Somewhere, I have notes on family and names, the infamy of Cuban fare, being alone together, breaking the seal, passing Damian on the way to Havana, salty hair from salty air, rum and brown, threaded fingers, not enough euchre, every life-guard trying to sell me lobster meals, patterns on palms, plus 20 minutes Cuba time, finding out how deep my scars run, blushing through my sunburn, sand everywhere and in everything.
It’s good to have something to write about again. To have friends who are comforting and kind in my most sensitive moments, and just as importantly, things to confide in them. Good hair days. Reasons to wear something nice. Dreams without desire. Feelings without fear.
I never realized how much I needed a get away until I came home and got more done in a week than in the month before I left. Without a guitar or a workload or an internet connection or a routine or any of my decks, detaching from life as I knew it was a simple matter. Maybe that’s why it felt like I was gone for so long, even though time passed so quickly. The only real consideration I ever had was how I’d like to spend each particular moment, and presented with that kind of freedom, I learned to truly let go of everything else.
A few weeks ago, an anonymous person very thoughtfully sent me a track called NYC by Brolin. This person must know me quite well, cause the song is to my taste exactly. Not only that, but I’d been meaning to make a short film about my trip to New York (as well as the extended stay due to Hurricane Sandy), and Brolin’s minimalistic sound space and ghostly vocals gave me an atmosphere of warmth and wonder that matched my footage perfectly.
Personally, I don’t think I could ever create anything and name it NYC. It’s a city with too much depth and complexity to try encapsulating in a verse or song or moving image, then tie it up with three simple letters. I can’t wait to go back again some day to capture as much as I can.
I walk towards Penn Station, after being unceremoniously dumped along with several other confused passengers at Grand Central by shuttle. While it’s hard to get a sense of how long it’ll take, the grid gives me the courage to continue on foot instead of waiting for a transferring shuttle.
I carry screenshots of a map on my phone, which I soon discover is a poor substitute for an actual map when navigating New York. The roads occasionally run in strange directions or skip numbers, and it’s enough to throw off my orientation.
Still, the city feels smaller than I thought. So many stories happen here, told in movies and novels and songs, that I’ve always expected it to be a size relative to the dreams people have. This is what F. Scott Fitzgerald must have felt when he climbed the Empire State Building1, saw the limits of the city for the first time from within, and was left “with the awful realization that New York was a city after all and not a universe”.
I passed through here many years ago when I was too young to be scared of what could go wrong, and too much in love to care anyway. That journey — on my way to Jersey by bus — was far longer than this one through Toronto by plane. I survived then, that’s how I know I’ll survive this, no matter what happens.
Three days and two nights. Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Meet Mike at the corner of 31st Street and 8th Avenue in Manhattan after the business part of his trip was finished. Get out of the country, connect with a good friend, return with some nice memories. That was the plan, but I never caught my plane home.
A day before Hurricane Sandy landed, all flights at LaGuardia were cancelled, a theme that would continue two more times until the airline rescheduled my return for Saturday, almost a week longer than I had originally planned to stay (and that’s if it’s not cancelled again). Mike made it home to London, Liz and I weren’t so lucky.
They were expecting 6–9 feet of water, and we got 14. The president has declared a state of emergency. All mass transit is shut down. The railroad tunnels are flooded. All airports are closed. School is out for the whole week. The New York Stock Exchange has been closed for two days straight, something that hasn’t happened since 1888. More than 2.5 million are without power. The death toll is over 100 and counting.
Luckily, I have a place to stay. Aside from a brief loss of power, a longer loss of internet access, and a few leaks from the ceiling, we’re sitting pretty with running water, heat, and a flushable toilet. It’s a luxury compared to what others are going through at the shelters, and I consider myself fortunate compared to those in New Jersey who’ve lost their homes, their pets, their possessions, and their lives.
The strange part is that I’ve never met the couple who own this Brooklyn apartment. Liz and Mike found them through Roomorama, and they left before the storm hit, leaving Liz with the main bedroom and Mike with the guest room. They’ve been generous enough to let me stay during this extenuating circumstance, although the fact that they rented out the guest room to someone else two days ago means I’ve been relegated to a nook and mattress on the floor. At least it’s cozy, and there’s a spare mattress.
Still, I wasn’t prepared for this. I’m running out of money, medication, and morale. The only things I brought were a change of clothes, a camera, and an iPad. The worst part is the wait. Not having a computer to be productive, and now a week of cancelled plans. Not having my cats1 or my guitar. Not knowing when I’ll get out of here. Just waiting in a city I hardly know, with no way to get around. I can’t be proactive; all I can do is be patient.
To keep abreast of the ever-changing situation, I’ve been watching 24 hour news coverage, hanging on the words of Mayor Bloomberg at his live press conferences for any sign that I may make it out of here.
I came to New York, expecting to return home recharged, refreshed, and ready to take on the world. The world decided I wasn’t ready yet.
It’s been too long since we took a ride together. Too long since someone else was at the wheel and I got to score the passing Canadian fields with my new favourite songs. Too long since I saw the old crew and filmed them landing aerials on the farm.
We drive through lovely little villages I’d never want to live in but always think of visiting some day. They’re too small for comic book stores and decent Chinese food and any possibility of getting lost, but big enough to hold the hopes of anyone who ever wanted to build a life for themselves in a quiet community full of old-world charm and decay. The tiny economy based on tourism from an annual country music festival or historic school will make sure it stays like this forever.
Our final days grow ever darker, but winter feels far away when I turn on the A/C in the car as we set off on the scenic route. It’s strange to think I’ll never be here again. I do my best to take my time, to remember the smell of every wooden house and twirl of hair and cozy wind. This was never a way for me to escape my life back home, only a journey I knew I needed to take.
But the novelty of grey hair and almond eyes has long run out, and now I’m just a man, trying to find out where he belongs.
A mask that smiles.
It’s night, and a gentle song begins on my bedside speaker. Until this point, I’d always wondered who’d be the first to hear this song with me. Whose breath I’d feel on my body as the melody got lost in the darkness along with our inhibitions. It wasn’t a song I’d been saving, only one I never had the chance to share until I found myself here, exploring the open fields and windswept mountains and towns in between.
The stars are clear out here. A train runs through the centre a few times a day, blaring a horn as a warning to people who may be going from building to building by crossing the tracks. It’s a tiny village in a snowglobe, only the snow hasn’t come.
I haven’t been around this many people in years. I’ve long wondered what it’d be like to live this life one more time. To have rituals and theatre plans and regular friends. None of this is real, of course, but I don’t mind pretending if only for a little while.
Girlcave. Fucking awesome.
I find myself resigned to someone’s care. It’s not an easy kind of control to relinquish, but lately I trust as little as possible in the future and do my best to go along for the ride. As the old poem goes; be wise, strain the wine, or as Zorba would put it, “DON’T BE DELICATE”. I didn’t plan on living forever anyway.
On a cold night, we keep the only promise made, one of those small wonders that still make me believe. I fit somewhere between needs and wants, temporary relief and long-term side effects, class and homework, nibbled lips and bitten tongues.
The fall is holding out against the winter, trees clutching bright leaves before the chill breaks their grips. It’s wonderfully warm among such colours, and we walk in the valleys of Appalachia to take in the smell of mountain air as rustic hands around us work livestock and soil. In old Aramaic, Damascus means “a well-watered place”, a fitting name as the rain soon grows too heavy to be exploring the tiny town, population 981.
When Dave and Jenny asked me to film their wedding in Maui, there was no way I could say refuse. Soon1 I found myself in the only place in the world where Koa grows, and every tree I passed made me wonder if it would eventually be made into a ukulele or guitar. I was only there for two days, but it was worth every moment in the delightful weather, spending time with some of the nicest people I’ve ever met.
The entire wedding group gathered for dinner at Mala restaurant, overlooking the Pacific Ocean and the islands of Lanai and Kaho‘olawe. At this time of year, the Maui sunset passes in the blink of an eye.
I learned that there are only twelve letters in the Hawaiian alphabet (which is why so many of the words look the same to me), and the language uses Spanish vowels. Each vowel is usually pronounced by itself (Wailea is said “Why-lay-ah”). I was surprised to see most signs in both English and Japanese; it turns out there used to be a significant Japanese community in Hawaii, although most of the Japanese tourists go to see Pearl Harbor instead.
All the locals are super nice, perhaps due to the fact that tourism is one of the only industries left in Maui2; it seems like most people living there are in the service industry in some form or another3.
We watched Rory McIlroy take the most impressive lead in US Open history to win the 2011 title, and when you see these golf superstars making satisfyingly effortless shots, you long for the same kind of feeling that can only come from something as primal as hitting a ball. It’s been years since I held a club in my hand, but I was itching to play and we headed to a driving range, taking it easy on my last day in Scotland.
I’m going home a different person. Not a drastic change, but a refinement of the growth I’ve had in the last year, and a galvanization of the spirit. This trip has taught me that life is full of happiness, and my memories of Europe will be filled with the people and places that have made the last three weeks a rich and wonderful experience.
Barney likes to roll around in the grass, and sometimes he comes back in with pieces of foliage in his fur. He even has a shed with a duvet in it that allows him to sleep comfortably outside, even when it’s dark and the temperature drops. The backyard provides a tremendous amount of privacy, thanks to all the lush greenery.
A closer look at Edinburgh, occasionally viewed from the top of a double-decker bus. The road design often doesn’t make any sense, or follow any kind of grid, facts that belie it’s medieval history. Some streets are especially wide, so that horse carriages could make a full turn in them. Keeping these old traditions may add to the character of the city, but I question whether it’s worth the added confusion and frustration when trying to navigate.
One of the interesting things about this city is that it can be divided down the middle into distinct Old Town and New Town sections, where the difference in architectural style is very striking.
There’s a bagpipe busker on this corner outside the Princes Mall at all times. I think a few of them share shifts; it must be the most lucrative corner in the city.
Peebles is a town of about 8000 inhabitants, with the River Tweed running through it. It’s easy to see why it was recently ranked as the best town in Scotland, as it’s full of small town charm, and is less than an hour drive from Edinburgh. You can stand at one end and see the other, where the buildings abruptly end and the land goes on as hill and grass. It seems like every other store is a charity shop where people can donate their old clothes, toys, board games, and other sundries.
