~Francis Bacon
I'm starting this post from the kitchen cum dining room of my home for the month in Buckinghamshire. I sip a cup of warm milk with honey and do my best to keep quiet. And to keep the dogs quiet. It's five thirty in the morning and the puppies aren't used to having visitors this early. Lucy whines and paws my leg. I give her head a quick pat, but puppies aren't satisfied with quick pats. Do not engage a young black lab at 5:30 in the morning unless you are prepared to commit to a full-on tummy rub, complete with growling and other horseplay.
I am not prepared for horseplay.
She leaves me in disgust and goes to whimper at the door. She is desperate that I open it, as she would love nothing more than to scamper up the stairs and crawl into bed to snuggle with Charlotte and Jack.
However, I have a slight inkling that Charlotte and Jack would love quite a few things more than having a wriggly lab jumping into bed with them at 5:30 on a Saturday morning.
I haven't turned on the lights. I want the dogs to think that sleeping is still a good and proper activity for this hour. The sky is brightening outside and light filters in through the curtains drawn across the glass doors near the wooden dining room table. I like the colors of the pinkish red flowers atop the sand field. They make me miss my desert --
Lucy's whining chased me out of the dining room. I grabbed a banana for the rest of my breakfast and fled to the living room. I can still hear her pattering about the floor in confusion. I imagine her lisping, high-pitched voice in my head, "I can thee you, Aimee. Ith morning and I'm awake. I can thee you. I can thmell you. Pleath let me out. Charlotte needs me to lick her feet and her fathe and her handth and --"
"Give it a rest, Lucy," the massive golden lab interrupts in his heavy Russian accent. "She will not let us through, no matter how cute you think you are."
"But... but Charlotte would let me through."
"Charlotte is not as hard-hearted as this Aimee creature. This Aimee creature cares not for the sad eyes of puppies."
"But --"
"There will be no trouncing upon the bed of the humans until one of the friend beasts comes downstairs to make the house smell like coffee. This silly morning girl with her stupid cup of milk and banana is worthless to us. Go back to sleep."
But Lucy did not go back to sleep. Lucy stood at the door and whined and scratched until I picked up my laptop and my uneaten banana and returned to my loft, out of sight and smell of the eager puppy.
"I can thstill thmell you."
Miguel.
I met Miguel in Paris May of last year. I was tagging along on one of Sandeman's free tours, forcefully absorbing the sights of the city, unnecessarily fiddling with my camera, and conspicuously alone. Traveling solo is exhilarating and liberating, but can be awkward and lonely in cities such as Paris. I strolled around Venice on my own and had a lovely time (disregarding the hours I spent looking for a way to relieve myself in that toilet forsaken city), but every time I'd glance a couple giving each other tastes of their pistaccio and bacio gelatos or leaning over bridges with their hands draped gently over backs or inserted territorially into pockets, I'd feel a twinge of loneliness.
Will I always travel alone?
This is a question that continues to haunt me.
Probably. The manner by which I move through space isn't exactly popular. I'm not just like one of those dandelion puffs, romantically floating in the wind; I land and start to send out roots. Delicate little absorption strands meant to carry nutrients but not to ground. And then when I'm plucked up by the next gust of wind, I wonder why being displaced hurts.
Most people don't seek that kind of hurt. Many float down, but if they know in the back of their tiny seed brains that they'll soon be lifted off, they keep their tiny roots shut tight within their tough seed bodies. They save their roots for settling. It's safer. Less painful. It makes sense.
But without sending out my searching roots in each place, I would feel dead. Roots are painful, but roots represent connection. Torn roots represent loss, but they're reminiscent of life.
Miguel.
I met Miguel in Paris May of last year. We spent hours wandering through museums, photographing cathedrals, discussing our respective cultures and lazing about with picnics in the parks. Paris is a city to spend with friends or lovers, and I'm glad I got to spend Paris with Miguel -- an absolute stranger who became a friend.
He told me that Mexican pigeons are too lethargic to fly. I chased the livelier Parisian pigeons around the park in front of the Eiffel Tower so that he could photograph them to prove to his brother that French pigeons had more spunk.
We talked about theatre and film. My yet-to-be-produced plays gathering dust on my hard drive and his short films getting accepted into Cannes (which he never bragged about, the humble fellow. I don't know if I could have kept my head from transmogrifying into a pretentious hot air balloon if one of my first films had been accepted into Cannes).
We shared travel stories over melting Camembert and lukewarm wine.
Then we parted ways.
"If you're ever in Mexico --"
"If you're ever in Colorado --"
And that's how those things go. You have an amazing experience with a remarkable individual, and then... well...
"If you're ever."
You hug goodbye and plant a seed in the back of your mind. The --
"If I'm ever..."
-- seed.
Miguel was in London this week. I was in Buckinghamshire. He hopped the train and arrived in High Wycombe a little after 1:00. Seeing him here felt surreal -- as if I had one foot in France and one foot in England. I could almost smell the Camembert, see our tour guide, and hear Sigur Ross playing in the back of my mind.
I gave him a very real hug and we spent the next six and a half hours wandering around the town, the National Trust Trails, and sitting in the roots of a tree while watching the bizarre movements of ducks in the river.
People have a lot to talk about after a year of not seeing one another. It's interesting and amusing to see the things people remember after a year after not seeing one another.
I remembered Miguel's lazy Mexican pigeons and the stories about water balloon fights with his family. I remembered his enormous camera bag and the animated spark in his dark eyes. I remembered how easy it was to talk with him.
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| In Versailles, May of 2012 |
Talking to Miguel was no more difficult this time around. It's comforting to know that certain types of relationships can be picked up where they were left off. I have a few of those types of relationships and I will forever cherish them.
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| Walking through the English countryside. We wandered around for hours, chatting and relaxing and losing ourselves in the maze of trails. We eventually found our way back to a main road, magically ending up right in front of an ice-cream shop. |
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| Watching the movement of ducks. |
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| Such massive feet |
We walked back to the station at 6:38. Miguel's train left around 7:00 and Charlotte was picking me up at 7:30.
"If you get a film into the Telluride Film Festival, I'll come back from wherever I am to volunteer and watch your film."
"If you're ever in Mexico --"
"No. I will come to Mexico. And I will try some of that delicious mole sauce."
And we hugged goodbye.
"Thanks for bumping into me."
"Until next time."
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| Miguel took this picture of the Eiffel Tower in my eye last May |
Cockney Rhyme: It's all gone Pete Tong = It's all gone wrong
Preconceptions:
None today
Saying: "He went ass over tit!" (head over heels)
General Observations: SO many good places to walk in this country. Good ice creams, good cheeses, good walking, good coffee... Ach. Good bacon.
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