The first and most startling adventure happened immediately upon settling in for the tedious transcontinental flight: the stranger next to me attempted to make small talk. I hardly knew what to think as no seat-mate has ever talked to me on a plane (and I might remind you that I fly more every year than most people do in a lifetime). And, instead of glaring at the fellow, I made at least an attempt at idle chitchat before retiring to stand near the rear toilets and play with a borrowed iPod.

The first destination was home: parents, dinner with my only surviving grandparent, catching up on news of cousins and aunts and uncles, new babies, more cancer, a stumbling economy, local hatred of Wal-Mart; small-town America, my family, the Olympic mountains at sunset, and a tremendous sadness over the fact that I live so far away. And profound relief that I escaped.

Then Portland, another lost home, where I made the mistake of jumping on the light rail without asking anyone for advice. This meant that I landed randomly in a part of the city no longer even marginally recognizable, and had to use my phone to ask for navigational advice from Gabriel which was accurate but confusing) and Marisa (who wanted to come rescue me though I refused).

Wandering through the Mississippi neighborhood I was bemused to find, instead of boarded storefronts, a swanky collection of restaurants, cafes, bars, bike shops, even an upscale plant nursery. Quite a change from olden times. I’m guessing that my old street is no longer a crack corridor.

After a quick stop at the house to say hello to Gabriel and the rest of the Liston clan (who often drop in from Colorado) it was onward with Marisa to a birthday party at Kelly Point Park in honor of the delightful Anna Ruby. It was immensely bewildering and sweet to sit there in the spring sunshine talking to EB, Stevie, Erin Scarum, Ana Helena, Chris, the two Alex-es (both U. and Thunder Pumpkin), and a host of people I had never met before. I truly love and miss my friends even if I rarely tell them so:

The party devolved to a room full of folks stripped to their skivvies gathered around a roaring wood fire. People laughed and gossiped and made long-distance phone calls to badger Stevie’s younger brother for his perspective (as a representative male) over various points of developmental physiology.

When asked what I wanted to do, the answer was invariably just hang out with you so the only full day in town was spent talking to sts over breakfast, lounging on AR’s bed, rambling around, eating lunch at a taqueria, dropping off a package for Chloe, and drinking tea at Half and Half.

The reading itself was great fun and I had a chance to chat with Nicole, Sonny (who is planning to visit!), Loree (we commiserated over the need to sell the Seattle house), Ally (hurray!), and a score of other friends, along with a sizable number of people I met for the first time.

Shemo hatched a plot to stage a special private basement show in honor of AR after the reading and I took on the task of keeping her out of the house until ten that night, no easy task as my friends are not really the sort to hang out in bars, an opinion I share in the smoking states, especially when I’m high on performance adrenaline.

But we ended up at at a bar, where I listened in bemusement as a group of people all solemnly agreed that passion dies in long-term relationships. Normally I would never comment on such things, but apparently I have unwittingly become the sort of person who has these conversations, and I insisted forcefully that relationships that last for years can in fact be hotter than those that last only as long as initial infatuation. Oh, and that I wouldn’t accept less.

At the appointed hour we convened in the basement and Anna Ruby was delighted and surprised. Everyone else drank whiskey and Stevie held me tight and I wanted to stay in that basement forever:

I never want to visit Portland, mostly because I miss everyone so much, and I knew that it would be painful to leave. AR made tortillas and black beans and salsa for breakfast, Ana Helena dropped in and I learned that she will be in Barcelona on and off this year (which means I will certainly see her), along with instigating a comparison of lingerie that forced me to defend my honor and state emphatically that I am wearing the same identical set of unmentionables that I sported the day I moved away.

If I look different it is because I have grown friendly in my old age, not because my appearance has changed. Stevie didn’t believe me but Ana agreed upon inspection that she’d seen the undergarment before.

Marisa and I realized that we were flying at the same time on the same airline so Anna Ruby dropped us at the airport, and when saying farewell became the most recent friend I’ve used the l-o-v-e word in reference to. Marisa and I were able to hang out for a few extra hours, sitting on the floor and eating chocolate AR packed for us.

The visceral, awful, searing sorrow of departure only hit my mid-section when she walked away to board the plane.

The borrowed iPod offered up a song from another local friend that I played over and over to hear a familiar voice singing I’m doing fine just fine / I’m doing fine.

Then the fellow next to me tapped my arm and wanted to talk about the gadget. What exactly has changed in my demeanor to make strangers think they can talk to me? It is very confusing, as I certainly look the same as I ever have.

San Francisco was deliberately planned as respite and offered up lots of fun. I had breakfast with Jen K to catch up on gossip and thesis progress, and drinks with Hiya, who insisted on introducing me to various people as her “famous writer friend.”

They were all invariably more dazzled to be introduced to Gordon, described by Hiya as the “world famous cheesemonger.” I hung out with Anna, and Freakstorm, and a whole passel of beautiful vivacious children. I kept Gordon up too late every night talking, wandered around the city, and admired the Doggie Diner sign:

Other highlights include sitting in a kitchen in my jammies without any lipstick on (unusual to the point of nonexistent in my life; there are people convinced that I never take it off) talking to Fran at midnight; running into friends around town; walking on a beach at sunset while Gordon taunted me about his vision of a film version of my book.

He claims that he would cast Britney Murphy. Good thing he is a cheesemonger and not a film director.

I spent an afternoon blissfully alone at a laundromat, without anyone expecting anything of me, no deadlines to meet, no appointments to keep, listening to old punk music on the new borrowed iPod, eating jellybeans, and reading celebrity gossip magazines.

There was also a party courtesy of the cheese crew, at which I caught up with Daphne, Soulmine (and her lovely boys), and Jaina Bee, along with meeting lots of new people, and witnessing the evisceration of a pig:

Marisa, Sarah-Jane, and Amanda showed up toward the end of the party which made me very happy. Though at one point as I told Marisa a story she blinked and interrupted to ask another one of her patented Big Questions.

When I shrugged and said it’s complicated she wanted a better response, which just isn’t within my repertoire. I mean, I had to write a book to answer a question she asked me in 1999!

The most interesting point is perhaps the fact that I have been telling the same stories for years.  Before March of 2006 people chose to interpret them differently than they do now, even though my script has not changed.

If I am mysterious (and I was informed by yet another reliable witness during the SF trip that this is true – even when I am at my most forcibly transparent and telling the absolute stark truth) it is certainly not deliberate.

I presume anyone paying attention can figure out the back story without confirmation of my specific actions or beliefs. If not… whatever.

Oh, and in my continuing study of flirtation, I only managed to take one SF vote, from Gordon: he says that I do not flirt. But he agreed that such things are regional and cultural and that someone who grew up in California would have a different scale than someone who grew up in the Northwest.

Before the journey started I didn’t want to go at all. At each new juncture I dreaded the next and wanted to stick in the time and place forever. San Francisco was no different and I spent a great deal of the last morning telling people that I really did not want to fly away again.

But in Seattle I met Gabriel and his cowboy hat at the downtown library. Even standing inside the lobby it seemed like a fantasy, something impossible and odd, because it wasn’t there when I lived in the city (or at least not until the very end of my residence). We took a cab to Capitol Hill just in time to interrupt Jeffrey’s band practice. Gabriel was delighted to have an opportunity to play:

On the subject of clothes: I was dressed similarly to other adventures with Gabriel, including the jacket I wore to Italy all those years ago, and the scarf I bought in the market in Florence. He had on the hat and sweater we bribed him with to stay with us on the Breeder tour, and probably other things I failed to make note of.

We do not change much externally, Gabriel and I. Also, when asked he said that I am not mysterious. Though being understood by an extremely confusing person might not be a social asset. At least he is not shocked by whatever new situation presents itself! Plus he is the most positive person I know, which is a comfort and boon in the midst of chaos.

Somewhere at the start of crashing with Jeffrey we realized that all three of us have extremely large heads — despite our quite different body types, we all wear the same hat size. I make a rule never to share headgear but they both seemed lice-free so I willingly sported Jeffrey’s hat after Gabriel had in turn worn it.

The boys insisted I was adorable but it was all way too John-Hughes-1980’s-chick-flick for me:

Three of my most favorite people in the world are named Byron, and it was almost unbearably amazing to have breakfast with two at once (though also odd when trying to tell stories).

I met Byron Number One at Governors’ School oh-so-many years ago (um, seventeen? How is that possible?); it is a privilege and a pleasure that I know him as an adult, and have the opportunity to enjoy his work. Byron Number Three aka Gabriel was also entranced, and it was hard to drag ourselves away to drive off to see a bit of the county, but we had a lunch date with my mother.

Oh, my mother: the most brilliant, sarcastic, and totally genius parent a person could hope for. Over lunch we talked about hot rods, and family vacations, and the history of Italian cuisine in the county.

It was sad to say goodbye, but I promised to visit again very soon. On the way out of town, working on our top secret project, I showed Gabriel various sites, including the only thing that kept me alive after the accident – a dock in Southworth – none of which will be described here. But I’ll give you one photograph:

Jeffrey is a bachelor and, well, I’m not quite sure why. He is one of the most romantic, ethical, and talented people I know. Ladies of Seattle, what are you waiting for? This fellow is prime real estate.

We went out every night including several visits to the Bus Stop, my new favorite place in the world, where everyone has a crush on everyone else, and strangers tell me they like my dress.

The first night as Jeffrey introduced me around to various folks one of the people running the place, a guy with a fierce demeanor (like, you know, my blood kin) and tattoos running up his neck, said Bee? Have we met?

I replied No, I live far away (wondering if he might be a misplaced cousin but never willing to pursue that line of enquiry) but he wrinkled his brow and said Are you a writer?

Um, well, yes. . .

Lessons in Taxidermy! I loved that book! he said, before enumerating his reasons why.

I laughed and put my hands across my face, as I’ve never been recognized just from the author photo.

In fact, I chose the picture that would be the most misleading. I pointed at Jeffrey and said Most of my friends haven’t even read it! Jeffrey here is too sensitive.

Gabriel is a bandit. He was, I’m sure, just having fun — but he made an entire venue of jaded hipsters jump up for the first and only time that night to dance madly to Thank God I’m a Country Boy:

Another night we hooked up with Anika for dinner, but she had sadly injured her back and needed to retire early. We ended up at the Hideout and when I set my stuff down at the bar a drunk obnoxious hipster boy grabbed my wallet. I plucked it back again, and evidently failed to emit my standard do not even fucking try, buddy message because the sozzled young gentleman decided to talk to me.

Again, I would like to note, this does not happen in my life. Ever. I was sufficiently bemused that I actually talked back at the fellow, who decided it would be a good strategy to inquire about the contents of my messenger bag. I answered in detail and since this post is already excessively self-involved may as well share the information: sunglasses, sunblock, notebook, three black pens, camera, lipstick, packet of tissue, band-aids, flashlight, two mobile phones, two pairs of gloves, a scarf, and a packet of cough drops. He was just trying to suss out the need for two mobile phones (one for Europe, one for the states, if you must know) when Jeff plucked me away.

I took the opportunity to ask Jeffrey if, from his perspective, I flirt. A fellow child of the rural Northwest, he did not hesitate before saying Yes. You raise your eyebrows and say sarcastic things – that is flirting.

What an interesting perspective.

It was, as ever, painful to say goodbye to Gabriel at the train station, though I promised to try to visit more. He had been driving me to our various destinations but it became my task to return the rental car.

I haven’t driven in years but found, to my absolute amazement, that I not only knew what to do, and remembered how to get around, but…. get this… I am no longer afraid to drive!

There was nary a flashback nor twitch throughout a morning of dodging commuter traffic in a killer city that has the capacity to remind me of every horrible event of my childhood and youth.

Life, to summarize, is good.

Flying back to England I decided that while the west coast is no longer my home, knowing as much makes the visits vastly more entertaining.

I might be adrift in the world, but I am in fact having fun.