“Hmm.
Let’s see. What do I want…what do I WANT. Whaaaat
doooo eeeyyyyeee waaaaaannt?”
If
you’ve ever ordered a sandwich, you know it’s not the most complicated process
on the planet. At a place like Subway, maybe, with its peetree dishes of
greying pickles and wilted lettuce and dozen variations on pepper jack cheese;
but at a deli counter containing exactly three
options? Thirty seconds. Maximum. However, the woman standing in front of
me has been ordering for at least seven minutes, fifteen minutes into the workday lunch rush, her
perfect eyebrows quivering at our assortment of sandwiches; none of which have
moved, or changed in flavor, over the course of her perusal. I want to laugh,
but I can’t. I want to tell her to step out of the way, to shake her spandexed
butt over to the beverage display so I can address the rest of the customers in
line, but I can’t; her decision-making ability is as drawn out as her speech, her
time as fluid as her fair-trade coffee. She’s probably on her way to pilates.
She’s a Californian.
For
the record: I’m a ninth generation Californian. As far as our infant state
goes, my family is as old as the tides; my ancestors lived in the Santa Barbara
presidio, Henry Tico was a legendary horseman, and my
grandma was the student-body secretary at my high school, a fact that still
brings her a disproportionate amount of joy. “I had to take notes at the
meetings,” she told me. “Where they planned school DANCES!” Still, all this
said—and given the fact that I believe California to contain one of the most
striking landscapes on the planet—nothing could have diminished my post-Asia culture shock. Not even the dozen people in line at Ngurah Rai Airport
who pulled out their iphones at the exact
same second, moving like synchronized swimmers in order to send desperate
texts to their friends and family in Los Angeles. See, ten minutes before
our flight was set to leave Bali, a sweet little voice came on over the intercom
and informed us that all outbound flights would be delayed indefinitely due to
“personal reasons.” No big deal; a plane had just put down its landing gear a
bit earlier than it intended to. Specifically, in the ocean. “Are you kidding me?” the woman in front of me
asked, her meaty forearms taking up the entirety of the counter in front of
her. “When are our flights going to leave, then?”
“I
don’t know, ma’am,” the clerk answered, her mouth forming deliberately over
each English syllable. “We are still wait to hear that all Lion Air passengers
are returned.”
“And
where are they now?”
“In
the sea.”
Oh
boy.
Those of us who had been in Bali for a while promptly left the queue, put down our backpacks, and settled in for the winter. This is an island that closes down intersections to build papier mache bulls during rush hour; there was no way in hell the airport would be reopening on our schedule or anyone else's. Surprisingly enough, though, we were wrong: call it karma or a string of angry Californians, but our plane actually left within the hour, and I found myself on the second leg of my journey home with wasabi almonds and time to spare. Observing the mania of the people around me only made me feel more chilled out, and I spent the next 20 hours watching Judd Apatow movies and counting the things I was most looking forward to about being home. I only cried in the moments right before the plane landed at LAX, the last minute that my adventure would hang suspended in mid-air before bleeding into the next moment and the next and the next.
Why then, after spending seven months on 'Bali time,' did I experience such lack of patience with the woman in line at the deli? She was only operating on the same time frame (as in, none at all) that I had come to expect and embrace during my time overseas. Still, there was something different about the way this woman held herself; something slightly hysterical in her voice that defied whatever nonchalance her posture attempted to portray. I realized the fundamental difference lay in how much this woman was willing to engage with me. Sure, the Balinese disregard most timetables, but they do it with the understanding that life is too important to hurry; they'll take their sweet-ass time bringing food to your table, but would also rarely cut off a conversation. Californians, on the other hand, will gladly ask you how your day is going—and they'll let you cut in front of them in line in the juice bar, no problem—as long as you don't actually tell them how your day is going, and as long as it doesn't make them late for yoga. There's traffic this time of day, after all. What do you expect?
I'm well aware of how good I have it. I slid back into California life and straight into the open arms of my friends and family, all smiles and happy tears and beautiful meals straight from the garden. Still, walking down the street, I couldn't help but notice how up-in-their-own-agenda everyone seems to be...even with the support of my family, my brain felt like mashed potatoes. After living in Keramas, the concept of a doggy play date—or a six dollar coffee—came as a bit of a shock. And that's not the only thing. Ask anyone who has come back to Western food and weather after an extended period in the tropics, and I guarantee some variety on the general theme of Gastrointestinal Gymnastics while Freezing My Ass Off. I slept in wool socks and sweatshirts, tortured my stomach with unfamiliar luxuries like Kettle Chips and frozen yogurt, and woke in the middle of the night—whacked out on jetlag—to watch Glee on my mother's Netflix. Fact: I hate Glee. But after searching for Game of Thrones and finding that it didn't exist, too lazy to leave the 'G' section of Instant Watch and too emotional to do anything but lie on the couch, Glee it was.
It passed, of course. When I did manage to finally leave the house, I was reminded of all the things I did miss about Santa Barbara: cool, sunny walks on the Wilcox, my grandma's sewing room, Isabel's spazzy dachshunds, the Earth Day Festival. On top of that, out of a mixture of exhaustion, rebellion, and the pure desire to honor Bali, I spent my first four days in complete silence; a decision that, if you know me, is about as typical as spending four days imitating Pee Wee Herman. It's hilarious, but it just doesn't make sense. That said, I absolutely loved it...silence gave me the space I needed to adjust, to wander around grocery stores in a combination of horror and awe, and to communicate with the ones I love most without communicating verbally. I was surprised and satisfied at how easy it is to engage without needing to speak; I was reminded that silence is a tool that we always have, and that it can be a wonderful way to whittle down some of the white noise and focus on the heart of things. Plus, my mime skills went through the roof.
Then in the middle of my tiny retreat, I got a temp job at L's Kitchen: a hole-in-the-wall deli in the Funk Zone where I get to serve sandwiches to attractive yuppies driving Priuses. I'm allowed to get cracked out on Mexican hot chocolate and make weird designs on the SPECIALS board. Plus, I get to wash dishes and listen to people speaking a language other than English; which is, in a word, ideal. In another word, familiar. It has eased the transition and given me something to do with my time, other than float around shamelessly comparing everything and everyone to the life I left across the Pacific.
Because yes, friends: I have become THAT PERSON. One of the reasons I wanted to spend a few days in silence was to prolong the inevitability of becoming like someone's grandpa, squeaking in my rocking chair and yammering away about the 'good old days'—in my case, traveling—to anyone who passes by. But no matter how long I put it off, it crept up as I knew it would: Bali has become the bar against which everything else must inevitably fail, and the anecdotes bubble from my mouth before I can muster the courtesy to decide whether or not they will actually contribute to the conversation. It's like a breakup; you can't help but drop that person's name inappropriately, weave them into every interaction like a ghost, playing the "two weeks ago this time, I was ________" game. When my mom took me to Sama Sama, the new Indonesian restaurant on State Street, I was almost unbearable.
"Ohhhh, chicken SATAY! I wonder if they'll do soto ayam? Hi, have you actually ever been to Indonesia? I have. Yes, I know what sambal is. Are you kidding me? Let me tell you a little something about sambal. No, it's pronounced meeeeee goreng. Not myyyyy goreng, meeeeeeeeee."
Then I tucked my knees into my chest and felt my soul split open into a kajillion pieces on the car ride home.
So I've been home for more than two weeks, now, and I guess it's time to unpack my suitcase. It sits crumpled and sad outside the entrance to my room as though it's taking this whole thing terribly personally. I don't know what's keeping me from digging into it; fear of permanence, maybe? If it isn't already obvious, I can't tell yet how I feel about being back in California. I oscillate between despising everyone, lost and alone, and feeling divine compassion for the Santa Ana winds and everyone underneath their perfect, warm breath. I love it, I love it not. Some moments, unhappiness approaches like a tide; I try to outrun it into the next room, into the car or down the street, but it usually manages to snatch me before I reach the end of Sycamore Canyon. What is it, exactly, that causes that pain? When I enter a room full of people, all smiling and friendly enough, can I answer their "how are you?" with the truth—that I cried so hard last night that one eye swelled up like a gummy bear, and I have absolutely no idea what the fuck I'm doing? That I'm scared out of my mind that I'll sink into nothingness, lose my perspective, always be this lonely? No. I'll say "fine," or "you know, okay" or "good, thanks." Because that's what is expected of me, and that's what they've allotted for. That's it. On the phone with my grandfather, he informed me that I "can't keep running away to Exotica"... which I took to be a blanket term for, you know, all of Asia. But rather than get offended, I realized the truth to what he was saying: how, at this stage in my life, without knowing exactly who I am, am I able to learn to be happy where I am?
Can I learn to stay put?
It's an art, you know. Not running. So far, since I've been back, I've been holding onto talismans from my time in Bali—words that fill my whole mouth with their sound, or items that sag heavy in the pockets of my jeans—in order to remember. Like the spinning top in Inception, I hold the specific weight of these items in my hands, run my fingers over their grooves, in order to remind myself that I did, in fact, leave. It's hard to recall, when I look down at the skin on my hands, how it was not to feel cracked and dry; but my dragon ring, the one that hugs my middle finger as it has ever since that one night in Ubud, remains. And it remembers even when I can't.
The other day at L's Kitchen, a woman walked in to buy lunch for her son. While it heated up, she told me that he was heavily involved in the theatre department at SB High and on his way to study in New York; a source of major pride, rightfully so. While ringing up her order, I casually mentioned that I used to be involved in the theatre department as well... grateful that the ding of the cash register would drown out my obvious lack of shame at name-dropping my former accomplishments. "I too was a director of Music of the Night," I told her, counting out her change. When she met my gaze just then, there was a moment—only a sliver of a moment, but there nonetheless—where I saw a look flash across her eyes, loud and clear, that read: Former star of SBHS Theatre Department, bright future, bound for success... serving me sandwiches. And I stared right back at her with, Yes. You are correct. This is your son's future. She trembled a little as I handed over the food, looking for a way to get out of the awkwardness that hadn't even been spoken... but I gave her a Grinchy smile, stamped the freebie card, and she went on her way. It was great. And you know why? Because it reminded me not to take things so seriously. SNL got it right: regardless of how I happen to feel at the moment, regardless of whether they're currently driving me up a wall or reminding me of my roots, Californians are known for taking life with a grain of hyperbole. It's like the worst most unbelievably terrible most dramatic thing EVER. No wonder it takes us so long to pick out a sandwich. Perhaps, then, this is what I can do with my post-Bali blues; relax a little and smile through the shitty stuff. I can use the slow hours at work to make lists, like the one I made today: quite simply, "Things I Can Do to Feel Less Crazy." It's the kind of list that would probably mortify a normal person, were it to slip out of their bag...but luckily, I'm not a normal person. Number two on the list was, "dance around in living room for no particular reason." Number one was, "Write."
Which is why I'm keeping this blog. I'm no longer reporting back from the jungle, or the peak of Gunung Batur, or even the airport in some foreign land—it's just me, here and there, and I have no particular destination in mind. And I'm okay with that. Talking to someone the other day, they casually mentioned that they would never follow a blog that didn't include snazzy photos of food or and/or interesting recipes. "Because I mean, what's the point?" So now, in the spirit of finding The Point—or Ringo Starr, or a reason to keep going, or whichever comes first—I'll do my best to honor the request.
Recipe for Disaster
1/4 cup Wanderlust
2 medium-sized good feelings
3 tablespoons emotional warfare
3/4 cup unstable situation with ex-boyfriend
3/4 cup blind faith
Mix dry ingredients first until all emotions are evenly distributed. Crack good feelings one at a time, carefully separating the yolk from delusion, until the batter has reached the consistency of relative sanity. Pour into a large saucepan and cook at exactly 70 degrees Fahrenheit for 2 months or until top layer is golden brown.
Watch as the bad stuff forms a hard crust on the bottom, settling like sand to the floor of a pool, leaving a marshmallowy interior and nothing but goodness at the top.
Dig in.
So it's this, I guess: I'm back with a vengeance, confused (but who isn't), with a teensy inkling that everything is going to work out as spectacularly as I've always known it was going to—in direct proportion to how often I follow steps one and two on my list of Anti-Crazy. I'm back but not back, here but not really, happy but sad, feeling all there is to feel without worrying too much about what it means in the long term; and I've changed, in that respect. Most of all, I've learned that you can take the girl out of California and take the California out of the girl! At least, the parts she doesn't want to keep. And that's a beautiful thing.
Like...I guess. Or whatever.
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