The person on my right was watching an interesting documentary about Iceland. The person on my left was watching The Grand Budapest Hotel.
I sullenly sat and poked at my screen.
*poke*
*poke*
*POKE*
....
I never did get to watch a movie, but I did succeed in thoroughly annoying my bench buddies (although the screaming human monsters gave me a run for my money as to who was the most annoying).
By the time I arrived in Denver, I was 100% knackered. My legs were lead. My arse felt as if it had been sitting on lead for the last twelve hours. I was nauseous and tired and wanted to stuff socks into the faces of all human monsters under two feet tall.
Denver Airport.
The first thing I noticed was the paintings of indigenous people that lined the walls.
For some reason, this really irritated me.
Why does this irritate me? I furrowed my brow as I stumbled past portraits of Cherokee and Ute and Cheyenne. It's because I'm so used to being in touristic cities and having preconceptions exploited for the sake of tourism. The gondolas in Venice, the little Eiffel Towers in Paris, the shamrocks in Dublin. The indigenous people in Colorado. It would be fabulous if I felt we were celebrating these people for how fantastic they are or apologizing to them for the whole genocide business... but I feel like this is just for tourists. And that makes me a little sick.
Ellie (true to form) was just about last to pop out onto the creaking, whining belt (I think she has a very active social life in the hold. I imagine her chattin' up the studly Gregory packs, the rugged North Faces and the sleek Ospreys. She's a damn flirt, that one. She knows she's the color of aubergine and smells of 100 different cheeses from 20 different countries. Poor Gregory doesn't stand a chance against her feminine wiles).
While waiting for Ellie, I overheard some of the other non-indigenous Coloradans talking about their recent trips to Europe.
"Man, I really started to feel at home there, you know," a lanky chap said to a less lanky chap in a thick Coloradan accent.
Me too. Well... Eduard made me feel at home in Barcelona. Maud made me feel at home in Holland. And I was at home in Slovenia. And with Felix... I miss Felix and his dumplings. The things I would do for a Felix dumpling right now... And I was finally starting to understand how the whole hitchhiking, vagabond lifestyle really works and getting my bag super light and learning bits and pieces of Italian and --
"Yeah, you're super lucky to have gotten to stay for three whole weeks. I only got two."
Whaa? Two weeks? God, I can't imagine just getting to travel for two weeks...or three weeks. You never get to settle. You never get past the culture shock to understand rhythm. Everything is FORTE, FORTE, FORTE and you never see the undercurrent of piano, piano, piano...
It's because I'm back in America. It's because in America, people get two weeks of paid holiday every year. It's because most Americans are bound to the ground in debt -- medical debt, school debt, credit card debt. Land of the free, my aching hippie ASS. This is the most indentured country I've ever visited. Banks own people here. Jobs own people. Credit card companies own people. And hospitals terrorize them with bills of thousands and thousands of dollars should they fall ill/have a baby.
I plucked my flirtatious elephant from the belt and heaved her onto my back.
Have a fun time, Ellie? You certainly took long enough.
Amanda and Jeff were waiting for me in the terminal.
For those of you who don't know, Amanda was my first ever roommate. I wanted to move out of my family home as soon as I turned 18 (I'm rather independent. Which I'm sure the vast majority of you know), but couldn't afford to live on my own and had no idea about how one goes about choosing housemates.
That girl is adorable, I looked at Amanda as she slouched over her desk in my sophomore year cultural anthropology class. Look at that hat. She always wears the best hats. Can I pick a roommate based on their groovy hats?
Definitely.
So I introduced myself to the groovy hat girl and politely asked whether or not she would care to live with me. Cool hat girl agreed to give me my first shot at being a grownup in the quasi grownup limbo land of university. She was patient. She was sweet. She tolerated my learning curve when I thought it was totally appropriate to leave pots and pans on the stove for at least 48 hours before cleaning them up and when I didn't quite understand that we should take turns mowing the lawn (I eventually coerced my little brother into lawn mowing in exchange for Chipotle burritos. That boy will do anything for a Chipotle burrito).
So to all of y'all who have enjoyed my company as a couchsurfer/volunteer, you have Amanda to thank for getting me off on the proper roommate feet.
Jeff is Amanda's husband. He's brilliant and dashing and the only thing that could possibly be better than Amanda is Amanda and Jeff together (CHEESE!).
Having Amanda and Jeff together to meet me at the airport after 16 months abroad was just about the softest, sweetest landing this vagabond could have hoped for.
"What's an American food that you're really craving?" Amanda asked as we whizzed down Colorado's ENORMOUS roads at something MILES per hour.
"Mexican food!" I moaned. "Europe doesn't believe in guacamole. Or salsa. Mexican food is Coloradan, right?"
"Right."
And my groovy hat roommate and her cool cat husband took me out to a phenomenal Mexican meal. As it was the first food I'd eaten since the Dutch sausage in a bag 16 hours before, girl was starved.
Girl was also delirious. And overwhelmed.
There's so much English! I don't know how to handle it. I can understand what they're saying at the table behind me and the table in front of me and the table -- AHH! it's too much. Where's my bubble? It's all changed from the gentle background hum into the foreground assault of "I want the spiciest salsa you've got," "Oh my god, you did WHAT? You know I can't stand Anita. Yes, yes you do. I just... If you invite her over for dinner one more time, swear to god, I'll --" I WANT MY BUBBLE BACK.
"How you folks doin' today?" our handsome waiter asked, far too politely. "Can I get you started with anything to drink?"
I don't have to somehow communicate that I only communicate in English. None of that, "io parlo solo inglese" or "je parle seulement anglais" or "gib mir ein bier!" I don't have to ask someone to translate items on the menu for me... I just have to order.
Which ended up being far more difficult than anticipated. One of the nice things about only speaking a few words in a foreign language is that ordering becomes a bit easier.
Cibolla! That's the word for onion! I like onions. This dish has onions! I'll get this dish.
Understanding everything makes it harder.
"Take your time," the waiter said, flashing his perfectly straight American teeth.
I eventually ordered salmon. Salmon atop a cheese covered corn tortilla atop a bed of butternut squash and black beans.
With guacamole and salsa on the side.
Girl be in heaven.
Amanda and Jeff set me up in their spare room with enough pillows to make a Tessa style nest and enough pillows to build a fort (I was too exhausted to attempt the construction of either, but the possibility was there). They told me to make myself at home, help myself to whatever was in the fridge and walked me through the ins and outs of how to use the shower and the coffee machine.
As I'd been awake for two days straight at this point, I promptly passed the f*ck out and slept until eight am.
My sister-in-law contacted me the next day, asking if I'd like to meet her and my new niece in a nearby park around lunchtime.
First time seeing family in 16 months... oy. I'm excited and nervous and so stinkin' disoriented. Family. Like, biological family. How did 16 months of living with strangers make the idea of meeting blood relatives so strange? It was just 16 months.
But a very intense 16 months.
I donned my Peter Pan-esque dress from Barcelona and walked the mile to meet Chelsea and Cosette.
A rabbit scamper, hopped into the bush. Crab apple trees shed their sour fruit all over the sidewalk. The midwestern drawl with the uber emphasized R hit me like a load of bRicks.
And all these big trucks. Good god, who in their Righd mind would dRive a tRuck this big?
Meeting Cosette was a strange and wonderful thing.
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| Maud had given me one of her ducks to pass on to Cosette. It squeaks. Cosette loves it. |
Chelsea was beautiful. Radiant. Bubbly.
But Chelsea is always beautiful, radiant and bubbly.
Mom looks good on her.
Chelsea drove me back to Amanda's. I made myself some tea and went to work on my blog.
I don't know how to process this. So I'm not gonna. Not yet.
So I wrote about Maud and drank coffee and waited for Jeff and Amanda to return from work. Then I did what I always do when I want to feel comfortable in someone's home -- I made dinner. A wild rice risotto with golden beets, white wine and mushrooms.
The next day was spent with Amanda. She treated me to the Denver Art Museum --
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| HOBO! |
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| I adore Chuck Close |
I was asked, "how're you doing, everything okay?" by the salespeople at the REI more times than I'd been asked in the last 16 months combined.
Part of me was flattered. Part of me was annoyed. All of me was overwhelmed.
Despite their incredible helpfulness, I was unable to find boots. Nobody at the REI knew what to do with my feet. I don't think they're accustomed to people asking,
"Yes, I do need help. I need boots that don't have a lot of tread. I need boots that are light and waterproof. I need boots that work for feet with toes all the same size, super tall, super small and super fat. What've you got?"
There was a lot of laughter, a lot of failure and a lot of sad toe wiggling.
Leaving my soft landing pad in Denver for my hometown in GJ was... was...
Scary. I think I'm more afraid of going to Grand Junction than I was of lakeside sleeping in Albania. Of couchsurfing in Morocco. Of hitchhiking through Romania.
My parents met me outside Amanda's apartment at half twelve. Seeing them in the flesh was disorienting.
Surreal.
I love these people... I'm thrilled to see these people... but I'm so glad I already have plans to move on. I can't be in GJ for an extended period of time again. This is just a month and a half stint. Part of my journey as Croatia was part of my journey.
Hugs were exchanged and we loaded into my father's new truck for my brother's new house in Broomfield (where he has a new job).
New truck... new adorable monster... new home. The world moves without me. I'm just a presence that floats in and out and far away and can't expect what I leave behind to stay.
My brother's apartment is the perfect size. It's small and full of monster toys and lots and lots of autumn goodies (pumpkin everything).
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| Me, the Monster and the panda. |
There are all sorts of open markets.
Kombucha on tap.
Gluten-free goodies everywhere.
Runners, hikers, skiers, mountain climbers.
Smart, friendly, open-minded hippies (who make loads of money. Not quite sure how this is done).
We visited for a couple of hours and then finished the drive to the western slope.
My sisters were waiting up for me (Jaime actually scared the bejeezus out of me in the driveway). With my favorite tea.
I made breakfast the next morning and then my dad dropped me off at Janet's on his way to work.
"I can't believe you're here. In my house," she said after we'd finished our sort of hysterical hug fest.
"I'm so happy to be here," I answered with complete honesty. There never was a question in my mind. Janet told me she was getting married. I had to come. "You know you're the only person who could bring me back, right?"
"I love you."
"I love you too."
I'd kind of expected my time in GJ to be restorative. Peaceful. Contemplative.
But I've been busier than whatever bees we have left. During my first week in Grand Junction, I went to three dinners, gave one massage, spent twelve hours gardening, had two acro yoga sessions, saw a hilarious piece of musical theatre with an old friend and reconnected with Janet. We drove to Utah to scope out her wedding site and I completely fell in love with the idea of her and this place and her fiancé together.
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| Janet. This woman will be in my life forever. I'm not sure how often we'll see each other or the kind of people we'll be when we do, but I know that it will be for always. |
Janet even took me shooting. As she's part of the law enforcement division of park service, she's received loads of training in how to fire pistols (amongst many other bad ass activities).
My father used to take us shooting. I remember having an excellent aim with a rifle.
Not all guns are created equal, however. The only part of the target I managed to hit was the left shoulder. And I completely destroyed the dirt around the blue man.
"We're a perfect team," I exclaimed to my patient buddy after I'd emptied my clip. "You've destroyed the head and the chest and I completely immobilized the left arm. And that hill isn't going anywhere anytime soon."
Oregon is tomorrow. Oregon, grandparents, cousins and the Divine Play Festival.
Bring on the acro yoga (and the relatives). Girl be nervous out of her stretchy pants but ready for a challenge.
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