Chameleon

If you haven't noticed... I was gone last week.

My travels took me east. Although I love traveling abroad, it's fun to see what's two time zones over. 

Also, I discovered I'm a chameleon.

When I lived in Spain, I thought it strange when people would ask me for directions. I was very blond, very white—very American.

Strolling through the streets of London years later, I was again asked directions. I was useless and again, thought it strange that I seemed to know where I was going--at least to these people.

This last week, I found myself on a metro of one of the large cities on the east coast. I was enjoying my book when a woman approached me, asking about a metro stop--whether this train stopped there. I didn't know.

Luckily for her, she was standing in front of the metro map. I'm adept at reading maps. I quickly confirmed that—yes, the train did stop at the stop she wanted. 

Even while wandering around the city, one person asked directions to one of the places I had recently left.

You see? Chameleon. Apparently, I belong anywhere.

Fighting the Blues

For some people, traveling is a luxury. It is something to do when you have money and time.

To me, it's a necessity.

Stay too long with the same scenery and the anxious, antsy feelings come on. My friends can recognize it—the restless habits, the apathetic attitude, the hermit-like tendencies. They know it's coming. And they love that I travel.

They say it's for the pictures.

But I know that I'm more pleasant after an adventure. After I'm reminded of how good I have it. 

After I strike out on my own for a minute or two and realize that maybe I'm not brave, like I pretend to be. 

I'm lonely.

And these trips to this places on my own only heighten that emotion. And make me crave human contact. 

The trips make me happier, more pleasant to be around. But I'm only satisfied for a few months. It's a fleeting happiness. 

I wish that there was reason to my travels. And some companions.

Saturday Stories: Grandma's Love

Normally, I tell one of my stories.

But today, in honor of my grandma, I want to tell her love story.

She met a handsome young man when she was seventeen and had moved from her small town in Illinois to San Francisco. He worked with her brother. But he was rather conceited. He knew that he could any girl he wanted. And he wanted Jennie. 

But being the youngest, Jennie knew how to push back. He wasn't sure how much he liked that. He liked it enough to keep trying to win her over. 

Their relationship was perfect, except for their few spats. Her siblings liked him alright, but Chad was Mormon from Salt Lake City. And that could only lead to bad things. Jennie decided that she liked him. Who cares if he's a Mormon? He's a good man who works hard and is quite handsome. In those days, that was all that mattered (if only we could go back to those days).

And so it was that on Thanksgiving, Jennie and Chad found themselves obligated to attend three different dinners. 

In between one and two, they got into a fight.

Between two and three, they got engaged.

Chad yelled at Jennie, "If I bought you a ring, would you wear it?" While they drove to house number three.

Jennie yelled back, "If you bought me a damn ring, I'd wear it."

And so it was that their love story began. And lasted for years. 

I love that story.

Wednesday Letters: Twix

Wednesdays are the days when I write a letter to someone in my life (past, present, or future) and tell them something. Hence the title, Wednesday Letters.

Dear Twix,

I sure do miss you, my puppy. 

I miss how happy you were to always see me. I miss those brown eyes that were so expressive. You knew when you had done something wrong. It was apparent to everyone, including you. But you'd look at me with those eyes and I would want you to get punished.

You were always so happy to be around people and the cats. You never seemed to understand that some people were afraid of you. I know. Ridiculous. Afraid of Twix? It just wasn't right.

Remember how you learned to dive in the pool?

That was my favorite part of summer. Swimming with you.

Whenever I think about my future life, I always know there's going to be a dog in it. Somewhere. But I'm afraid to get another chocolate lab. Because I don't want her to replace you. But I don't think another dog ever will. You were with me for 15 years... pretty much my teenage years. And you still remembered me when I came home after living abroad for so long. 

Maybe I'll get another chocolate lab. But I promise not to name her after a candy bar.

Home: Encinitas

I often dream of Encinitas, California.

I grew up there in that sleepy beach town 30 minutes north of the airport. 

Elementary school, junior high, and high school. All of my childhood, within minutes of a beach.

We had a pool in my backyard so I learned to swim when I was young which meant more trips to the beach and lots of time in our pool.

I learned to surf when I was 12. I haven't done it since. I can barely boogie board. I prefer to float in the pool.

I moved away to attend college and I haven't been able to find my way back on a more permanent basis. Every time I fly into Lindbergh Field I think, This time. This time I'm finding a job and I will stay. But a few days later, I'm back on a plane, returning to where I live for the rest of the year. I hate saying goodbye, so as I look out the window I usually say, Some day. Some day, I'll be back.

Maybe it's the need to relive those moments, retrace my steps and start over again that draws me back. Figure out where I went wrong and how I can get back on track—wherever that track plans to take me. 

Or maybe the 92024 zip code really is the place of dreams.

Saturday Stories: First Boyfriend

I was surprised when he came along. I was 16 and a half and he was in my junior year English class. He had just moved back to the States from England. Maybe that's why I was so intrigued by him. 
And he flirted with me constantly. 

I always took the same seat and he always found a way to sit behind me. 

Pull my hair from the clip and flip it around. 

Try and jump into my conversation.

I was won over quite easily. 

Probably because until that point I was only the girl that talked to the football players about the game or the girl that all of the guys called "fat". I mean I realize I'm still curvy and larger than average, and back then I also wore baggy clothes and shorts, and didn't know how to do hair or make-up. I would sit at home on Friday night and wonder why I couldn't go out on dates (believe me, I'm well past wondering now. I got smarter as I got older). So it makes sense that this boy would win me over by simply treating me like I was a girl. 

So we went on a date. Of course I was nervous. I was well aware of his experience with girls. And therefore well aware of my inexperience. 

On that first date, he gave me my first kiss. That story can only be told in person, I fear. 

Sadly, after two weeks, two dates, and one minimal break up, I finally ended whatever "it" was.

I can even pinpoint the moment when I knew I wasn't into him. 

We were walking to my chemistry class holding hands and I saw some guys I had known for two years walking toward us, and I dropped his hand. I was embarrassed and self-conscious. And I realized that I would rather be holding hands with one of those guys (who although kind to me never really went out of their way to talk to me). 

Maybe I was scared of letting someone like me. Probably. Or I just really wanted a boyfriend. 

But I am grateful that to have at least one story.

Wednesday Letters: The Question Mark

Wednesdays are the days when I write a letter to someone in my life (past, present, or future) and tell them something. Hence the title, Wednesday Letters.

Dear Question Mark,

I think it's been seven years. Seven years since I wrote you and discovered you had gotten married. I say it as if it was a surprise. It shouldn't have been. You were funny and charming and so good. 

I enjoyed getting letters from you, for writing for two years. You made me laugh. I learned how to be a good pen pal. 

I'm sad that I still have this question mark. That you're the question mark. Maybe if I hadn't left when I did. Maybe... I could've waited. Six months? That would've been enough to see, decide, change my mind. 

Maybe is a powerful word. It does nothing except have this insane ability to make me stop and worry and wonder--and not in a positive, constructive type of way. It's a powerful and useless word. I try to forget that it's in my vocabulary. And maybe one day I'll forget you.

At the end of my life, it will have been just a blip on the spectrum. A small moment in the long timeline. But I'll be grateful for that blip. And for the moment, I think about that time and you, my question mark.

A Bit of Sunshine

On cloudy, dismal stormy days, I look for that small moment when the clouds part and I can see the sunshine peeping through.

Sometimes I'll be driving on the freeway and that little ray of sunshine catches my eye. I'll almost get into an accident while trying to capture it in a picture (I have yet to be able to capture not only the actual picture but also the feeling that always accompanies that moment).

That ray of sunshine will see me through a week of bad weather. It reminds that up above all of the gloom there's good weather—blue skies, white puffy clouds, and lots of sunshine.

My winters are also dismal now. I moved away from San Diego a long time ago. The winters there were bearable—rain, some colder days requiring a sweatshirt and jeans—but I could always count on some sunshine to be intermixed.

Now, I'm cooped inside for most of December, January, and February, hoping that the snow will stop coming down at some point. I run out of outfits that go with the boots I was finally forced to purchase (my feet hate being cold and wet most of the time as I trudge through the snow to my car).

But that ray of sunshine is always there—my trip back to my parents' home for Christmas. I will see sunshine again. Capris and flip flops are just on the horizon.

There's always that hope. And I'll keep looking for it.

Saturday Stories: Love in the Library

My sister-in-law once responded to one of my stories with "This doesn't happen to normal people."

She's so kind.

Saturdays are my day to kick back and tell the funny stories that happen in my life. The stuff that make my sister-in-law gawk and stutter and not know how to respond because these things don't happen to normal people. But they happen to me.

I used to volunteer on Saturdays at one of the local libraries. I would organize books and straighten the books on all of the shelves in the fiction area. I know--it sounds thrilling. But I wanted to be a librarian, so this was my chance. 

While I was doing my work, a young guy walked up to me and asks about getting onto the computers. Having only been there a few months, I wasn't very knowledgeable about procedures but I found him the librarian on duty and politely sent him on his way.

However, he turned and asked my name. He told me his name was Marco. Yes, he was an exotic foreigner to my little city. With a nice diamond earring in one ear.

I chuckled to myself after he left. What had just happened?

Marco came back though and tried to chat with me. Tell me how he was new to town and didn't really have any friends. I continued to straighten the books (I get very shy around most gentlemen. It unnerves me to flirt and be flirted with). I answered some of his questions but couldn't really look him in the eye.

I wondered what I should do if he asked for my number. I had never been asked for my number before. I didn't know anyone's phone number off the top of my head except for my mother's. That would do me no good!

Luckily, that fear was never realized. He finally got the picture that I wasn't flirting back (apparently I can be stand-offish and intimidating, or so I've been told). Marco just said, "Well, I'll be on the first floor.... At a computer down there." He may have winked too.

Ten minutes later, I left for the day. 

I didn't stop by to see Marco. 

Maybe I should've. 

But I definitely wouldn't have any more stories if I did....

Wednesday Letters: Niece

Wednesdays are the days when I write a letter to someone in my life (past, present, or future) and tell them something. Hence the title, Wednesday Letters.

Dearest Niece,

It seems that not so long ago they made me hold you. To everyone it was sweet for an 11 year old child to hold her first niece. All I could think about was how grateful I was to no longer be the youngest in the family. And maybe I was excited to hold a baby, too.

There have certainly been times when I didn't love being the person closest to you in age. Not that I didn't like it, it's just that at some points I wanted to be the grown-up, not treated like a kid (you understand this now...). And so maybe I ignored you (okay, I did) and maybe I didn't play with you as much as I should have. But you were always my buddy.

I still remember when I made it up to your soccer game that one time and got to see you score the only goal in the game. That was a proud moment for me.

And now you're 18. Graduating high school. Going off to college. Making decisions that will affect the rest of your life. Yes, I always give you tons of advice whenever I see you but please know that it's not because I think you're doing things wrong. I just see you making similar decisions to the ones I made and I'm trying to help you maybe not make as many mistakes as I did. You're always welcome to ignore my advice, just listen though, okay? Give your aunt a minute of your time.

I love you, Niece. Really, I do. I think you can tell that since I spend more time talking to you than anyone else in the family. Because I feel like you get it. You get what I want, what I'm looking for, etc. And as you reach closer to graduation... well... I hope for all the things I wished for when I was 18. But I hope that you actually get all of those wishes.

Love you always.

Travel: Colors

At one time in my life, I lived in a foreign city where they have markets on Saturdays and you have to learn to barter in order to get good deals. 

What I loved most were the colors that I saw. Buildings that were yellow, green, blue, red, and pink. Colorful. It fit there. It added life to a rather barren land of brown dirt roads and palm trees. Walk ten steps away from the beach lined boardwalk and you entered the real city that no one wants to see. 

Back here in the States, I gawk if I see a house that is an abnormal color. Really? I say to myself. You want a mint green house? 

But in that paradise (and it was—it was the first time I ever got a real noticeable tan!), it was okay to have those colors; to hang your laundry out on the balcony; to know who your neighbors are. 

And the colors were just a way of welcoming the newcomers and foreigners.