I am often asked why I left the states, and the answer is complicated – mostly political concepts about access to health care, but also highly personal. And I generally just don’t wanna talk about it. I often say Because I could.
Here is one reason though. This is what a kids meal looks like in France:
Of course my son recoiled in horror over the snails, but that isn’t the point!
Last night Iain texted to tell me he had lunch with my New Best Friend (TM) and to catch up on gossip. At some point I mentioned how bewildered I am now that I have assorted new social skills.
I said I’m old! No longer cute and sexy!
He replied Bah. Course yr still hot!
I protested that I always do stuff late and backwards!
His very sensible answer was I guess it is a nicer time to learn tho. As at least all the other human nature psychology stuff is in place. And you have more money for hot lady clothes.
True. When my grandma was thirty-six she gave birth to her seventh child, and became a grandmother for the first time. Her life as a working class woman raising a crazy crew of children on a farm in the rural NW is something I simply cannot imagine, even though I grew up in the same place with the same people.
What did she think about at my age – what did she love?
There is no record, no journals or letters; she even burned many of the photographs of the children. I have many scraps of evidence about life on the farm and it is impossible to put together an accurate narrative. I know she considered her life easier than what her mother went through, as a divorced woman raising six children without money or education.
My own mother was in turn thirty-six when I presented her with a grandchild. I know very well what her life was like that year, what worried her or made her laugh. She was still paying off the bills from the disease that nearly killed me. It was all was painful beyond measure, with no relief on the horizon.
I am an only child and I created more grief for her than can possibly be calculated. But she persevered. They all persevered.
But I do not have the values that kept most of the women in my family in one place an entire lifetime. I’m not the sort to settle, and I don’t believe in fate.
If anything I take after my fiendish great-grandmother, a woman so determined to reinvent herself we do not even know our true surname. Where was she at this age? Nobody knows.
Why do I always end up talking to clinical psychologists at 3:00 AM? Or a better question, why did I end up singing American Pie at top volume with aforesaid psychologist without missing one single word? The answer is simple: there isn’t anything better to do in Cambridge!
I tried to lurk about in the garden and contemplate the question posed by the song (can music save your mortal soul?). My answer: No, because I don’t believe in the concept of a soul. Though a song could save your life, if you let it.
Then I was dragged back into the party, where I exercised my vestigial conversational skills for several hours. I am generally the only civilian at academic parties and last night was no different.
Rachel coaxed me to talk about my career but I resisted for the most part. It amuses me to inform snobbish people who care about status that I am just hanging out.
The psychologist, as they tend to, managed to extract a more complete answer, including a synopsis of Lessons in Taxidermy, and my standard lecture about how horrific tragedy is just another learning opportunity. Or something along those lines – we were drinking champagne, after all!
Then I met this fascinating fellow who studies blood. The title of his book/thesis (these things are never clear to me) is Veins of Devotion, which I think hilarious. The wealth of Williams were present and I chatted with one extensively about how this town is so strange and perverse and riddled with sexual scandals.
Jean and Peter showed up at midnight and at least one of them has figured out that I know some gossip, though I just put my finger on my chin and stared at the ceiling rather than sharing:
The party was a final hurrah for Rachel, who goes back to Canada to be a professor and grownup and whatnot. I know that our friendship will continue, but life here will be substantially different without her particular sort of genius.
Goodbye, Rachel! I’ll miss you!
One day last week I was at the Maypole with Rachel and she said I’ve been thinking about generosity. Write something about that for me!
I inquired about what aspect of the concept she has been reflecting on, and the short answer was: hosts and guests.
That one is easy. I believe that it is critically important to be an excellent host, and also an extremely well-behaved guest. My standards when I am the host are high in many respects; I abdicate all work time in favor of showing people around town. When I have money I pay for everything. I throw parties or arrange adventures or just hang around, according to the desire of the visitor.
Smaller details sometimes get overlooked – I am not a dependable source of freshly laundered towels, for instance. But I open my home (or rather boat) to a nonstop stream of friends.
If I’m the guest, I do not have requests beyond minimal physical requirements. This means nothing more than water, tea, and a warm place to sleep – and I am capable of sorting all three without assistance. I may have a few errands to run (can’t buy my lipstick here in Cambridge, and I have to get it somewhere!) but the rest of the itinerary is completely open. Or closed – I am perfectly happy to amuse myself.
Essentially, I presume that people offer what they can give. I take what I can accept.
I am in fact notoriously compulsive about all sorts of things, but I travel without expectations. Sometimes I stay in hotel rooms that cost more per night than I paid in rent in a whole year as a student. Other times I find myself sleeping rough in a filthy punk house.
Sometimes when I get off an airplane I am met by a driver holding a sign with my name on it. Other times I find myself stranded without anyone to call. The experiences are equal, because the facts do not matter.
I’ve had just as much fun on tour with fifteen people and one towel as I’ve had lounging around a penthouse apartment in Rome.
I have friends of all sorts, all over the world, and enjoy their company. I love to perform, get a huge thrill out of throwing and attending parties and events – I like people. Yet one of my happiest memories of last year was sitting alone in a laundromat in San Francisco eating cinnamon jelly beans.
The loneliest moment I had all year long occurred in my favorite bar, surrounded by friends who adore me.
That is how life works sometimes.
It is of course impossible to skip all of the negative stuff: I’ve been disappointed, frustrated, angry, and lost – routinely. I’m a confused, disheveled, working class kid who has wandered far from home. I often make stupid mistakes. I am fully aware of my own limitations, and that can be excruciating. Half the time I even know in advance which experiences will be disturbing.
The trick is that understanding something might be difficult has never proved a deterrent. In fact, if I notice that I am scared, I fling myself at whatever has frightened me.
Right now I am scheduling trips that will keep me on the road for a few months. I don’t know if I will have fun, or if anything will go according to plan, but it will be interesting and useful. No matter what happens.
Generosity is not about material gifts or gain; it is an attitude that can be exercised everywhere, all the time.
The absolute most genius part of the entire trip:
Yesterday I was happily humming along, sweeping leaves off the top of my boat, and pulled the gangplank off to clean it. In a flash I was struck suddenly at the peculiarity that I am in charge of a gangplank, let alone a boat, and that of course dilated into a larger sense of astonishment that I live in Cambridge, England.
This town, more than most, is a transient sort of place. The student population – tens of thousands of people – swells and dissipates every few weeks, notable to me only insofar as it is sometimes hard to buy bread.
Old friends show up to marvel at the eccentricity of my life here, then they go home again. I make new friends, and they finish their degree or sabbatical and leave.
The people in my family scatter across the world and come back together in unpredictable ways. I spend perhaps a third of each year traveling. Most of my time when I’m in town is spent on a narrowboat – and though it is moored securely, I can pull up stakes and move any time.
Even the most serious commitments I have agreed to are contingent on the fact that I can, and will, make impetuous decisions and alter everything without warning. As far as I can recollect the choice to abandon my first career was made on a whim one afternoon.
Moving away from Portland, leaving Seattle, emigrating here – all completely random choices involving nothing much more involved than just saying yes.
Since I’ve only been in water something like three times in twenty years it would be a mistake to say that I have a typical swimming costume, but on the rare event I go in this is what I wear: all of my clothes. I stay covered neck to ankle, without exception.
I could claim that this is on doctors orders, but technically my physicians have issued strict rules including no sunlight whatsoever not to mention no chlorine, no exertion, no fun….
Ok, they never said the bit about fun, but really, I’m not supposed to go anywhere or do anything.
This time around I packed in a rush and couldn’t find a long-sleeved shirt at all, so my swimsuit consisted of cut-off tights, knee-length shorts, and a ratty shirt from one of my book tours turned inside out (I never wear my own merchandise). This perilous assemblage was augmented by several layers of sunblock and an umbrella.
In the interest of full disclosure, I did in fact swim in the pool – it was awfully hard to resist given that it was at the bottom of the cliff face, and there was the adorable child clamoring for attention, and my allergies can’t be that severe, right? Wrong. But I was careful! And yeah, I worked in public health long enough to know that is a stupid excuse.
But anyway, on the way up to the room I spied myself in a mirror, my hair all wet and wild, looking nothing at all like myself because the clothes are so far off what I’ve been wearing the last few years. For a moment I entertained the thought of ditching the dresses and digging out my Carrharts.
Though I gave Ariel my black hoodie (with the explicit reminder that it had major fertility vibes attached) and can’t imagine that I’ll ever be able to replace it, so never mind!
Lucky me, the day I made it to the beach was stormy and dark, so I was able to frolic without endangering my so-called health.
Byron didn’t get wet:
You didn’t really think I’d post a full pic of my idiotic outfit, did you?
Earlier this evening I said I didn’t expect to live long enough to have all of these new problems and concerns!
Byron replied I didn’t expect you to live this long either.
Then we watched a DVD of Pet Shop Boys videos Satnam pressed on us last night. I’ve never taken much notice of the band, but have officially Changed My Mind (this is what happens when you get old, I suppose). In fact, Being Boring made me cry.
I got over it.
Notes from the south of France, where it is raining! I find this quite excellent and ran around joyfully in the sea since the sun was hiding, but the other people huddled in the hotel lobby are not amused.
I was just doing something technical using a stupid PC (I never, ever touch Windows products if I can help it) and Byron offered to take over the task. I exclaimed Hey! What do you think I am?!
His response was instant: Decorative!
The other night in a very fancy restaurant I said Hey, did I ever tell you the story of how I learned to swim?
The assembled quorum of simultaneously informed me that the topic was Not Appropriate for Dinner.
What?! I think the story funny! Plus I didn’t die, obviously!
What is the one type of thing I love more than any other, in my travels around the world?
Well, obviously, a grotto!
Not just The Grotto in Portland, but also that cafe in Zurich, Casa Bonita in Denver, a dozen other precious false places…. and now to join the ranks, a Vietnamese restaurant in France!
The stairs to get in:
I failed to photograph a sufficient ration of the mirrors, false ceiling, fish tank walls, murals, and fake shrubbery everywhere….
In fact, I was so thrilled I went without lipstick most of the dinner:
The food was excellent – spring rolls and pho equivalent to the stuff I could get back home in Seattle living in the CD, which is rare to nonexistent in England.
The waiter found us adorable and lavished us with attention, treats, and presents, including a pregnant dolphin for my son:
Free sake for the adults served in naughty cups:
And for me, a fan:
Greetings from the south of France!
The view from here:
Last year one of Ana’s rejected bad boys informed me that I think too much. Of course I was too backwards to understand what he meant by that comment, but I figured it out later!
His point was fundamentally true, but someone else very emphatically pointed out that truth was about to kick my ass. Why so much wisdom from licentious boys? It was all part of the research, of course! I wouldn’t have notes to refer to if I’d actually been participating in the debauchery.
I’ve come back to the same hotel, same beaches, same restaurants that I visited in January – when I was horribly sad and organizing my thoughts on a few critical subjects. In the intervening five months I’ve sorted all of the problems worrying me over the winter, only to find that solving riddles leads to more questions (this is a lesson I learn all the time).
Right now I am tremendously happy, though I can’t decide if everything has changed or if nothing has changed whatsoever. This, however, feels like equilibrium. My life is never predictable.
Except that I’m punctual to a fault.