, “Is it true, what Jake says? You’re leaving?” I nodded and told him my plans about San Francisco and gettin’ the hell out of Lonesome Dove. He said, “I want to marry you, don’t go Lorie. If you go I don’t want to live. I will burn the place down. It’s a filthy place anyways. I will burn it down tomorrow.” He kept goin’ on and on and he wouldn’t stop even after I told him to. “If Jake kills me I would be better. I can give you everything.” Then he started pullin’ money outa his pocket, and the sight of it made me feel tired. I knew right then and there that no matter what plans I made or how I tried to live, some man would always be lookin’ at me and holdin’ out money.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Hello, there.
It is rare that I go a day without putting pen to paper. Since the timid age of nine I have documented, in one form or another, my life--worries, fears, desires, frustrations, heartbreaks, beliefs, ideas, losses, gains, stories, poems, and...well, you get the picture. But although over the years my many journals, diaries, crumpled napkins, and post-it notes have been edited and transformed, destroyed in fits of anger and frustration, tragically lost in endless heaps of hand-me-downs strewn across my bedroom floor, and negligently discarded in weekly garbage, my love for writing has remained constant. It is one of the very few things in this world
that I am wholeheartedly and irrevocably passionate about.
For years, I have searched for a method to keep my writings in a safe place to preserve my thoughts, stories, and reflections. And time and time again, I have failed (my mother blames it on my inability to be organized; I argue that it is in fact possible for things to "get up and walk away"--a possibility that in my case turned into a tendency).
Ergo, I have started a blog. I want, through this exciting new discovery of permanence and accessibility of the wondrous internet, to allow myself and others to explore, doubt, question, reflect, and discuss anything and everything.
that I am wholeheartedly and irrevocably passionate about.
For years, I have searched for a method to keep my writings in a safe place to preserve my thoughts, stories, and reflections. And time and time again, I have failed (my mother blames it on my inability to be organized; I argue that it is in fact possible for things to "get up and walk away"--a possibility that in my case turned into a tendency).
Ergo, I have started a blog. I want, through this exciting new discovery of permanence and accessibility of the wondrous internet, to allow myself and others to explore, doubt, question, reflect, and discuss anything and everything.
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