Nostalgia
I used to be a reckless traveler. Like in Prague three years ago, when Liz and I careened through the streets with our jackets unzipped, blissfully sleet-soaked; or when we tapped our feet on the tram without even once fumbling for the map we had bought but would promptly lose in a mossy cathedral one hour later. Even though I missed everything large and uncouth about America-its irrational prairies and belting blue skies-I did not miss it enough to return. At that moment I wanted our boisterous tripping down cobbled lanes. I wanted lollygagging on foggy bridges after post-discotheque MacDonald’s binges. I wanted strange graffiti smeared like snocone juice on tunnel walls. I wanted nothing of my future, only bleating Bohemian rain and emerald landscapes, back muscles straining against the weight of my pack, hair long and whipped in the late spring wind.
Then right before a weekend jaunt to New York City, I woke up prematurely middle-aged-grasping, neurotic, desperate for tickets, early arrivals, brightly marked platforms, and baggage tags. Was it regression or maturation, to wake up afraid with my sheets in fretful knots around my ankles?
I tried to catalog my fears while brushing my teeth: as a small girl I was afraid of geese, of getting lost, of crossing the street without looking both ways twice. They were small, logical fears which dissolved painlessly. Two decades later I am afraid of driving at night, alone, in traffic, or in inclement weather. I am afraid of talking too loudly in quiet places, walking into empty public bathrooms, forgetting my PIN number, losing the diamond studs my grandfather once bought me at Sam’s Club, forgetting friends and their phone numbers, losing my phone. I am afraid that I will never fall in love, real love, the kind that you never see on TV, the kind that hits you with a short, square jab to the gut and sends you twirling.
I finished brushing my teeth, dressed, and then put the kettle on. I did not burn my hand. I did not even mangle it when I pushed the tangerine rind down the disposal. I got into my car which did not, incidentally, have its brakes go out, lose a tire or explode. It did not mow down a small child who was chasing a ball into the street. In fact, the morning quiet hung like a bower. No calamity struck. The sun shone clean, sharp,unworried. Small blossoms perched on branches lining the avenue. I kept driving and the sun kept shining and the light, that pale, reaching light made something deep in my gut turn. It was like pages arching backwards, pushed by a gust of wind. And as it flipped something came undone.
I remembered last summer-one infinite sleepover-all daily swim parties, pupusa feasts, and late nights on friends’ lawns with the stars glinting through sprinkler mist. Instead of the reckless abandon of Prague, bliss came with the languor, the lingering, the staying put. Moments slowed so my body could absorb them. My friend Joe pointed out this impossible infinity one night when the evening sky had just mellowed out to purple. I remember smelling chlorine and feeling a tightness in my skin from our afternoon swim. Joe put his arms around me and we swayed under a streetlamp while our friends parked their bikes and chattered. His mouth stayed close to my ear and from it crooned Elvis, one of the slow ones. I remember how his arms felt around me, his scruff against my cheek, his breath warm on my ear. I remember I was trying to talk to someone on the phone and he kept trying to get me to stop. I didn’t. So finally he pocketed it and said: “Summer can’t last forever unless you let it.” It was a horrible, cheesy line that was so far away from the Cary-Grant-smooth he wanted that we both started cracking up. But it made my heart fling.
So when the day came for me to finally pack up my bags for Washington, D.C. and Sara invited me to the cabin I knew what to do. That night was infinite. I woke up to the smell of coffee cake baking and pine. While the sky was still husky with night, we ate. We used our fingers to pull out big hunks of hot coffee cake and dunked them in steaming mugs of cocoa. I burnt my fingers and I did not care. We drove home at dawn when the canyon was just beginning to brim with light.
Then right before a weekend jaunt to New York City, I woke up prematurely middle-aged-grasping, neurotic, desperate for tickets, early arrivals, brightly marked platforms, and baggage tags. Was it regression or maturation, to wake up afraid with my sheets in fretful knots around my ankles?
I tried to catalog my fears while brushing my teeth: as a small girl I was afraid of geese, of getting lost, of crossing the street without looking both ways twice. They were small, logical fears which dissolved painlessly. Two decades later I am afraid of driving at night, alone, in traffic, or in inclement weather. I am afraid of talking too loudly in quiet places, walking into empty public bathrooms, forgetting my PIN number, losing the diamond studs my grandfather once bought me at Sam’s Club, forgetting friends and their phone numbers, losing my phone. I am afraid that I will never fall in love, real love, the kind that you never see on TV, the kind that hits you with a short, square jab to the gut and sends you twirling.
I finished brushing my teeth, dressed, and then put the kettle on. I did not burn my hand. I did not even mangle it when I pushed the tangerine rind down the disposal. I got into my car which did not, incidentally, have its brakes go out, lose a tire or explode. It did not mow down a small child who was chasing a ball into the street. In fact, the morning quiet hung like a bower. No calamity struck. The sun shone clean, sharp,unworried. Small blossoms perched on branches lining the avenue. I kept driving and the sun kept shining and the light, that pale, reaching light made something deep in my gut turn. It was like pages arching backwards, pushed by a gust of wind. And as it flipped something came undone.
I remembered last summer-one infinite sleepover-all daily swim parties, pupusa feasts, and late nights on friends’ lawns with the stars glinting through sprinkler mist. Instead of the reckless abandon of Prague, bliss came with the languor, the lingering, the staying put. Moments slowed so my body could absorb them. My friend Joe pointed out this impossible infinity one night when the evening sky had just mellowed out to purple. I remember smelling chlorine and feeling a tightness in my skin from our afternoon swim. Joe put his arms around me and we swayed under a streetlamp while our friends parked their bikes and chattered. His mouth stayed close to my ear and from it crooned Elvis, one of the slow ones. I remember how his arms felt around me, his scruff against my cheek, his breath warm on my ear. I remember I was trying to talk to someone on the phone and he kept trying to get me to stop. I didn’t. So finally he pocketed it and said: “Summer can’t last forever unless you let it.” It was a horrible, cheesy line that was so far away from the Cary-Grant-smooth he wanted that we both started cracking up. But it made my heart fling.
So when the day came for me to finally pack up my bags for Washington, D.C. and Sara invited me to the cabin I knew what to do. That night was infinite. I woke up to the smell of coffee cake baking and pine. While the sky was still husky with night, we ate. We used our fingers to pull out big hunks of hot coffee cake and dunked them in steaming mugs of cocoa. I burnt my fingers and I did not care. We drove home at dawn when the canyon was just beginning to brim with light.