the transcendental.

“Have you ever had a transcendental moment?” Mrs. Reed asked.

There were 16 of us in the English class, our desks arranged in a rectangle on the top floor of our schoolhouse in Rennes, France. We were seventeen and nearing the end of our year abroad; spring breezes blew in, rattling the shutters, and tiny white flowers peeked around the edge of each windowpane.

Our thoughts these days were on anything that could distract us from the inevitable passing of time, the unwarranted return to reality, and so while our bodies showed up for class, our minds we let wander back through Amsterdam, Paris, Spain. But somehow, this discussion brought us to attention.

“It’s when your mind stops.” Mrs. Reed said. “It’s when a moment drinks you in and you’re just there, every one of your senses brought to full potential, smelling, touching, tasting, feeling, you couldn’t care less about the future or the past, you’re just there, and blissful, at one with the universe.”

She paused. Another breeze was coming in from over the rooftops, bringing with it church-bells and the crunch of cobblestones in the alley. It stopped to ruffle our hair and left a trail of freshly baked bread in its wake.

“Has anyone ever had a Transcendental Moment?” Mrs. Reed asked again.

“I think I’m having one right now!” My friend Dee-Dee yelled.

the existential.

Not a month after turning 21, I bookmarked the wikipedia page for “existential crisis.” I was comforted by its thoughtful suggestions:

“Turn on a light, preferably 75 watts or brighter.”

“Drink a cool glass of water.”

“Clean whatever room you’re in. This will help you clarify your power over the world and give you a few minutes to do some basic problem-solving.”

At the end of my junior year in college, my father arrived in Los Angeles. He had come to save me, to take me 3,000 miles away from my problems to the sanctuary of rural New Hampshire.

I picked him up at the airport and kept driving. I took him on an afternoon tour of Malibu. We came across a rugged white beach, bustling with pelicans, ducks, and seagulls. We skimmed shells out over the surf and watched the wind whip the water hard against the shore.

I felt that I had come to the end of my existence, and that the days ahead could only bring me backwards through time as I retraced my steps to the other side of the country, toward my beginnings in that big backyard on the eastern coast. 

I pondered as I approached a pelican. He stood motionless, only his feathers ruffled by the wind. He regarded me with one unblinking eye as I came closer still, peering into the depths of his cornea, wondering whether he too felt the significance of this moment. My father came to stand beside me and we turned to the ocean once more, inhaling the wind-whipped salty air, skin prickling at its touch, both sensing that something momentous was soon to occur.

Behind us, two boisterous young boys raced into the midst of a flock of seagulls. The birds rose, circled, and sent agitated streams of diarrhea onto our heads.

We ate dinner at a Korean Barbecue. Then we returned to my apartment, where my father crawled onto an empty mattress and fell sound asleep. But I could not sleep in the empty green glow, and stayed up drinking wine in the kitchen.

The next morning, we went out and ate omelettes on a sun-baked patio. While we waited for the check, my father told me he had had a dream that I had drowned in the bathtub. He had tried to rescue me by pulling me out by my hair, but it was too late.

I was already dead.

And then we left L.A. It was sunny and congested but I felt the open world spreading before me. Things got lighter and lighter the farther we drove. We listened to Transcendental Meditation tapes and talked about mind expansion, and my father told me about his first time on LSD. I told him he was driving too slow, that we would never make it back to New Hampshire. He told me I was driving too fast, that I would put too much strain on the car. Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, the engine began making petulant noises, and that’s when we knew we were in for a long ride.

the first dream...

came the night after my 20th birthday. My birthday is February 20th, 2/20, for those who might be numerically inclined. Not that I'm saying numbers had anything to do with it, but maybe they did, and that night I had the first dream. 

In the dream my two girlfriends and I were in Mexico. We were lying on our beds and laughing and talking until one by one we slowly nodded away. Right before I fell asleep, I remembered we had forgotten to lock the doors.

Then it was too late and the room was changing into my childhood bedroom. My parents were sleeping down the hall. The windowshade was up and along with the moonlight something evil entered the room, sweeping across the pane and into my body.

I tried to move, to shake it off, but I was paralyzed. I tried to scream out for help, but my tongue curled back in my throat, choking me. I was convulsing now, involuntarily, and worst of all, I was thinking.

"I'm having a seizure," I thought, which meant I was no longer dreaming.

And I was certain at that moment that I was going to die.

more existential.

My car's name is Adelaide. She is a 2001 Honda Accord. We've been through a lot together, Adelaide and I.

The first time she was stolen was at the "David Bowie, Booze, and Placenta Mice Babies" party. I needed to get my sunglasses out of her glove compartment, because I was wearing a blue wig, and it was dark, and I was very drunk and very high. My friend Simon, who was wearing tinsel on his head, and who was also very drunk and very high, came with me. There is a picture of us on the lawn; him in his tinsel, and me in my sunglasses and blue wig. My arm is draped jauntily over his shoulder, and the car keys are dangling from my fingers.

That was the last anyone saw of Adelaide for a good long while.


My friend Barbara saw her briefly, when she was being driven away early that next morning. Barbara was returning from the house of a man with a glass eye, and maybe it was in thinking about the glass eye that she failed to recognize Adelaide until it was too late. She thought the two men in the front seats did not look like people who had my permission to be driving Adelaide, and so she hurried to find me.

I was in my bed, still very high and very drunk and very sick and having nightmares. I dreamed that I was in my childhood bedroom again. I was trying very innocently to plug a cord into an outlet.

But sparks started flying and before I could stop it, a flame had spread onto the floor. I doused the flame in water, but now a huge, soggy circle was spreading across the rug. When I touched the circle, the walls of the house shook in a loud rumbling noise and the entire wet part of the floor disintegrated, crumbling downwards into the dining room and leaving behind a huge, gaping hole.

In shock, I stood and stared at it. One small action had spiraled out of control, and now my home was destroyed. How was I ever going to tell my parents?

It was out of that thought that I was awoken to Barbara's frantic knocking on the door.

in the garden.

I was dying and all I could do was watch the lines of poetry scrolling long in front of me. Long and white and cursive they scrolled, one after another.

"In the garden..." one began, but it was scrolling too fast for me to read the rest. Frozen, shaking, unable to speak for fear of choking on my tongue, I lay and shook and watched the poetry go by, until I woke up.

I could not believe it when I was awake. I kept feeling myself to make sure, and I was still shaking. Then I sat in my bed in that early L.A. morning wondering what it meant and where to go and what to do.

My room-mate at the time was very Christian. 

I did not tell her about the dream.

even more existential.

Now my car had been stolen, and I was sitting amidst last night's trash in last night's make-up waiting for LAPD to come. I was sitting with Barbara and my room-mate Bianca, who were in last night's make-up also, and Bianca had a glittery mo-hawk. Barbara and Bianca were smoking cigarettes and talking about the man with the glass eye.

"I think, I'm not positive, and I don't remember, but I'm fairly certain that that's the man who tried to rape our friend Eloise. Do you remember, Anne?" Bianca asked.

I remembered. But I didn't answer. I was too far away.

LAPD came a half an hour after they said they would, and Barbara and Bianca immediately sat up and stubbed out their cigarettes. They wanted to look presentable for the officers.

The officers strode through the trash on the lawn importantly, their walkie-talkies buzzing.

"Is this where the car's been stolen?" One asked.

"A week ago," I said. Barbara and Bianca glared at me. Bianca tried to fluff her hair, but the mohawk was as stiff as a board. She put her hand down.

"Where were you parked?" An officer asked. I told him.

"Maybe someone was just angry that you were boxing them in!" He said, sharing a laugh with the other officer.

I did not think it was funny. "Are you going to take my information?" I asked.

He huffed a little. I was spoiling his fun. But he perked right back up when he saw my ID.

"So you girls go to USC, then?" He passed the ID to the other officer.

"Great football team," the second officer said.

"Except for that fiasco at the Rose Bowl, Yeesh..." The first one said.

"Look, my car..." I started, but now the officers were off and running with Barbara and Bianca.

I waited for a lull in the conversation and then politely inquired why they couldn't maybe cruise the neighborhood to look for Adelaide, or, if they were just going to stand there socializing, at least help pick up some of the trash from the party.

"We've got another set of guys on the way to do that," they explained. "We're just here to get the basic information."

"How useful," I muttered. And so we waited another half an hour for the second set of officers to arrive.

"Looks like it was quite a party!" Was what officer #3 said as he and his counterpart came to join the ever-growing cluster on the front lawn. Our friend Simon had also been called over to partake in the unfolding saga, which made 8 of us; I could see Bianca debating whether or not to bring out martinis.

The second set of officers told us that Honda Accords were the world's most stolen vehicle. Their parts were highly in demand. If she were to be found intact, the officers said, it would probably be because she had been used in a shooting and then abandoned.

Three weeks later, the towing company called. Adelaide had been found, abandoned and intact.

still more existential.

Now we were in the desert, and Adelaide was being petulant.

"Adelaide, dear," I said.

My father told me to slow down, for the millionth time.

"I am slowed down," I sulked. "I'm on cruise control."

"Maybe that's what's making her petulant," he said.

We drove through Vegas just to see it, and we thought we would stay the night. Maybe we would gamble at the Mandalay Bay. But everywhere was full, and so we drove on. We drove down into the lowlands to get some gas.

"Is that a hooker?" My father said. "At the gas station?"

As we drove back up out of the lowlands we saw people lining the streets, people with torn clothes and ragged shelters set up, camped out, waiting for something, under the hot sun. I looked around to see what they were waiting for, but I could not find it. They were mostly black and hispanic men, and this was a side of Vegas I had never seen before. I had never really thought anyone lived in Vegas, much less was homeless there.

We drove back into the city, past big obese tourists with big sunburned arms, and margaritas in big gulp cups, and I watched them waddling up and down the streets looking for the next place to get rid of their money, and I began to feel a little sick inside.

Then we left for good, and I was glad. I wanted to put as much distance between me and this desert as possible.

We stopped at another gas station, and I called my mother to let her know we were alive.

"How's Dad?" She asked.

"Hungry, apparently," I said. "He's buying out the whole gas station. He's got a sandwich and yogurt and potato chips and fruit. He's got chocolate milk and a liter of coke. And now he's burrowing in the ice cream bin."

"Good God," My mother said, alarmed.

I went over to see if everything was ok.

"Energy for the drive!" Came the yell from inside the bin. "You should get yourself something, too."

So I circled the convenience store, picking things up and looking at the nutrition labels and wrinkling my nose and putting them back again. Finally, I brought a packet of fruit and a diet green tea to the counter.

"That's it?" My father said.

His mound of purchases almost hid the cashier from view. She grimaced as she rang them up. My father munched happily on his ice cream cone.

I added a pack of Orbit gum to the pile.

"That's it," I said.

We continued to drive.

Adelaide was really getting petulant now. Her whole front section shook every time we went over 60.

We waited until it was beginning to be sunset, and then we pulled over to a flat stretch of desert to have our dinner.

I was hungry now and I ate my fruit, the parts that were edible, very fast. But not much was edible and so I pouted at it and held the packet out to my father.

"Want some fruit?" I said.

"Sure," he said. "Want some sandwich?"

"No," I said, pouting and staring straight ahead.

I stared down the vast unending highway and saw emptiness. I was beginning to feel very strange. 

I was wondering about what it would have been like to be a Native American and have to live here, and find food here, and water. I wondered how many miles you would have to walk before you found anything at all, and what if when you found it, you had to kill it, and you couldn't, and it ran away?

I was beginning to feel very strange, indeed.

There was a slab of turkey sandwich dangling in front of my face.

"Eat it," My father said. "You need protein."

Once we got back into the car nothing was as bad as it had seemed. We were getting out of the desert now, and up into the hills and canyons. My father was telling me about his life after college, when he had met his first wife, and it was both funny and sad and we were laughing. Things were better than they had seemed, in that moment where I sat next to my father under that vast empty sky, and felt both of us feel so small, and I had wondered, just for a moment, whether he could ever truly save me.

That moment had passed now and we were out of the desert and into the hills, and Adelaide had stopped being petulant, and we were talking and laughing. Even though my stomach still felt empty, it was alright, and it was passing.

Things don't ever stay the same for long, especially when you're driving.

continuing existential.

We stayed at a Days Inn and I only cried twice, the first time when I realized that my bottle of wine had gone bad in the heat, and the second time when, after I had turned on the tv as an alternate way to numb myself, my father came out of the bathroom and launched a tirade against the character-weakening machine he saw before him. 

My character had never been weaker, and so I cried and cried over the rotten wine and lack of TV, and my father stood there for a while not knowing what to do before finally going out to the pool. I cried some more and then crawled into bed, praying for the next day to come quickly. 

We were in Utah, and about to pass through another long stretch of desert. We went to get gas in the morning and the man who was filling up the tank looked at the tires and balked. He summoned us to the garage, and pretty soon Adelaide was up in the air with various men inspecting her. She left with two brand new front wheels, and an admonition from the man to keep a close eye on her, now, if we didn't want to end up stranded in the desert. 

We drove and drove through flat cactus country where the heat pressed hard against the windows. We kept the windows closed but we didn't turn up the air conditioning, because my father said it would reduce the gas mileage. 

An hour or so went by and my father suggested that we tell stories to pass the time. He said we could alternate, back and forth. 

"I'll tell you the story of Sam Smith and the wildcat," he said. 

I'd already heard that story a million times, I told him, and I was tired. I wanted to think of my own stories, not share them. 

"Maybe later," I told my father. 

"Alright," he said. And then he told his story all the same.

We mounted a steep hill to a canyon, and we decided to get out and stretch our legs. 

There was a long parking lot but only a few cars parked, and only a couple people milling about. They were taking pictures, and using the bathroom. 

Two dark-featured men were standing by the bathroom and the moment I got out of the car they started looking at me. I walked toward the canyon and I looked at them looking at me and then they looked away. But once I continued on and they were behind me I felt them looking again. 

My skirt lifted a little as my hair blew blonde in the breeze and now there was an idea stirring deep inside of me.  

"Speak up," I told it, but it did not have words yet. 

I was at the edge of the canyon and I looked out over it, at the red and yellow and mossy green layers under the light blue sky. My eye followed the lines and curves and juts and crevices from one end to the other and when I was all done I walked back to the parking lot. 

A Native American woman was selling jewelry and my father was going through her wares excitedly. 

"Pick something," he said. "Anything you want." 

The old woman smiled at me with warm wizened eyes, and she motioned me to where the necklaces lay on the blanket. 

She spread them out and they were all different shapes and stones, and all different types of animal. There were a great many but I had no trouble deciding. I knew right away which one I wanted. 

"I'll take the bear," I said, and she smiled again. She helped me put it around my neck and my father paid for it and when we walked back, past where the men were standing, I no longer felt so exposed.

still continuing existential.

That night we reached Colorado. We pulled up outside a Ramada Limited and my father went in and came out looking very pleased with himself. 

"Wait 'til we tell Mom I booked us a room at the Ramada!" He crowed as we pulled around back. 

"Limited," I muttered, under my breath. 

It was as limited a motel as I had ever been in. It looked like 1950 and smelled like stale cigarettes. My father wanted very much to believe that it was still a Luxurious Establishment, and so he made a big clamor about going to use the pool and sauna. 

Once he was gone I went to get my guitar. I snuck it up to the room and began to play, softly, not wanting anyone to hear because I only knew three chords and I did not play them very well. 

I played those chords, soft and broken, over and over again, until I felt them begin to pull me together. I did not want to put the guitar down because I knew the moment I did I would begin falling apart again, and I did not have the energy to fall very far tonight. 

My father came back in and I put the guitar away. We went to get dinner at Subway and I ordered a salad with as little as possible on it, because I had been just sitting in the car all day. 

Then when I went to bed I was still hungry and I felt very strange again and there was a word in my head that had not been there before. Perhaps I had heard my father say it once, and now it was there and it kept repeating. 

"Kundalini," the word whispered to itself as I tried to sleep. "Kundalini."

The next morning, even my father was disillusioned by the Ramada Limited's breakfast buffet, so we bought egg sandwiches at Subway and forged ahead. 

We drove up into mountains and down again. We stopped at a rest area where there was snow and my father threw some at me. 

Then, just outside of Boulder, the idea that had been stirring found its voice. 

I was in the midst of reading an Allure magazine article on "beauty breakdowns" and why you should avoid having them, because, unless you're Britney Spears and can afford all sorts of wigs and extensions, you'll probably grow to regret whatever drastic changes you've made. Let's face it, the article argued, we all value external beauty, and we all ultimately want to look our best. 

I kept reading the article over and over, each time with a stronger sense of indignation. The idea was really whirring now. I wanted to hear what it had to say and so I closed the magazine and for the next couple of miles, I listened. Then I turned to my father. 

"When we get home, I think I'm going to shave my head," I told him. 

He was driving and he kept his eyes on the road and kept very still as he thought, carefully, of what to say. 

"Well." He finally said. "That would be... neat." 

nearing the end of existential.

It was on our fourth night of cheap motels and gas station food that I threw my sandwich across the car and cried. I cried and cried, until the sobs became hiccups and finally subsided, and my father and I sat in silence in the parking lot of a Days Inn.

Out of the shadows along the sidewalk came a drunk Native American man. Barefoot, he danced and weaved, shouting incoherencies. He had a bottle in one hand and he swigged from it as he staggered and came to a propped position against the building.

A manager came out and pulled the Native American upright again, giving him a prod to be on his way. They had had this exchange before. The Native American yelled and waved the bottle but did as he was told, dancing and weaving away once more into the dark night.

"You know, you could have it a lot worse," was what my father finally said.

In Iowa City we stopped at a New Age bookstore and I bought "The Power of Now" by Eckhart Tulle. That night I stayed up late reading it and underlining passages and whispering affirmations to myself. I was trying to put off going to sleep, because I was scared of being alone with myself, and every night it got worse. There were horrible feelings that crept in when I did not have the guitar or affirming words to ward them off, and when I dreamt I dreamt about ghosts and demons, and not about pleasant things at all.

When I crawled into bed that night I thought of Eckhart Tulle loudly to drown out the other thoughts, and although it worked to get me to sleep I woke up many times throughout the night, thinking there was a ghost right outside the door.

During the days it was not so bad, because we were moving, albeit slowly. We spent a whole day driving through flat unending fields and I thought I might cry again but I held it in. My father was oblivious, driving 65 and bopping his hands happily against the steering wheel to the beats of Caribbean music. I slouched in the passenger seat repeating affirmations to myself as we got passed by one truck after another.

In the evening my father splurged on a Best Western and we got into conversation with the girl at the front desk. She was about my age, and horrified to learn that we were driving cross country.

"Just the two of you?" She asked. "Just.... driving? All the way from California to Maine?"

"New Hampshire," we told her. "And yes."

"I'd kill myself," she told us, before handing over the key.

the end of existential.

We went to Chicago specifically for ghost encounters, in both the literal and metaphorical sense. My father had grown up there, and later attended graduate school, and Chicago was where many of his stories were from.

His father, my grandfather, had owned an art gallery downtown, and it had been haunted by a mad artist who threw paintings off the walls. The building had previously been a funeral home, so it had contained many disturbing energies. But the most disturbing energy of them all was John Foote Jr., the tortured artist, and so after roaming around the University of Chicago we headed downtown to find the gallery and see if John Foote was still there.

First we went into a Kate Spade store, where my father terrorized the staff with tales of poltergeist activity for fifteen minutes before taking a closer look around and realizing that it was not, in fact, the right building.

Mollified, we went next door to Charlotte Russe, where the energy was heavier and things were a little darker and I could tell right away that this was the old gallery.

We got into conversation with two salesgirls. The first was dismissive. She didn't believe in that stuff, she said. But the second got very excited and made us follow her upstairs.

She pointed out a second set of stairs, leading to the back offices. We weren't allowed to go in, but the sight of the curling wallpaper and fading light sent shivers down my spine.

"I KNEW this place was haunted," she said. "Every time I'm back there by myself I get this creepy feeling. My manager, Janine, she has to work late a lot of nights. And she thinks it's haunted, too."

"So he's still around," my father said.

The other salesgirl had followed us upstairs and was looking skeptically at the haunted hallway.

"You still on about that ghost stuff, Alison?" She said.

"Don't you ever wonder about it just a little, Shauna?" Our friend asked.

"No," said Shauna. "When you're dead, you're dead."

They were still debating the mysteries of existence when we left, because it was near closing time and there were no other customers in the store. I wondered if either of them would have to stay late tonight, and close up the back offices by themselves.

I was glad to be driving away tonight, and not going back to those offices.

For hours we drove past factories and smokestacks, their pungent rubbery fumes creeping into Adelaide even though her windows were tightly shut. I could not believe anyone lived here, either, with all these fumes at every hour of the day. Another layer of dismal gloom settled upon me, thick like smoke, and I could not wait to get back to New Hampshire and clear my head.

Once we began to move away from the factories our mood lightened. The road opened up into four lanes and I was driving fast but my father was not complaining, instead he was leaning back in the passenger seat and telling stories, and I was listening. Sometimes I was even laughing, as he told me of the days when he was my age in Chicago, working as an art dealer in the gallery, dating bohemian girls, going to the first Playboy Mansion before it moved to California.

He told me stories about riots, and selling art to the Mafia, and Hugh Hefner, and the beginning of the hippie 60's. I thought I had heard all my father's stories, but I was wrong. I was in a good mood now and we were getting closer and closer to Ohio, and then New York, and once we were in New York, I thought, I would be able to breathe deep again. It was nearing one o'clock and for a while we were contemplating driving all night, picking up our last batch of gas station coffee and stale chocolate snacks, and gearing up our last batch of stories and going for broke.

But around 2:00 we saw a Red Roof on the horizon that my father said was beckoning to him. Somewhat reluctantly, I pulled the car off the freeway and into the parking lot of the Inn. I did not want to stop now but I convinced myself that it would make the next day's trip go all the faster. Once I lay on the bed, I slept easy. I knew it was our last night on the road.

We woke up in Ohio but it did not take us long to get to New York. We stopped for gas at a lake-side town and I stepped out and breathed deep and smiled. We got gas and my father got an ice cream cone and then it seemed we spent the whole day driving across the state. 

We drove and drove and for the first time my mind wandered over the rest of the trip as if it were something of the past. It remembered Chicago, the ghosts, the plains, the canyons, Las Vegas, California. It remembered that I would not, in fact, be sitting in this car for the rest of my life. 

In the late afternoon we took a detour to Oneonta to see where my mother had gone to college. There was some sort of spring festival taking place and my father thought it appropriate to go wander around with all the students. I stayed on the outskirts and listened to the music and watched the sun sink into the mountains. 

We went to a local pizza place and all the locals watched our every move and listened to our every word as if we were from a far off planet. I tried to imagine my mother here, and couldn't.

We got back into the car and it was sunset now and as we got back onto the freeway I saw a family of deer, framed against the horizon, watching the car. As we drove on winding roads into Vermont I smelled the old familiar skunk smell, and I kept the windows open to let it in. I was breathing much more easily now, and I was joyful, and little did I know I would be driving these roads again and again that summer, each time on a different odyssey. 

It was midnight when we finally pulled into the driveway of our New Hampshire home. It had been seven days. My father got out and kissed the ground, and I walked straight upstairs, cut off my ponytail, and shaved my head.

And that was the end of our cross-country road trip. 

the squirrel story (part one)

I have a friend, Mais, who is from Jordan. Mais went to Washington D.C. for the 2009 inauguration.

While she was there, she bought some peanut m&m's and went for a walk in the park. There were many squirrels in the park. Mais, not being one to withhold peanut m&m's, decided to feed the squirrels.

She was pleasantly surprised at how quickly they gathered around her, and how grateful they seemed to be for the afternoon treat. With her big brown eyes and dark curly hair tucked under a red knit cap, Mais must have looked and felt just like Snow White communing with her forest friends.

She carefully allotted each squirrel one m&m, and watched in delight as they took it and scampered away. She snapped some photos to show to her friends back home, and even took a brief video on her camera. What an enjoyable afternoon this was turning out to be!

But unbeknownst to Mais, there was trouble brewing. One particularly large squirrel was not satisfied with his allotment. He gobbled it up greedily and came running back for more before some of the others had even been fed.

Mais recognized him and resisted his advances. She wanted to teach him a lesson about waiting his turn. But the squirrel meant business, making menacing clicking noises as he crept closer and closer.

Finally, Mais' benevolent nature got the better of her. She very carefully placed a plump yellow m&m in her palm and offered it to him, the candy hovering right in front of his nose.

And that's when the squirrel bit her on the finger.

the absurd.

the squirrel story (part two)

Now Mais had a bleeding finger and was surrounded by squirrels. She didn't know quite what to do next.

She decided to find the nearest emergency room. It was ten blocks away, and she made sure to keep her finger elevated all the way there.

She arrived to quite a frightful scene. People were bloody, moaning, semi-conscious. Sirens wailed, hospital personnel raced in and out. Those who were attending to their bandaged or semi-conscious loved ones eyed Mais (whose finger was no longer bleeding) suspiciously.

She was beginning to feel idiotic, but she reasoned that she had already come this far. And who knew what kind of diseases that mangy beast was carrying? Mais took a deep breath and timidly approached the front desk.

"Can I help you?" The staunch woman behind the counter asked.

The girl was lost, most likely. Took a right when she should have gone left.

"Uh, my name is Mais," Mais said. "And I was attacked by a... uh...."

The word had suddenly escaped her. Fox? Pigeon? No, that wasn't right.

She began to rifle in her purse. She hoped she had brought her English dictionary.

Meanwhile, the woman behind the counter was shaking her head. It was despicable, that's what it was. The poor young girl.

A rape. And on Obama's inauguration day!

Mais was feeling frantic. The English dictionary was nowhere to be found. She was considering simply turning and leaving the hospital when she remembered. The video!

In a surge of hope Mais swept her camera from her purse, pressed open the viewfinder, and proffered it to the woman.

"Look!" Mais said.

The woman wasn't sure she wanted to see this. But she looked.

And looked again.

Then she gave Mais some forms to fill out, and while Mais did that, she took the camera down the hall to show her colleagues.

When the doctor came to collect Mais, the first thing he asked was to see the video. Then he stepped out of the room with the camera for a while.

When he came back, he cleaned and dressed the tiny wound.

While he did so, a variety of hospital staff came by the room; some who were looking for something, or needed to speak to the doctor, or just lingered by the door and peeked in.

"Is it... ah... is it too late to see the video?" One male nurse inquired.

The doctor had just finished with the wound, so he took the camera out for a second round. While he was doing that, a specialist came in to talk to Mais. She gave a brief presentation on Animal Safety.

Her presentation took on a reprimanding tone when she impressed upon Mais that feeding creatures in the wild was a danger to both humans and the animals themselves, and that by trying to domesticate these creatures, one could throw the entire eco-system out of whack!

Mais had certainly not intended to do any such thing. She had just wanted to share her m&ms.

She left the hospital with a bandaged finger, a few dozen Animal Safety leaflets, and an antibiotic prescription, feeling increasingly ridiculous. She wished she could just hide herself away somewhere, but first she needed to get her prescription filled.

The nearest pharmacist seemed baffled by why he was giving out that particular prescription, and in so low a dosage. So Mais had to show the video all over again. By now, she was tired of being laughed at.

Which is why I thought she was such a good sport to tell the story to me a few days later, when she returned home.

"I just don't get it," she said at the end, as I was wiping my eyes with a tissue. I had just seen the video myself, and then read the leaflets, and it was taking a while to get my breathing normal again.


"Are you just never supposed to feed any animals anything? Ever? At all?" She looked at me pleadingly with her brown and wide eyes.

"Well," I conceded. "Of course there's some times that it's alright. Like at a petting zoo. Or with ducks. Ducks are good to feed."

"But ducks hurt when they bite," Mais frowned. "Even worse than squirrels. It's those sharp beaks that do it."

I regarded her. I tried very hard not to laugh again.

"Mais," I said, very seriously, "Exactly how many animals have you been attacked by?"

She had to think about it. I told her she didn't have to tell me if she didn't want to.

She grimaced.

"Is there something wrong with me?" She asked. "That whole day it just kept going and going until I felt like something even worse than an idiot. Like a... a cartoon! Has that sort of feeling ever happened to you?"

I thought about it. I smiled.

"Well," I said.

the bear story (part one)

Three months after shaving my head, I went on a four day vision quest along the shores of Somerset Lake in Vermont. I was determined to receive some clarity on my purpose in life, my relationship with the universe. The vision quest program lasted 12 days in total, with the time before and after the quest used to talk about safety, the history of vision quests, and most importantly, our own personal myths and legends that had led us to this experience.

I talked about my mixed emotions toward my life and the absurd, over-the-top moments that it consisted of, the constant roller-coaster ride of elation collapsing into fear and hypochondria before surging back upwards into bliss. I said I was ready for some balance, some simplicity, that maybe the crazy stories and tall tales overflowing out of my 21 years were simply a cover for deep-seated insecurity.

It was time, I said, to discover what was under that layer of hype and circumstance, to delve down into the banal and mundane roots of my humanity. And so I embarked on my quest, stripped of food and distractions and smelling of sacred sage.

My spot was located at the northern-most point of the lake, a dark, swampy area filled with spindly trees and shallow beaver ponds. In order to reach it, one had to bushwhack through a field of tall grasses before tiptoeing over a series of stepping stones; one false move and you would be deposited in the surrounding bog.

I had had no intention of spending my four day fast in such an environment. In fact, I had originally selected a spot that seemed unbelievably perfect. On the east side of the lake, not far from where base camp was located, there was a clearing bordered on all sides by pine trees. Small white flowers bloomed amid the soft needles carpeting the forest floor. To the left, a sunny field beckoned, and to the right, a babbling creek led to a sandy beach and the glistening lake. I couldn’t wait to string up my hammock and sway in the breezes, a princess in her enchanted grove.

I had just gone to the banks of the creek to assess my water source when I heard a nearby rustling and voices. To my horror, I looked over to see our quest leader, Sparrow Hart, presenting my spot to another woman! A middle-aged long term smoker, she had not been physically prepared for the hike in, and had ended up with a twisted ankle. When I approached, Sparrow explained that he was offering her the spot due to its close proximity to base camp.

“Oh, of course,” I smiled, secretly fuming. They say everything that happens on a quest is symbolic, and if that were the case, then…. well! I decided that this represented the recurrent pattern of my practically non-existent love life; secret infatuation, the cultivation of a relationship, hope for a glorious future, and then, suddenly, a clingy, needy female arrives on the scene to wrangle the object of my affection away. I’m nothing if not over-analytical.

I pasted on an even bigger smile.

“Really, it’s a beautiful spot. Enjoy!”

I whistled nonchalantly until I was out of earshot, then,

“Typical!” I huffed, and stalked off to the part of the forest that would be farthest away from everyone else.

It was starting to get late, and I was convinced that I was going to be the only one who failed to find a place, the only one who failed to find a place in the world, the only one who would never, EVER find someone to love them! (hunger and fatigue were making me rather dramatic), and it is lucky that sooner or later Sparrow Hart found me, still stomping around and muttering to myself, and led me through the meadow and over the swamp to the place that I would call home for the next few days.

My first reaction was utter disbelief that anyone in their right mind would ever stay here. Evening was closing in, drawing long shadows over the dark and murky beaver ponds. From behind the dense canopy of forest, something howled, sticks cracked, and all sorts of twitterings and cackles came seeping up out of the bog. I was terrified. It was perfect.

the pride and the fall (part one)

My practice of falling started at a young age. At three I fell down the basement steps and hit my head on the cement floor. At six I was thrown from a trampoline and gashed my chin. At nine, I tumbled down the stairs, slammed into the front door, and broke my arm. I just couldn't seem to stay upright.

I remember once standing at the top of the stairs to ask my mother a question, and by the time she answered I was sprawled in the downstairs hallway.

And it wasn't just stairs. In sports I found all kinds of ways to fall. I fell into and off of and over people and into splits. I once tripped over an immobile soccer ball and skinned my nose. My coaches said they'd never seen anything like it.

I kept falling with the seasons. I fell through ice on the lake. I careened my sleds into stonewalls. Any form of snow-navigating objects on my feet left me floundering in snowbanks, entangled in trees. My mother would take me along for cross-country skiing, purely, I suspect, for her own entertainment.

Then, for some unfathomable reason, I spent one winter trying to learn to snowboard. The results I chronicled in a 9th grade English essay about how the experience was great fun for everyone on the mountain, save, of course, myself.

I couldn't even make it from the lodge to the lift without wiping out half a dozen times, frequently taking random passerby down with me. No one was safe, from pedestrians to lift attendants to snow patrol. I still wonder if my snowboard being stolen that year was an Act of God, or perhaps a vast conspiracy on the part of other mountain-goers.

But I was undeterred, and determined. I went against nature and kept renting.

And I only got worse as time went on. Every day I caused major traffic obstacles on both ends of the slope. I managed once to be dragged backwards by the J-bar up the entirety of the bunny hill.

When I did finally make it to the top, I gave a proud wave to my mother, spent ten minutes fastening my bindings, and slid directly into the one tree-like object in a half-mile radius. Once I disentangled myself, I shoved off again, this time into a group of snowboard instructors.

I made my final third of the journey on all fours, my butt sticking up in the air gorilla-like, as I slid backwards down the remaining three feet of slope into my mother.

I couldn't tell whether she was crying out of laughter or embarrassment. Once she composed herself, she said that this was even better than cross-country skiing.

the bear story (part two)

Back at base camp, I mustered the courage to tell the story of my day over our evening campfire. It felt freeing to be honest and even better to laugh with everyone over the image of me harrumphing around the forest all day, convinced that my life was over if I didn’t find the ideal spot for my vision quest. We all shared our final hopes and fears before settling into our sleeping bags and hammocks for our last night in the group.

No sooner had I gotten comfortable than I felt a raindrop. Then another. I barely had time to gather my backpack and sprint to Sparrow Hart’s tarp before the sky opened into a downpour. The rest of the questers had had the same idea, and we formed a pile of bags and shivering bodies under the narrow tarp.

“Wait’ll I tell my friends that I slept with six women on the quest!” Sparrow crowed from somewhere deep in the muddle.

The next morning dawned damp and chilly, and our mood was somber as we filed down the path to a nearby clearing, from which Sparrow would send us on our way. Lighting a stick of sage, he called each of us into the circle individually, smudging the air around us and reciting a brief poem, prayer, or song.

“Mother Moon, Father Sun,” he smiled as I entered the circle’s center, “Your daughter has arrived. Protect her this week from hurt and harm and from her own fears.”

“Amen,” I thought, taking a deep breath of sage.

Outside the clearing I waited for my “buddy,” Len. A burly, good-looking man in his mid-forties, he was to be camping closest to me, in a spot mid-way between base-camp and my beaver ponds.

We walked in silence, passing his sacred spot and continuing until we found a large boulder in the path. This would be our checkpoint, where he would come in the morning and I in the afternoon to leave a small rock as an indicator of our success in remaining alive.

We regarded each other soberly for a moment, then joined together in a hug. There were no excuses left; once we parted it was off to our respective spots, with no company but our own for the next four days.

And what company it was!

I managed to spend the first hour or so in relative harmony with myself; I said a few words to the forest as I crossed over the stepping stones into my swampy, mosquito-filled thicket, commemorating the beginning of my inward journey.

I headed to the driest area I could find and set to work stringing up my tarp, tying twine to four equidistant trees and storing my backpack, filled with first aid supplies, sunscreen, and an extra fleece, below.

Finally, I tied up my hammock between two birch trees overlooking the lake. It was a cheerful, windy spot, and as I tested out my hammock I felt my first surge of excitement; four days with nothing to do but hang out in the woods. This might actually be fun!

But it didn’t take long for the myriad of internal voices I apparently possessed to come trickling in. Now that I was alone in nature, with no sound but the wind and waves to distract me, I was forced to confront them. There were four main players who I got to know well as the days went on; Appreciation, Cynicism, Panic, and Hypochondria. The latter two I envisioned as a pair of Siamese Twins looming constantly over my shoulder, just waiting for an opportunity to strike.

“Are you sure you’re filtering that water correctly? Are you pumping slowly enough? Gah! What are those little black things in the water! BACTERIA!!! Don’t drink it! What was that sound? A bear? GAH! Good god, now your heart is palpitating! What if you’re getting dehydrated?! We need water! WATER!” And so on.

And then there was Appreciation. “Look at that lake. Isn’t it beautiful?! The trees are beautiful. I am beautiful. LIFE is beautiful! Namaste.”

Appreciation had relatively few cameos in comparison to the other three, since I could only stand its nauseating self-righteousness for only so long. In fact, being Appreciative made me much more nervous than Panic or Hypochondria ever did.

It was amazing the rapidity with which the voices changed shifts. One moment Appreciation would be waxing on about the luster of the water, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, that old bullying tenor of Cynicism would come sweeping in, telling me I was an idiot for gathering up stones for my ritual, I mean, look at me- shaved head, GI Joe hat, sincerely believing that a make believe ceremony would somehow improve my pathetic life.

I couldn’t help but agree with the critique; here I was on my vision quest, the defining experience of my transition into adulthood, and I spent half of my time calculating how much weight I was likely to lose, and the other half wondering when to take my next nap.

I had expected constant paranoia and hunger pains, not to mention unwanted visits from animals, earth-shaking thunderstorms, lucid and terrifying visions and dreams, and, on the other side of the spectrum, moments of absolute bliss and rapture, providing clarity as to my life’s purpose. Maybe I’d even learn to talk to trees!

But the thick white birch to which my hammock was tied kept silent, the sky stayed clear and monotonous, and so I ended up settling into the state of mind I seem to maintain in life no matter the situation. Annoyed, and slightly hungry.

the pride and the fall (part two)

At 16 I began traveling, which meant only one thing. 

Alcohol. And lots of it. 

It was with this added stimulus that I began to take my practice of falling to an even higher level. 

In Montreal I slid from a bathroom counter into a sink and got stuck there. In Germany I face-planted onto the floor of a dance club. I spent a year studying abroad in France, and it took less than two weeks for me to find a set of stairs at a bar to fall down (I also ripped my pants in half and vomited in my purse that same night, but that's a different story). 

And then, there was the bus. 

This episode, for once, did not involve alcohol (although there are plenty of bus-related incidents that did). No, on this day my mood enhancement came from none other than Ms. Britney Spears, and her latest cd, In the Zone. Was I ever!

I had gone straight downtown after school to purchase the cd, and my headphones had not left my ears since. The latest dance hits propelled me from store to store, and soon I was bopping happily across town to my bus stop, refusing to let the afternoon’s accumulation of bags stop me from sashaying back and forth or throwing in the occasional twirl. 

“This,” I thought, not for the first time, “is Life.”

I continued to mambo about I awaited the 51, wondering how my good vibes would be received by the Betton commuters. It was always such a dour, miserable-looking bunch; they needed someone to model lightening up and letting loose. Imagine if I danced right onto the bus!

“Perfect!” I thought as I saw it turning the corner. ‘Toxic,” my favorite track, was blasting in the headphones, and I was as glee filled and nimble as I would ever be. Here came the 51 with its wild-haired driver, here came the open door and the step and.... Jesus he was going by fast!

In all my reverie I had forgotten that this particular driver did not like to actually stop the bus so much as slow down and swing the door open. The vehicle was rolling extra-rapidly today; perhaps he sensed my liveliness and thought I could handle the transition.

I couldn’t.

Panicked, I was only able to get one foot in the door before the bus resumed speed. The other foot was left dangling in the air as I searched frantically for a place to steady myself. But my arms were bogged down with bags, and my equilibrium was thrown off by the weight of my enormous backpack. 

Armless and off balance, my only hope was to launch myself as far upwards and into the bus as possible. 

Thankfully I angled my body so that I managed to miss the driver as I came crashing down, with a great explosion of books, bags, and Britney Spears paraphernalia, into the center of the aisle. 

For a moment, there was only an aghast silence as I floundered about on the floor. 

When I finally righted myself, I was met with a sea of horrified faces. Not horrified in that they were concerned or moved to help, but horrified that anyone would dare make such an entrance onto a bus. 

The scandalized, silent eyes followed my every movement as I scrambled around the bus collecting underwear and cds from heads and laps and under seats. 

Cheeks crimson, tears welling up, I searched in vain for a corner to conceal myself in. But the bus was almost full, and so with all eyes still upon me, I took a position in the center of the milieu, holding onto an overhead strap and staring boldly ahead as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.

As we slowed for the next stop, a sharp corner threw me off balance. I could hear the universal intake of breath as one of the bags on my elevated arm hit me in the face, and I staggered to keep the textbook-loaded backpack from dragging me back and forth like a pendulum.

That's when I could hold it in no longer. To the extreme chagrin of my immediate neighbors, I chuckled. And chuckled again. The bus lurched forward, we all swayed, and I found myself emitting strange gurgling sounds in my attempt to staunch the flow of giggles. 

Now I was being regarded as if I had bats coming out of my ears. I tried to breathe deeply, but every time I caught one of the looks, I began to splutter again. By the time we reached Betton, the feelings of revulsion toward me were so potent that I almost expected some kind of celebration when I pressed the “stop” button by my side. I'd never seen a crowd part so quickly as this one did to let me out. 

But there was one other person who appreciated the humor of that afternoon, I soon realized. As I passed the bus driver, I kept my head held high. He, in turn, nodded solemnly as he always did. But his eyes were twinkling. And from that day forth, whenever he saw me waiting on the sidewalk, even years later when I came back for a visit, he always slowed to a full stop.

in the zone.

the bear story (part three)

There was always some excitement at night, when the mist rose in a heavy fog over the swamp, blocking the light of the moon yet letting through the haunting, and at times, tortured, hoots and hollers of the local wildlife. I would lie stiff as a board in my hammock, hunting knife clenched at my side, enduring a fresh wave of anxiety with every crack of a stick or slap of a beaver tale. One night when I was feeling particularly tired, hungry, and annoyed, a large and wheezy animal came cruising along the shoreline and threatened to exit the water merely feet away from where I was trying to sleep. With one hand on my hunting knife, I sat up and shone my light aggressively into its beady little eyes.

“Go away!!” I yelled. And it did.

Eventually, I would fall into a sort of dozing half-sleep, punctuated by lucid dreams about bears- and hamburgers. Every time that I awoke, I would squint hopefully toward the eastern horizon, imagining that I saw a glimmer of light, of hope. Sometimes, in moments of absolute desperation, I would concentrate all my energy into willing the sun to rise… praying, pleading, pulling…..

only once I was ready to concede defeat, to give up and close my eyes once more, would I notice tiny spaces appearing in between the leaves overhead, and a faint, almost imperceptible glow upon the mountaintops

and my heart would begin to skip delightedly, as I sat up in my hammock to watch my favorite part of the day unfold. With each and every moment, light appeared in another nook, another crevice. There was no going back now!

Once the sun was safely over the horizon, spreading itself into the sky with streaks of gold and crimson, I could finally breathe a great sigh of relief and snuggle back into the folds of my hammock for a deep and nourishing sleep.

When I awoke, it was back to the day and all the banality that came with it. To tell the truth, the longer I lasted, the more disheartened I became. Sure, I was fending for myself, successfully fasting and filtering water, getting in touch with nature, blah de blah blah blah. But it all just felt so lame. My rituals were pathetic; I had intended to make a big bonfire on the beach to cleanse out old negativity, but I tore the pages of my journal into pieces that were too small to light. Now I had burn blisters on my thumb and litter on my beach. I still hadn’t communed with any spirits, and even my medicine name was trite.

(Sweet flower?!)

So I planned to make my fourth and final night out in the woods a memorable one. As evening drew near, I set to work making a “purpose circle” on the shore of the lake, infusing each stone that I put down with a special meaning or prayer. When the circle of stones was complete, I gathered my rattles, hat, knife, flashlight, and toilet paper, and stepped inside. The idea was to stay there all night, come hell or high water, rattling, hallucinating, and praying for a vision. In the morning once the sun had risen, I would throw off my clothes, plunge into the water, and emerge a new and better quality me.

That was the plan, at least.

tales of san francisco.

One time I was in Morocco. I was with two girlfriends. There had been five of us traveling, but two had already gone home to Spain.

The rest of us went on to Chefchouan. Chefchouan is up in the hills, and all of the buildings are painted white or blue. We stayed in a blue hostel that was also new, and so the owners were very accommodating.

There were only two other guests, two men, and they were both American.

One was big and tough and the other was small and bohemian. The big one had a ponytail and tattoos, and the small one wore knit hats and drank homemade kombucha.

At night when it was too dangerous to go out, we would all sit in the living room and pass around joints and drink wine and listen to stand-up comedy on the big man's stereo.

One evening the son and daughter of the hostel proprietors came to find us. They asked if we would like to use the downstairs living room to watch a movie. They had all kinds of movies, they said.

So four of us trundled downstairs, me and my two friends and the big man. The small one had decided to stay upstairs and finish the wine. But the big man was very excited for the slumber party. He had on patterned pajama pants and clutched an oversize pillow.

We put on The Pink Panther, and everybody was fast asleep before it was over.

I like characters, and I liked the big man. Sometimes he came out for a smoke while I was sitting up on the terrace and reading and looking out across the white and blue rooftops. Once we got to talking about San Francisco, and he said he had lived there once, and I asked where.

"You ever been to Golden Gate Park?" He asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"You know the building where they have the indoor carousel?"

"Sure," I said, even though I didn't.

"Well there's a big patch of bushes out back of the building."

"And that's," he said, "where I lived."

It was a lie, of course. I've never been to Golden Gate Park. I've never even seen the Golden Gate Bridge. I wanted to, once, and that's the story I'll tell you now.

It was my first time visiting San Francisco, and I was alone. It was a pilgrimage of sorts, because I'd always been fascinated by the city. I was shopping, and walking, and eating, and reading, and going to art museums and movies, and making temporary friendships with people I would never have to see again, and if that's not a grand vacation I don't know what is.

On the last morning of my trip I wandered over to Haight and Ashbury, and threaded in and out of the thrift and record stores for a good long while. By noon I had spent almost the last of my money, and I was hungry, and I had just one last thing waiting on my pilgrimage agenda.

So I bought a big bag of trail mix and chocolate covered espresso beans. And then I decided to walk to the Golden Gate Bridge.

It didn't seem that far on the map, although I really had no sense of scale, and anyway, I'm a good walker. I was a little confused about the exact route I should take, but I figured that the important part was to just head toward the ocean. So I set off, munching a handful of trail mix and humming a little tune.

I walked, and walked, and walked some more. I went up hills and down hills and flat for a stretch and up again. I walked through streets lined with apartment buildings, and mom and pop shops, and hardware stores, and I walked through patches of suburbia with houses set apart from one another. I came to the top of a hill in suburbia and then I was at a dead end. I went around a cul-de-sac and came back down the hill again.

You're not stupid, and you know where this is going. I was lost, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that I was not going to find the Golden Gate Bridge. I couldn't even see the ocean when I ascended the hills. But I refused to give up, because this was turning into an Adventure, and I needed to see it all the way through.

I was getting tired. My head was heavy, my feet were sore. But every time I started to lose morale, I dug into the bag for another hit of granola and espresso beans, and then I was good for at least another hill or two.

Now it was beginning to be evening, and shadows and color were drawing themselves across the sky. I still could not see the ocean. But I was beginning to see suburban sprawl. I was on a great long flat street with many buses going back and forth, and big warehouse stores on either end, and a little ahead of me I could see the orange sign of a Home Depot. I decided maybe my Adventure was coming to an end.

I was exhausted, and starting to feel a little loopy coming down from all the espresso beans. I told myself I would get on the next bus and take it to see if it ended up at Golden Gate Park. If not, I would turn around. But once I got on the bus, and my head almost fell asleep the second it hit the back of the seat, I thought I should probably head home as soon as possible. So I got off the bus, and on another going the other way.

I shopped once I got back near my hostel because I couldn't help myself, and I was so loopy. I didn't buy anything. I went back to the hostel and had some granola and chocolate. Then I put on pink pajamas and washed my face and put some ointment on my blemishes and went to bed.

I lay in the dark listening to my stomach growling. I hadn't heard it growling when there had been all that walking to drown it out. But with a day so jam-packed full of adventure, it needed more than granola and chocolate to be satisfied, and now I had no more money and nowhere to go to feed it.

"Shhh," I told it. "I'm sorry that I only have granola to feed you. Pretty soon we'll be home, and then you can have anything you want. But for now, you just have to stay calm."

In the darkness I fumbled around for the bag and pulled out a big handful of trail mix and granola. I put all the granola in my mouth at once and chewed and swallowed. Only once the swallow was already going down did I realize that there actually hadn't been much granola in there at all, but instead a lot of chocolate, and espresso.

"Uh oh," I said. 

"Oh oh," I said, putting a hand to my chest.

"Oh NO," I said, sitting up in bed, panicked. A cold sweat was breaking out on my forehead. It was not the first time I'd been convinced I was going to have a heart attack, in fact there had been many times, but each time felt like the first time in that it was the only time that felt real.

"Shit," I said, throwing off the covers and scooting out of bed. Where could I go? Who could I see? I needed a distraction from the waves of anxiety that were beginning to ripple through me. I went into the bathroom and turned on the light and put on my glasses and pulled on my boots.

They were tall and wool and woven. My glasses were purple, my pajama pants were pink. My hair was sticking out at all angles. But I had no time to fix myself, and I put on my fleece jacket and hurried out to the street. 

"Please pick up, please pick up," I murmured, as the phone dialed and rang Bonne's number. There was only the answering machine, and I left a frantic message that was probably incoherent save a few keywords: "Golden Gate bridge, "heart attack," and "chocolate covered espresso beans."

Leaving the message had calmed me down a little, and I thought myself ready to return to the hostel. But it was a sharp uphill slope and so within seconds my heart was pounding again.

"Oh Sweet Jesus," I murmured, sweat soaking my brow. "This is it!"

I had no doubt my body would be discovered in this very spot come morning, and it was with a pang of regret that I considered all of the things I had yet to do, the places I had yet to see. The Golden Gate bridge was one of them. I waited for a few moments for death to come take me, but when it refrained, I decided to head to the restaurant bar across the street. I might as well go out having a good time. 

I made my way shakily to the bar, trying to keep the wild edge out of my voice as I asked for a tall glass of water, don't bother with the ice. I made a futile attempt to smooth my hair, but there was no hiding the bright pink pajama pants.

A middle aged man was sitting alone in the shadows at a nearby corner table. He eyed me over his newspaper with a bemused expression.

"Rough night?" He asked.

My water arrived with a tall straw and I guzzled it down. Then I told him the story of the Golden Gate bridge.

"I know what you need," he said when I was finished. He had set his newspaper aside. "You need a glass of wine."

"You could be right," I said. "The problem is, I don't have any money with me. It's back at the hostel, and the hostel is uphill."

"Lucky for you I own this place," he said. He whistled for the bartender. "Take care of this young lady, Ronaldo."

So I sat back and had a tall glass of Merlot, feeling better with every sip. My wise friend went back to his newspaper, but every so often our conversation would pick up.

"You know, there's not much caffeine in an espresso bean," he mused. "Each one is maybe a sixteenth of a cup of coffee."

"Huh," I said. I could feel my heartbeat slowing. "Better have some more wine just to be sure."

He motioned the bartender over.

"I probably should have checked your ID," he said, as the bartender filled up the glass.

"It's uphill," I said. "But I'm way past legal." 

I was 19, and an avid liar.

"That's what I thought," he said. "Keep 'em coming, Ronaldo."

At one am they closed down the kitchen, and there was some hot pizza leftover in the oven.

"Want some slices to take home?" Ronaldo asked.

"Sure!" I said. I was on my third glass of wine now, and feeling rather jolly. My heartbeat had slowed to a steady saunter.

And so at 2 am Bonne got another message from me, this time about wine and friends and free pizza. She also might have heard the word "mailbox," since that was what I was using as a table for my open pizza box as I happily finished off its remains. 

Later I crawled, joyful and warm and satiated, back into bed, where it wasn't long before I had drifted into a world of rich espresso dreams.

And that was my first trip to San Francisco.