You’re on a plane. The altitude must be to blame for the physical and mental queasiness which you now feel. You try to concentrate on the more mundane things. First time on a plane. Takeoff was scary, they always say that. You’ve taken some of the recommended travel sickness pills, but chose against knocking yourself out completely. The shock of regaining consciousness in unfamiliar surrounds (if you did ever regain consciousness at all) could be too much. It occurs to you that it’s very white in here, inside the plane. The air hostess marches up the aisle checking that everyone is enjoying the flight and whether they would like some refreshments. She seems so perfect, so controlled. Her hair slicked back, her pantyhose perfectly worn, her stature that of someone who wanted to be nothing else. You take your eyes off the hostess and look at your hands. It’s going to be a long flight.
The man next to you is one of those officious business types; but luckily he didn’t need to be told to turn off his mobile phone as the plane departed. His quiet resigned expression and manner of dress speak that he has done this many times. You smile at him, he makes you feel reassured, a feeling he is no doubt unaware of.
Your thoughts turn to back home. You omitted the whole idea of the trip from your daily conversation, and even to the ones who knew about it you dared not confess the real motive behind your excitement. Your parents know where you’re going of course. But you’re travelling alone.
It was a relative who first put the thought in your head, one you never knew you had. She’s nice, Julia, her and her family; you’ve spoken quite a few times on the phone now, arranging all of this, what you should bring. Your luggage; what if they lose your luggage? They won’t lose your luggage. Tomorrow, the beginning of which will be only in a few hours; you can step off the plane and be met with your distant relatives at the airport, your bags will come around the carousel just like anyone else’s and you can pretend it doesn’t matter, like it is the most normal thing in the world for you to be in Boston.
Boston, you only ever associated that place with three things…
And now with the family you never knew you had. They’d known about you for a while; and through your mother, to your grandfather, to them, they learned that you had always wanted to travel. And through them, to your grandfather, much to the concern of your mother, you learned where they lived and how much they wanted you to visit. Of course you agreed, of course. It had all seemed so simple then. What were you doing with your life that couldn’t be picked up at a moments notice? What excuse was there for not trying to pick at this source of inspiration that had hollowly waned over time? It all spoke of such validation and opportunity.
Boston. The home of the Boston Tea Party, the television show Boston Legal, and…
There’s no guarantee, you recite to the apprehension rife within your body. You can enjoy, you will enjoy your trip, there’s more than enough time to do everything and to calm down and relax. Take a few photos, meet lots of new people. It’s going to be fun, you reassure yourself before following the lead of the other passengers and turning off your overhead light.
You sleep uneasily and wake to the sound of the captain making an announcement. The plane has passed over land in America, you’ll be landing shortly. Your first thoughts are that of not being ready, you reach to pick up your things but realise they’re not with you. You think about the landing. First you are going to search for the sign with your name on it, since you don’t even know what your new relatives look like… oh what a stupid move this was, you break off. Would I have gone if it wasn’t for…? Is it really worth it?
You feel a change in the plane. The captain confirms that you are about to land. You brace yourself but come in to land relatively smoothly.
It’s very bright and cold outside the plane, everyone is bustling past you in a great hurry, you see the man you were sitting next to gathering his coat about him and hurrying off too; while you stand motionless and awed. The airport is huge, crowded, and surprisingly colourful. You complete all the necessary forms and checks finally shaking yourself out of it to laugh at the, ‘Are you a terrorist?’ question. You find your bags, slightly more rounded at the corners than you left them, and struggle out to the arrivals and departures lounge. You search all up the avenue of people talking excitedly in an all manner of quite unfamiliar accents; and finally catch sight of a large white placard bearing your name in huge redrawn black marker. There is a tallish brunette woman whom you recognise as Julia, the relation of yours, whose voice seems to suit both her form and her name; a man of around the same age with darker curly hair and the same skin tone, who must be either her husband or brother; and two younger people, one male and one female, both beaming at you, who must be her children, Claudia and Stephen. You approach cautiously but relievedly, struggling with your bags, which the dark haired man drops his end of the sign to help you with. You mumble thanks and turn to them, since no-one’s really said anything yet, and mange a weak “Well here I am!” It breaks the ice significantly and they soon talk freely asking about your trip, your parents and other relations, and the place from which you have come. You find that the man with Julia is indeed her brother, Sam; Julia’s husband is away on business and Sam offered to come as moral support.
You all make your way through the maze of the airport and pile into their stately dark blue sedan. You’re going home. In a way. Away from the confusion and big white scary nothingness of planes. For two weeks anyway.
You arrive, after quite some time, out front of the house, in a not excessively urban part of the city. The unfamiliar trees are lovely and green, the cool breeze is blowing; all other thoughts vanish. This is going to be a great experience, regardless of what fanciful thoughts took you here.
It’s lunchtime and the family shows you your room, it’s spacious and clean, modest but modern like the rest of the house. They give you time to freshen up and all tromp excitedly downstairs to start lunch. You wonder if lunch will be edible, and hope it’s not hamburgers. You flop down on the bed. You’re here. No plane crashes, no lost luggage, no crushing disappointment, no terrorists. You sit up and walk over to the vanity table; you look pretty haggard, and resolve only to flatten down your hair a bit. Unpacking at the moment is out of the question. The jetlag is getting to you and you can’t even remember what time it is back home.
You trudge back down the stairs and manage a weak smile as you enter the kitchen. You sit around with your new found family and manage a polite nibble at the sandwiches and salad. The conversation progresses to what you’ll be doing tomorrow and Sam offers to show you around the city. You oblige, adding that you love a good bit of shopping and sight-seeing. Claudia exclaims that she too loves shopping and could show you some of the best places; Stephen adds that there is also a baseball game on in some stadium, the name of which goes in one ear and out the other. You nod politely, only wishing for sleep and peace.
The day progresses nicely and you check your emails on the family computer, manage to eat a larger portion at a slightly more awkward dinner, and gratefully flop into bed nice and early.
Your dreams are full of confusing scenes, blurred as if by a frantic chase and you awake rumpled and confused; watching the room morph out of a more familiar illusion into mid morning. You wrest a few necessities from you bags, clothes for today, toothbrush, hair brush… and after you are dressed you go down stairs to meet the family for a late breakfast. They’ve all eaten already and you snack on the leftover pancakes. The trip is pleasant and packed with more things than you can possibly take in.
After a few days you settle into a routine with the family and make a trip to the city on your own. You ask the taxi driver to drop you off at a nice looking shop. You have a half-hearted browse for souvenirs, and then walk around for a bit. It starts to get a bit cold and grey as the afternoon goes on. You don’t know many places, and you try to make a note of all the shops and venues along the streets, feeling some sort of recognition as you pass The Zero Arrow Theatre. And that’s when you make up your mind. You’re not going to let this opportunity slip through your fingers or let it ruin your trip. You’re prepared; and if you make a snap decision to do it right now, you feel you may have the best chance.
Your heart leaps into your throat as you stop a non-threatening passer-by and ask for the address of the place. They look at you a little surprised and tell you that they have no idea, you thank them anyway. You spot a postal worker at a mail box, thinking he must know, and he gives you some really complicated directions that you could never give a taxi driver. You think of just asking one to take you there but if you don’t know where it is they would probably take advantage of that. You try one more person. The lady you stop looks surprisingly like the air hostess from your flight, and she tells you that you’re in luck, since it’s just around the block. But you glance up and notice it’s getting properly dark between the buildings. You should probably be getting home, you put your hands in your pockets and hurry to the nearest taxi.
The next day you get around to properly unpacking. Procrastination was the only thing stopping you and it is the only thing motivating you now. You try not to think about the information you gained yesterday and are doing nothing with.
That night you do not sleep well and wake many times during the night, resolving to only to get out of bed late in the morning. You put on your nicer clothes, have breakfast and head for the door. “Going somewhere?” asks Julia. “Yes, I hope so.” You answer.
And soon enough you are standing out front of it, an authentic Boston café. You stride up to the door and go straight inside. You take some time ordering, using your menu to make a poorly disguised attempt at searching the room. With a sigh you realise that the person who you are looking for isn’t there, and regret not ordering your focaccia to go. You sit there eating it and periodically glancing up at the door for what seems like ages.
Feeling down-hearted but determined you go back to the café again the next day. You order a coffee and sit at a table near the window. She’s still not here; what a stupid plan, you think. It never happens when you’re trying. You stay for quite a while, rapping your fingers on the table top; examining the other patrons. You soon get bored and return home. Julia asks you whether you had fun out and about today. Sure, you say.
The following day you go back again. And this time you take a moment to appreciate the ambience of the place, which was what brought it to the attention of the person who recommended it to you. It seems to have a real, genuine and heritage feel, and is decorated in a tasteful artistic fashion. You decide to try a nice sounding herbal tea, something you’ve never really been into. The waiter brings it to you and you gaze into its olive green depths apprehensively. You smile at him sheepishly and pay for the tea. It tastes sweet and strange but not altogether unpleasant. You even manage to finish it before making a sweep of the café customers, now noticing some of its regulars. No luck today. You start making your napkin into a paper plane, but it proves too floppy. You lean back on your chair and start to take in the atmosphere; you’re in the beautiful and famous Café Pamplona, it’s summer and it’s lovely day. You have a lot to be thankful for, you tell yourself. Then just as you look back down again, you catch sight of a dark red-haired woman, of about 5'6", eclectically dressed, talking to a waiter and taking her seat a few tables down. Your mind races, this is it. This is what you have come here for, but you have no idea how to approach. If it were a bar this would be slightly easier. Maybe you could ask for some sugar. But you’ve finished your tea and the single serving sugar packet holder on your table is conspicuously full. You could ask for directions. But you don’t know anywhere around here. You realise you’re running out of options. The woman is sitting with her back to you fiddling with her takeaway beverage. You take a chance and get up and walk over to her, faking a stumble beside her table, but actually tripping yourself up much worse. You grab hold of the edge of her table to stop yourself hitting the floor; unfortunately it over balances her coffee which she was trying to put the lid on, and it tips all over the other side of the table, luckily not covering her in it. She looks shocked and a little angry, and once you see her face you realise she isn’t the person you were looking for. You’re terribly embarrassed and apologise profusely, insisting that you pay for the coffee. She accepts your offer, and the staff come over and clean up the mess. Many of the other customers are looking on with mild interest. You awkwardly try to help but end up backing out of the place self-consciously. One waiter standing near the door collecting dishes off the furthest table catches you eye as you leave. He asks you if you were looking for someone in particular, noting your searching gaze and the woman whose coffee you spilled. You shyly murmur something noncommittal, but he winks at you as you walk past.
You arrive back at the house in low spirits and the rest of the day passes slowly.
On the second last day of your stay things pick up as the family decides to throw a bit of a party. The kitchen is busy all morning and the back garden is set up for a barbeque, and a bit before lunchtime the guests start arriving. The party is friendly and warm, and generally enjoyable. You make good conversation with a few of the guests, but by late afternoon the more interesting people return home and some uninvited friends of friends of friends start showing up; the place becomes crowded and noisy quickly. Julia is busy playing hostess duty, Stephen and Claudia are having a great time socialising, but you don’t see Paul anywhere. You don’t blame him, it’s not exactly your scene either. You take the opportunity to get a head start on your packing. By the evening the party has calmed down and Stephen’s friend Jake (whom you note has had a little more than his share to drink) is staying the night in the other spare room. Jake seems to be a messy but likeable person and no-one objects to him being around. As you all settle in to bed that night he yells goodnight across the hall, and the family responds with and exaggerated ‘goodnight Jake’ that speaks of familiarity.
You go back to the café in the afternoon the following day and order another coffee and a sandwich. You sit for a while glancing over the people in the café and you’re relieved not to meet the knowing waiter or the lady whose coffee you spilled. You rest your chin on your hands and drift off a little. You don’t know when you’ll ever be back here, you think to yourself. You look around again, and you notice another woman standing at the counter gazing up at the menu, and you cross your fingers under the table and hope with all you can muster that you’re not mistaken. You realise with delight that you haven’t paid for your coffee yet, and walk up next to her to pay. You open your wallet to get out the money and realise that you don’t have nearly as much as you thought. You don’t like to carry much money at a time in a new place, and forgot to put more in your wallet after paying for the woman’s coffee the day before yesterday. “Oh no, I’m terribly sorry,” you tell the lady at the counter, while you turn your wallet inside out “I don’t seem to have enough. I’m two dollars short. You see I’m new here and I forgot to…” “Don’t worry about it,” a voice beside you says; placing the money plus tip on the counter. “Hi, I’m Amanda.” She says. You think of saying “Yeah, I know.” But the naturalness of the meeting seems too good to ruin with the practiced banter of fans and the famous. You freeze for an instant, caught up in the features of her face that you know so well and yet have never really seen; you look at her mouth, which now seems too wide as she smiles back at you for a moment. You quickly introduce yourself and thank her for paying for your coffee, offering to pay her back, but confessing you can’t since you’re leaving tonight. She nods and turns away for a moment to choose her soup, then goes to sit down at a table. You think this must be some sort of dismissal, the end of a conversation between strangers over money that can’t be payed back. But she turns to you as she sits down, “Ah you mentioned you weren’t from here.” she says, “I thought I heard an accent in your voice.” You tell her where you’re from and how you’re visiting family you only found out about recently. You clasp your own hands before yourself as you say all this, standing awkwardly half in front and half beside her table. She motions that you sit down and you suddenly become very nervous. “That all must be terribly exciting.” She half inquires as her tea arrives. You notice that it’s the same sort of olive green as the one you ordered a few days ago, and take the opportunity to keep the conversation going. “I think I’ve tried that one,” you say, “it’s quite good. I’m not really into tea.”
She explains that it’s one of her favourites and some of the properties of it. You listen with uncanny interest on the subject of tea. She asks you what you do for a living. You tell her you’re a writer. It’s suitably ambiguous and mostly true. It is something that you do and enjoy. You share a little knowing smile, ‘who isn’t a writer out here.’ You decide to play the unknowing innocent for all its worth and ask her what she does for a living. She tells you that she’s a musician; and you ramble on innocently about how you love music and always wanted to do that yourself. Her soup arrives and between spoonfuls she probes deeper into your musical history; which soon results in you divulging your whole sordid past about it, and confessing that you still sing a bit but lament never having got anywhere professionally. She asks what sort of music you’re into; and you find it hard to list a range of bands that encompass your musical tastes, but deliberately mention Avril Lavigne, then immediately regret using knowledge gained from reading her blog to your advantage. She doesn’t seem to notice and you talk about Avril and her phases for a while. The conversation really seems to be getting on now, you actually seem to be connecting and find that you have read a few of the same books and agree on a lot of deeper things. You look at her coat and her hands, her hair and her nose, committing it all to memory and trying not to spend too much time under the gaze of those penetrating blue-grey eyes. You ask her what kind of music she does, actually wondering what incarnation of the usual description you’ll get. She tells you that’s she’s in a band you might have heard of, The Dresden Dolls, she says they play music that’s sort of punk cabaret; and you pretend to not know who The Dresden Dolls are or quite what punk cabaret would sound like. I’d love to hear some your stuff one day you tell her forwardly. By now she’s finished her soup and seems to be in really good spirits. She smiles and nods, then pays for her soup. Then just as she gets up, she turns suddenly and says “You know what, why don’t you come back to my place? It’s not very far from here and I could show you some of the CDs and books we talked about.” Before you answer you consider how surreal the situation is, how bizarre, you’re almost strangers; but you don’t say no.
The impact of stepping into her apartment knocks the breath out of you. This is no-one in particular, you keep telling yourself. You have no reason to recognise that kitchen as the place where the beginnings of albums you own were assembled… You remark that it has a great lived-in arty feel and you like it. She asks if she can get you anything, but admits that she doesn’t cook. You tell her that you’re fine and try not to act too awed at your surroundings. You have so many questions just bursting to get out, any one of them ready to ruin the illusion of two ordinary people. The afternoon progresses like a fairytale littered with CDs, books, philosophy and music. She even offers to play you something on the piano since you wanted to hear her music. She sits there, hands poised for a moment, evidently deciding what to play. It’s ‘Guitar Hero’, and you wonder why she chose it. A good choice, it’s one of your favourites and you know she’s particularly fond of it too. You begin nodding your head in time to the great pounding rhythm of the piece, trying to resist the urge to join in. You begin to blush and look away. She stops, “You don’t like it, do you?” she asks. “No, no,” you answer hastily, “it’s great. But, I must tell you, I feel bad about this: I have heard it before. I am a bit of a fan and I recognised you from the start. I don’t know why I decided to lie, but it all seemed like such a great coincidence to meet you and I didn’t want to stuff it up…” you falter. “You know I almost suspected it the way you were so interested in tea.” She says. You laugh and look at the floor. You almost feel that you should apologise. A chord of ‘Guitar Hero’ sounds, “Well if you know the words, sing with me.” She states. You both blast through the rest of the song with your slightly rough voices and finish with a smile that says all is well. When you look up you notice through the window that it’s got late and dark, you joke about the time flying and accept her offer to call you a cab. As it arrives she says it was nice to meet you, and suggests that you visit her next time you are in town. “Gladly.” You yell back as you walk slowly and lightly down the steps to the taxi.
That evening you can’t stop thinking about it. You finish packing and chat to everyone during the evening in a daze. You think of mentioning your day but you know that none of the family would quite understand how unique an experience it was. You can’t believe how different it was. Her apartment, which you always envisioned within the confines of your own home, with a fire escape half way between the lounge room and the back door, was laid out before you in all its truth and stark details. It was genuinely messy, and you saw it for the first time with your own eyes and not through hers with the rose coloured glasses of fondness and meaning. It still strikes you that she wore pants. Of course you know that everyone must wear pants some of the time, it just seemed so normal and yet so odd. She wasn’t wearing any make up either, and you sat right in each other’s gaze at the table in the café; every single line and freckle of the real and unabashed person constantly filling your vision. There was no stage presence; there was no air that at any minute she was going to ask you what on earth you wanted her to sign and then briskly ask you to get out of the way for the next person in line. There wasn’t even that stagy note to her voice, she was just talking… to you.
You say goodbye to everyone that night, and then just as the airport shuttle is pulling away from the house, Jake shouts out “Did you have a good time in Boston!?” “The best, it was wonderful!” you say, leaning out of the car and waving energetically.
☆
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