Displaced

Macbeth, at the Lyceum Theatre, New York. Tickets at Telecharge.com.

If you haven’t read Macbeth, this is your show. If you haven’t seen Macbeth, this is your show. If you’re a fan of Macbeth, this may also be your show. It’s big, it’s accessible, it’s well-done from casting to staging and it’s original enough that it’ll keep you interested.

It’s set in the first half of the last century in a chilly basement, so no moors and highland mania. The institutional staging is excellently suited to all the blood: dingy white tile and metal furniture on wheels. (The sink downstage stays put, which is just as well given the aforementioned blood.) The tile provides a backdrop for projections of bloody smoke and the forest, among other things. Nice work there. Less so with the extreme sound effects. They are so jacked up that they lose whatever original effect they might have had and register only as, “Goddamn that’s loud.”

Lady Macbeth wears those silky bias-cut dresses that only women with no thighs can rock and her sexy ambition is a convincing reading of the pushy missus. Patrick Stewart is a solid thane and king and does not tug his jacket down once. I appreciate that his Macbeth unravels with sanity. Macbeth is too-often wild-eyed and wild-haired (not an issue with Stewart, needless to say), as if he were not the maker of his own demise. The wilder Macbeths are sexier but Stewart’s makes more sense. The witches are standouts, creepily decked out as nurses, white whimples and grey dresses and all. Their sinister incantations are all the creepier for the saintly uniforms and their handling of the ill and injured and, finally, the dead.

It is big and bloody. It is timely. (Macbeth is a Shakesperean for the Bush age – blood and torture and ambition in the face of clear error.) It is all the things I hope Shakespeare will be. It will draw new fans; it explicates the play. Why, then, was I unmoved? Why did I check my watch every fifteen minutes? Why did I leave with the feeling that I did the right thing but did not enjoy doing it?. After thinking about it for a while, I don’t think it’s the production. I think it’s Macbeth. I’m just not that into him.

As I tried to pin down why, something I’ve noticed in corporations came to mind: the skillsets that make a good worker are not the same set that make a good manager. Good workers get promoted to management because it’s the natural next step up the corporate ladder. They fail because they are unsuited for the role – a role for which they were not hired.

So goes Macbeth. Suited for the battlefield, he brings only battle skills to his promotion, with predictable results. I prefer my heroes paralyzed with misgivings (Hamlet) or evil but clever (Richard III). There’s more drama in their predicaments, more suspense. Macbeth is tragic but not that interesting because the deterioration is so predictable. Given the choice, I’ll go for a story whose ending is less obvious, a story whose progress is less foreordained. This is probably the same reason I’ve never enjoyed the Greek plays much either. Where there is choice, there is agony but where there is no choice, there’s also less interest for me. Macbeth feels to me like a particularly brutal children’s story, a cautionary tale about what will happen when you overreach…or slaughter kings and kids…or listen to witches and your wife…no, wait, that’s not it. Just witches. Which I wasn’t going to do anyway. So I’m in the clear.

Now that I’ve sorted that out, I’m still sticking with my recommendation: if you’re ever going to see Macbeth, see this one. Also, don’t kill your boss. Or children.

Some friends of mine were in Paris in the fall – both for the first time – and I put together a list of things to do / things not to do on a first pass through the French capital. Another set of friends is headed there next month, so instead of continuing to mail this around, I thought I’d clean it up and post it for general consumption. Bon voyage tout le monde!!

First thing you do, go to any kiosk, newstand or little shop and buy a copy of Paris Practique. It’s a little booklet – 4.5″ x 7″ – with a navy cover. It’s a comprehensive, easy to read map of all the arrondissements (districts or regions) of Paris. It is the only map you will need and it is essential for getting around. Has all the metro stops, major landmarks, etc.

General advice: don’t try to do everything. You won’t get to it and you’ll exhaust yourself trying.

Also, pack your most streamlined and elegant clothing. Take cashmere. Take scarves. Wear beautiful shoes. Do not take fanny packs. (Actually, that’s good advice for all destinations. Come to think of it, take this opportunity to throw away anything you own that resembles a fanny pack.) Do not take trendy American clothes. Do not plan for complicated hairstyles. Do not rush while you are there and, if you do, pretend you do not perspire. It is likely that even if you follow this advice you will feel frumpy. Settle into it, buy clothes like their clothes and accessories like theirs and console yourself that once you’re back stateside you will definitely look better than everyone else here.

Hotels

If you are booking a room with a double/full/queen bed, it’s worth it to confirm that it is actually a double bed and not two single beds locked together. The latter is extremely common in Europe and can make for uncomfortable nights if you’re sleeping with someone.

Also, for summer visitors, confirm that they have air-conditioning if you’re not happy in the heat. Paris can be New York-level stifling in mid-summer and a lot of boutique hotels have no AC.

When we are in Paris, we stay at Hotel Sainte Beuve in the 6th. It is small, on a quiet street, the breakfasts are ungodly good and the rooms actually have some character. Most importantly, it is near everything…well, the things we like anyway. And it’s not ludicrously expensive. It’s blocks from the Jardin du Luxembourg  and pretty much right behind St. Sulpice. You can walk to the river and its bridges and excellent people-watching intersections and the neighborhood is interesting and eclectic.

They have a sister hotel which is a little lower on the scale and a tiny bit weirder but we’ve stayed there too and been perfectly happy – Hotel le Saint Gregoire also in the 6th.

Beyond that, I have no accommodations recommendations except to say, it sucks staying in the business districts or by the monuments in the 1st or 3rd. Lots of very expensive shops, lots of grey buildings and street life at a minimum. Stay on the Left Bank if at all possible.

Things Not To Be Missed

The Musee d’Orsay. This is one my favorite museums in the entire world. It is a beautiful space and of course, there’s the contents. Go. Don’t miss it. I’d miss the Louvre before I’d miss d’Orsay.

A recent discovery: the Musee Jacquemart Andre. It’s a private house, so you don’t see it – or I haven’t – in any of the guide books. It rocks. The couple who lived there was wildly rich and were excellent collectors. The house itself is stunning and the collection ranges from paintings to personal items, sculpture to musical instruments. It’s like the Parisian version of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston or The Frick in New York. Plus, when we were there, their rotating gallery had this incredible photography collection from Paris Match of painters, writers, rock stars, film stars and anyone else important they’d taken pictures of in the last 40 years. The place is downright entertaining. Plus, their restaurant is excellent – but don’t plan on getting a seat for lunch at lunchtime. Go early, see the house and eat early. The place is overrun at noon with chic Parisian businesswomen.

The Musee Rodin. Go on a sunny day – the garden is fantastic. I love Rodin and I love this museum. It’s out of the way – annoyingly far really – but worth the trip. It rules. You must go. Have lunch in the garden – bring your own, even, since the cafeteria is small and expensive.

I haven’t been here, so I have no business recommending it, but I mean to go there as soon as possible, so I think that counts. If I’m mistaken, please do correct me after you go.  Sainte Chapelle. Lovely church near Notre Dame (see below). And if you think it has anything to do with the Comedy Central show, don’t bother with a visit.

Other Things To See

The Louvre. Naturally. Long lines, long waits and the Mona Lisa is much smaller than you’d think. That said, it’s the Louvre. Standing on line for museums is the worst part about going. My advice would be to talk to your hotel concierge and get a museum pass – it lets you into all the big ones over a specific period of days and passholders can use accelerated queues at the museums, which is a timesaver worth paying for even if you don’t use the full value of the pass.

The Musee du quai Branly is new and controversial – opened last year to love it/hate it reviews. The building is bad ass and very peculiar. The collection is anthropological Asia/Africa. It’s been a huge source of conversation and the wait may be ungodly but the design is pretty out there. NYTimes review here.

Jardin du Luxembourg. Lovely. Huge. Usually has cool exhibits. Always has aloof French kids and games and lawns, etc. Good place to relax.

The Centre Pompidou is cool to walk by – you should see it, but don’t kill yourselves to get there. It’s weird, ’70’s cool, very benchmark but not a lot to do.

Notre Dame. Chances are you’ll walk over the Ile at some point anyway if you’re staying on the Left Bank. It’s a church and a big one. ‘Nuf said.

Eiffel Tower. I’m on the fence. If you’re there in the winter and they’ve flooded that one floor where you can iceskate, go. You will be super-cool. If not, I was fine with it at a distance unless you’re into looking at feats of engineering up close. It is the Eiffel Tower though…

Arc de Triomphe / Champs Elysee. The Champs Elysee is b*llshit. It’s all Chanel and McDonalds. Don’t bother. If you are set on going to the Arc, go. It’s impressive. Just make note that it is in the middle of a massive traffic circle and can be accessed by tunnels (safe, meant for human use) or by running through the traffic (not safe, nearly deadly, not recommended except for jackasses…like myself.)

Le Grande Arche in La Defense. The modern version of the Arc de Triomphe. If you like that sort of thing. More here. Part of Mitterand’s grand works project. It’s a hike to get there but it is definitely huge, modern and meaningful. The long esplanade running up to it has all kinds of huge artworks on either side as well. Really, the only thing to see in that part of town as far as I could tell. Don’t go on a gray day.

Things That Can Totally Be Missed

Versailles. It’s far, it’s packed, a lot of it is under construction and the rest of it has been mostly stripped of everything that’s not actually attached to the building – sold off to pay to keep the place open, so you don’t get the full impact of the place even if you do go. You’re basically looking at walls and ceilings with 9000 other people.

If you insist on going, go absolutely, totally without fail first thing
in the morning on a weekday. And allow for 15 minutes’ walk after the
train arrival time to actually get to the gate. Be at the gate first. No dawdling over your croissants that morning. Also, make sure you sort out the fountain schedule – it’s impressive to see them up and running but they only do it a few times a day. And I’d recommend visiting the Petit Trianon, Marie Antoinette’s fake farm. It’s a distance from the palace, so plan accordingly. But seriously, allow me to say again, it’s not worth it. I know people say it is, but they’re wrong. (R totally disagrees with me on this, as does my father, so take it with a grain of salt. If you’re determined to go, save it for a trip when you can go for the whole day, pack a large suitcase of patience, and plan only relaxing things for that evening. Also make sure I am not with you.)

Unless you’re a Jim Morrison fan or a Balzac fanatic, Pere Lachaise can be skipped. It’s cool as cemeteries go, but seriously: it’s a cemetery. You’re on vacation. Pull yourself together.

Sacre Coeur.  I shouldn’t say this, but I think you can strike this unless you’re in the neighborhood already or want to hang out in the bohemian ‘hood. It’s beautiful and it’s a hike of a walk if you’re into that sort of thing, but it’s far to get there from a central hotel and unless you’re interested in checking out the surrounding neighborhood, it’s one schlep too many. (If you’re in town for a while, do go – it’s just far for a brief visit.)

Les Halles. Total, total waste. I don’t know why any guide writes about this. It’s basically a really nasty underground mall. It was a unique idea when they did it but it’s a bomb. Don’t bother.

Stores

If you buy anything big (over 175 euros total – doesn’t have to be on a single item), make sure you get your tax-free documents with your receipts. You’ll need to have your passport with you to get them. Worth it: 14% back or some such. The process seems daunting but isn’t. The store will give you the paperwork, you fill it out (or they will – budget an extra 5 minutes at checkout). When you get to the airport or train station, find the customs window – the check-in desk can point you in the right direction. You submit your forms and receipts, show them your passport, they stamp various things and they’ll usually just credit your account within a month. Fifteen minutes for substantial refund if you’re a shopper. General explanation/restrictions here.

Herve Chapelier. My first shopping stop in Paris. Their flagship is in the 6th at 1 bis rue du Vieux Colombier. (All Paris locations here.) The prices are literally half of what they are in the US because of import taxes and the bags are lightweight and virtually indestructible. I have everything from a pencil case up to a huge heavy canvas carry-on and I love them all. Buy buy buy!!! If you were to bring me a gift for all my excellent advice, this is where you should get it!

Gilbert Jeune in Place St. Michel is my favorite, favorite, favorite paper store in the entire world. I buy tablets there by the dozens. If you want French books or stationery supplies, this place is your place.

Muji. I love me some Muji. The first one I went to was in Paris even though they’re a Japanese chain. They only have neutral colors and they make everything out of them. Cashmere, T-shirts, bookbags, armchairs, pencils and the most satisfying Type A travel containers you could ever hope for. There are two separate stores on the same street by St. Sulpice – one has clothes, the other stationery. (Muji recently opened an outpost in New York, but the one in Paris is still bigger and better. Not that I don’t appreciate the effort. The one in SoHo is nice too. Don’t get offended.)

The sheltered arcades have been on my list for a while. Cool and photo-worthy. I haven’t made it there yet, but I will.

E. Dehillerin. Arguably, the best cooking supply store in the world. The inspiration for my current employer’s (Williams-Sonoma) founder. Remember the measuring items are metric. A good write-up (and a good food blog) here.

Le Bon Marche. Ultra-hip, beautiful store. Gorgeous. Expensive. They sell EVERYTHING, including chocolates.

Galeries Lafayette. If you want French clothes and don’t want to pay Bon Marche prices, go to Lafayette. It’s like Bloomingdales. I generally come home with something cool and angular. The one on Hausmann is the mother ship with the largest selection but it’s also the most crowded, so avoid lunchtime and post-5PM when the locals flood in.

The markets: flea, food and otherwise. This page is your friend.

Eating

Best sorbet in the entire world: Berthillon. I kid you not. The main shop is on the Ile Saint Louis (the other island in the Seine that doesn’t have Notre Dame on it). You should go and walk around the Ile anyway: it is some of the most expensive real estate in the world and it is completely charming and wonderful. And then have some more sorbet. It is obscenely expensive and worth it. It’s on the menu at a lot of restaurants in the city, but the flagship is the one with ALL the flavors.

Best bakery. Ever. Get the almond croissants. J. C. Gaulupeau, 12 Rue Mabillon in the 6th. (This place and Herve’s flagship are both among the tiny streets in Paris Practique grid L17 on the 6th pages.)

Laduree macaroons. I thought for years that macaroons were those coconut blob cookies. I am a stupid American in some respects. But I am justly punished by having missed out on the French version for most of my life. Make up for it here.

NYTimes rates the best steaks frites in Paris.

Any crepe place. I have limited recommendations because we eat wherever we end up and it’s usually good. Enjoy the carbs – they’re worth it. And the ham. And the yogurt.

Photo from DK Travel.

Brian: If you buy the pass, you can come in once a week and we can help you with whatever you need. Like any questions you have about transferring from your PC to a Mac.
Me: Huh. Really?
Brian: Let me show you. If you’re used to working in Word and you have trouble in iWork…Look here…
(Brian opens a window of filler text in iWork)
Me: That’s Latin.
Brian: Yeah, no one really mentions that about the transition. You do have to learn Latin.
Me: Yeah, I didn’t realize. That’s rough.

In a newly opened cafe in my neighborhood, I make small talk with the co-owner whom I’ve never met.

Me: Congratulations. The cafe seem to be doing well.
Him: Yeah. Well. I guess.
Me: You got some great publicity. I hope you’re doing well.
Him: This is a second business for both of us.
Me: Really? What’s the first business?
Him: Entertainment production. I have a 14-month-old.
Me: Wow. Yeah, that’s another full-time job! That’s great.
Him: No. Not really. I’m about to be a single dad. I think. It’s not going that well. I don’t know what’s going on.
Me: Oh? Really? Huh. That’s, um…too bad.
Him: I don’t know what happened.
Me: Um. Huh. Well, new business, etc.
Him: I don’t know what’s up with her. I think I’m going to be getting a divorce.
Me: Huh. OK. Well. That’s too bad. I’m, uh, sorry to hear that.
Him: I guess I’ll be a single parent.
Me: ….
employee: Can you turn up the lights? It’s getting dark.
Him: I gotta go.
Me:…

R: You so fine.
Me: You so fun.
R: You my Superfund.
Me: You realize that that’s nuclear waste?
R: You so fine, you radioactive.

We went to Vegas two weeks ago for my friend’s 30th birthday bash. It was excellent. Except for the part where I came home with some black plague-like throat infection. But that was later. I only lost $4 gambling but I spent about a billion dollars on other things, including $200 on MAC cosmetics I don’t need but which make me look like I’ve been airbrushed. But Vegas ain’t about “need,” baby, it’s all about the want, the gimme and the have.

We stayed at the MGM Grand and, except for the three hours we spent at various reception desks sorting out all the reservations snafus for the birthday suite and our room, it was birthdaylicious. They have lions on site for Pete’s sake: what’s not to love about that? The lions commute from a farm outside Vegas, so, even better, every few hours there are fresh lions.

Our room looked out at New York, New York’s rollercoaster. For three days, I’d wake up, open the drapes and watch the rollercoaster wind around the front of the resort named after the city I lived in for years. On the third day, this is how the conversation went:

Me: Oh.
R: What?
Me: Oh. That’s why all those buildings are so close together. It’s New York. Like New York. With all the buildings. Like New York, New York.
R: You’re smart, right?

Everyone advises against getting a car. “You won’t need it,” they say, “All of your things will be stolen!” they say, as if the country is crawling with crime. The internet at large tells discouraging tales of cars run off the road, slow trucks, roving pedestrians, broken axels, un-fordable rivers, tires intentionally punctured, motorists stalked and on and on and on.

So why did we rent a car in Costa Rica? Because those people are silly and we are not. Because I have a packing problem, a broken rib, all of Costa Rica’s leetle, tiny airlines have a weight restriction of 25 lbs./person and my rolling suitcase weighs 12.5 lbs. empty. Because I just got SCUBA certified and bought all the snorkel gear for my very own and I’ll be damned if I am going to go to Costa Rica and not dive (stupid rib) AND not snorkel with my very own and apparently quite heavy snorkel gear.

But mainly because those people are silly.

My physical therapist is not silly. She goes to Costa Rica every year for two weeks to surf, is a very reasonable person and gets a car every time.

The main thing to remember is, “Don’t be stupid.” Don’t get a car in the rainy season (spring – autumn) and expect to drive on small roads. Make sure you get a 4WD vehicle no matter where you’re going. And, as my grandmother says, don’t get smart and go right up to the edge of things.

We got a mid-sized SUV and it worked out great: even though we didn’t need all the space, we were glad to have the extra weight when crossing “streams.” (I put that in quotes because they were as wide as rivers, just shallow…ish.) The natives drive around in the Acme version of Camrys, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I assume they either a.) replace the struts and shocks every Thursday, or b.) have grown their own set internal to their bodies.

The main roads are in generally excellent condition. The other roads are in terrible, terrible condition, but they are all passable, with a little courage, and they are all well-marked. In fact, the roads in the middle of nowhere are better marked than anything in the cities, where there’s apparently a hate on against street signs.

If the map you bought at the halfway decent travel store (we got this one) has a road on it, there’s a road there. If it looks like a path, it might be, but you can still drive on it. The only thing inaccurate about the maps, actually, is that some of the dashed line roads (the worst designation) are in better shape than the roads marked by solid lines. Well-kept secrets, I guess.

This was my winning submission to American Conservatory Theater’s (ACT) Mamet Writing Competition. The charter was to write a three-page scene in the style of Mamet within the stated parameters of one the categories. I chose, “A scene depicting a family (fictional or non-fictional) facing an ethical crisis, written in the style of Mamet (i.e. the Simpson’s or the Bush family).”

Two men are standing behind a counter in a diner. The Father, about 60, reads a newspaper on the counter. The Son, half his age, busies himself with the coffee machine and then the cash register before turning to his parent.

Son: (abruptly) Here’s the thing.

The Father looks up.

Son: Three men walk into a hardware store and buy a machine – a coffee machine – for $30 from the kid behind the counter. They each pay ten dollars. They leave. The owner comes back. He sees the receipt, turns to the clerk and – here it is – says, “That machine – that coffee machine – is $25. You go find the guy, pay him back.”

The Son is gesturing with pens and a receipt pad.
Son: With me?

Father: Right.

Son: The clerk takes five dollars, takes five ones, and leaves. He’s thinkin’, the clerk, “Can’t divide five three ways, and here’s me runnin’ after ’em.” So he finds ’em, the guys, gives each of ’em a dollar, pockets $2 for himself, hmm? Done deal. No funny change, no one the wiser.

Father: Right.

Son: Now here’s the thing. Three times nine, right? Each guy paid nine now – is 27. But $30 – the total price, you with me? – minus $2 – the clerk’s take – is 28. See?

Father: See what?

Son: How does it make sense? 27 or 28. It should work out. You see?

Father: All right.

The Father goes back to reading his paper with no change in demeanor. A phone rings. The son disappears halfway through the doorway to the kitchen, stage left, picks up the phone on the wall.

Son: No. Nope. We’re open… We’re twenty-four hours… What? No….we don’t close…at any particular…no, twenty-four hours in a row… No, that means we’re always… Right. Always here… No, that’s OK.

Beat. The son reappears in the same doorway.

Son: It’s about character.

Father: Hello again.

Son: I say, it’s about character, not about math. The math is tricky, a small trick at that. You’ve missed the point: the clerk is a thief, an opportunist.

Father: I haven’t missed… (straightening, turning from his paper)

Son: You have. It’s about character. (After this last statement he points his finger at the Father.) A certain kind of character. You gotta work for your place.

Father: That’s what I believe.

Son: Work’s the thing. But it’s not enough. That’s what I’m saying. But the clerk – the man who doesn’t just work for it – he still profits. It’s not wrong.

Father: He does work. There is nothing harder, being a good clerk. He should have stuck there.

Son: But he’s not a good clerk. My point. He’s a thief. In this story, he’s a thief.

Father: Still, he’s a clerk and that’s hard. He might…

Son: Yeah, that’s the goddam mess of it, the curse of working: if you don’t succeed, you didn’t work hard enough. Your fault, no matter how hard you worked, that you didn’t succeed.

Father: That…

Son: Couldn’t it be that you did work hard and still didn’t get ahead, like this guy, the clerk? His thieving is no reflection on his clerking, the hard life of a clerk. You said it yourself.

Father: (Serious, turning to the Son.) It is. It’s the opposite of it.

Son: Nope, no…it’s the result of it. You can’t get around it, you’ll always lose. It’s a catch 22, hopeless: you’re down ’cause you blew it somehow. (Beat.) You know what it is?

Father: Nope.

Son: It’s the American Dream. You can be a goddam clerk, you can be a loser, a drunk: you can still get ahead. The all-American, the optimist, the smorgasbord catch 22. It’s what keeps us here, separates us from the animals, from the socialists. It’s what makes him a clerk ‘ those guys on the bottom ‘ the poor guys who wanna win that lottery, who think they can be President. Work a lifetime hoping American good luck’ll kick in and save ’em, that someone’ll recognize their goodness and bring ’em up. No fucking way. No fucking way.

Father: There’s work, I’m saying…

Son: No. That’s just messing with it, saying you’re successful ’cause you already worked as hard as you did. Bullshit. Opportunism, I’m telling you. The clerk, he’s the guy who broke the code. He’s getting ahead as he can. That’s what I’m saying, what I’ve been saying – that you can’t get ahead without…

Father: Theft? (Losing interest again, turning back to his paper.)

Son: It isn’t cheating. He’s gotta look after his interests. He needs his two bucks. He’s the American Dream, that guy. He’s the dream we all have…

Father: …of stealing.

Son: No. No. Of working. Of getting forward with it, getting away with it. Getting away. Moving along in an unfair…

Father: Not impossible that he could get ahead without cheating. Not impossible.

Son: It’s not impossible but it’s more than work. A different kind of work. That’s my point.

Father: The crime isn’t work, it’s crime.

Son: No, it’s not good work. By your definition, because you said so. But we’re ignoring the quality of the theft, the ingenious math that I’m standin’ here running through with you: the math that doesn’t make sense, however you run it. The math covers the crime. Plus, he might’ve had to hustle to get to the guys. How’d he find the guys? All three guys? That’s my point. He worked harder at the crime than at the sale, but the crime’s where the profit went. And who’s to say it’s a crime?

Father: Me.

Son: Yeah, well, good thing you weren’t tellin’ the joke. Here…

Father: Good thing. You’re a goddam criminal. I wouldn’t trust you to tell a joke.

Son: …here’s the last fact of it: it’s wrong. The whole thing’s wrong. You’re looking at it wrong. (He lays out the math in saucers and napkins on the counter, a mess.) It’s not three guys times nine dollars is twenty-seven versus thirty dollars minus two dollars for the kid is twenty-eight. That’s the goddam beauty of it! Start from the other end – and here it is – which is fucking brilliant, just goddam brilliant.Take the cost of the thing, the machine – twenty-five, right? – and add on the discount for the guys plus the profit for the kid. Twenty-five plus three plus two. That’s what equals thirty. It’s all how you tell it. The kid’s in the clear ’cause it all works together: discount coffee plus refund plus something extra for the guy making it all happen. There’s nothing wrong in that. (Finished, he clears the counter with conviction.)

Father: It’s all in how you tell it. Yup yup. (Re-engrossed in newspaper.)

August 30, 2004

All I have to say is that I better get mad points for the trip because I wasn’t compensated with ducats or sleep. Early last week, I talked to my college friend and fellow writer Jeremy who was temporarily in Texas. He had a plan to drive from Lubbock to New York City in his newly-acquired 1986 Volvo wagon packed with all his stuff. (Three weeks ago, he moved back to New York City after an absence of several years. I am, needless to say, very, very jealous.) At the end of our conversation, he asked if I wouldn’t like to join him. Sure, why not? We all know that there’s almost nothing I love more than the middle of this great country of ours with all its indistinguishable flatlands and numerous cultural hotspots.

Just back from a mind-cleansing trip to Europe and eager not to lose that 1000-mile stare you get on a diet of jetlag, high-carb foods and bold perspective on your life, I started checking Expedia. Turns out Jer was kidding about the offer, but he carved out a “slot” (his word) for me in the front seat and set off on Friday morning. Based on airfares, we settled on the northern route and a rendezvous in Indianapolis. I would have preferred Memphis or somewhere closer to the location of the butter Last Supper sculpture, but it turns out you have to fly through Texas and Cincinnati to get there, so we went with Indiana. (For future reference, if you have a free weekend and a hankering to go somewhere but no one to meet when you get there, you should try booking your way from San Francisco to Springfield, Missouri, and back without repeating the same leg twice. Trust me: it’ll take you the entire weekend and then some. No need to make pesky and time-consuming plans for while you’re there. Just skip `em and fly all weekend. Fun for the whole family.)

The plan was to drive from Indianapolis to Pittsburgh on Saturday evening and from there to New York on Sunday. I’d fly back on Sunday night or Monday morning. So the ridiculous plan was hatched and became ridiculous reality.

Saturday, 5 AM – San Francisco

In my paranoia that the alarm wouldn’t go off, I woke up at five. I had checked and re-checked the alarm clock to make sure I had set it for AM and not PM, as I did last year before a flight to Europe. Good thing: despite the double-checking, I had done it once again. Go me. Good start.

Fact-a-Minute Feature: With the exception of a trip home last Christmas when R. was in Switzerland, this was my first solo trip since I started seeing R. three years ago, a sweet and surprising detail.

Saturday, 8 AM – SFO

I board the plane to Denver, determined to get some work done on the plane, which I never do these days. I read the Times, wrote part of a review of The Manchurian Candidate and shuffled things around a lot.

Saturday, 11:25 AM, first time zone shift – Denver Airport

I am eating massive quantities of sugar, an illogical and ineffective coping mechanism for dealing with the flying experience when I refrain from taking dulling Xanax. If I can’t be relaxed, I may as well be hyper. I spread out everything in my backpack on the seats and floor. Now we’re talking. Make yourself at home.

Saturday, 2:30 PM, second time zone shift – over the midwest

I give my laptop and its handy DVD feature over to the two kids next to me (12 and 14) who are bored out of their minds. I wasn’t getting much done anyway outside a financial review in preparation for leaving my job. I feel generous and my faith in kids is redeemed, as these two are both clever and polite.

Saturday, 3:45 PM – Indianapolis Airport tarmac

We are stranded on the runway because the ground crew has retreated from excessive lightning to the safety of the hanger. No worries about us out here in the plane. Really, I’m sure we’ll be fine.

Saturday, 4:30 PM – Indianapolis and beyond

Jeremy does not recognize me. He has never seen me blonde. He, on the other hand, looks exactly the same although, and I remember this too, he is always taller than I remember him. The 1986 Volvo wagon is impressively packed with no obvious gaps for air or my bags. My admiration overwhelms any discomfort at joining my bags in the front seat. I assure Jeremy that this car will be a chick magnet for northeastern women like me who remember it from their elementary carpools and will assume that he played lacrosse and is therefore virile.

Indiana and Ohio are being battered with impressive lightning storms which we drive through for the next several hours. At a gas station, the cashier asks me abruptly and very seriously if I have a “convenience card.” I don’t know if it’s the lack of sleep or her accent, but I momentarily misunderstand this to be a reference to some sort of life-wide program of which I have been unaware. Her inflection said “convenience card” not “Convenience Card (TM).” I look puzzled and she looks annoyed. I pull myself together and reply, discouraged, “No.” To comfort us for the loss of this nirvana card, I introduce Jeremy to Munchies cheese snacks. Like me, he has a sensitive stomach. I assure him that we’ll be fine.

Saturday, 8 PM.er.9 PM – further beyond, Zanesville, West Virginia

We decide to look for dinner. We don’t find it til what we think is 9PM but is actually 10PM. We are now officially on east coast time and all the towns have closed, including the treacherous donut shops. Correction after a few miles: Olive Garden remains open. Before our drink order, we have been brought up to speed, twice, on our waitress’ drive in the snow one night last year from Indiana to this very town of Zanesville. Her husband is in the reserves in Iraq and she says that he and all other troops are clear that they are not there to fight for the Iraqis but to defend “the vice president’s oil.” (I’d have said, “The President’s oil and the Vice President’s business interests,” but whatever.) Despite this, she will not say that she is voting for Kerry. Amazing. To her credit, she doesn’t say that she IS voting for Bush, but it still blows my mind. Her husband hasn’t called in two days.

Saturday, 11:15 PM – somewhere in WV or PA

We call On-Star back home (a.k.a.. R.) and sort out our location, the location of the closest Motel 6 and our likelihood of making it to New York in time for my Sunday flight if we call it a night in West Virginia. I am flagging and begin to forget things I have just said. The conversation turns into what seem to me like non sequiturs from Jeremy. They are actually just his side of the conversation interspersed with my brief naps.

Sunday, 12:45 AM – Washington, PA

We check into the refrigeration unit at Motel 6, otherwise known as Room 326. The place is about 15 degrees and the heat setting blasts distinctly urine-tinged air. I put on all the clothes I have brought with me and get into bed. Like me, Jeremy grinds his teeth. Unlike me, he chews through mouthguards to save his teeth. I just hammer away at my enamel. He says I started in about 20 seconds after the light went out. Great.

Sunday, 5:30 AM PST, 8:30 AM Washington, PA time

I wake up exhausted and immediately begin multiple mathematic calculations in my head to see if I can sleep more. I suck at math and am nearly asleep, so I assume these are all wrong, but I go back to sleep anyway.

Sunday, 10:00 – 3:00 – southern Pennsylvania

On the road again. We convince a McDonald’s employee to hand over their last Egg McMuffins since it’s 10:58, not the dark breakfast cutoff hour of 11 AM. We talk about his ex-girlfriends, my ex-boyfriends and dogs. (Jeremy’s, not the McDonalds guy. Actually, the McDonald’s “guy” was a girl, sympathetic giver that she was.) We discuss Jer’s prospects in the art world of New York. We discuss our mutual prospects of overcoming our parental legacies of religion and emotional dysfunction.

We stop in Valley Forge to recover from deja vu. This is our old college stomping ground to which Jeremy has not been back since graduation. I have spent far too much time there for a far greater portion of my life (my mother’s family spreads across the region, as does a particularly unpopular ex-boyfriend and a highly effective stalking episode which we won’t discuss here) and most memories are not welcome, at least not today. We discuss my stalled fiction class and decide that I will write about Jeremy’s worst ex.

Sunday, 3 PM – Philadelphia and New Jersey

I am driving now, recalling all the multiple routes, signs, turns and previous frequently made errors in getting to New Jersey and New York from southeastern PA. Finally, we hit the awful Goethels Bridge, the hideous and narrow trick mechanism to keep people out of New York, at least people in cars. It’s clearly not working, as proven by the dead stop on the other side of the bridge. Staten Island traffic. Welcome home. The RNC is in town with its hundreds of thousands of protestors in tow. The trek through the boroughs promises to be punishing but is offset by the prospect of seeing the soaring Verrazano Bridge for the first time in four years. The Verrazano is my favorite bridge of all bridges. I take a couple dozen photos of it from the car, a couple of which are pretty good.

I used to drive back to my place in Park Slope following this same route. No matter where I was coming from, it was always faster to come across Staten Island than cut across and down Manhattan. Then and now, I am aware of how I am never sorry to be back in New York. It made no difference if I had had a good time or an awful one while I was away: crossing into Brooklyn, seeing the Verrazono’s blue-grey towers ahead of me and then the skyline of lower Manhattan always gave me a happy thrill to be home.

(Sadly, I have never felt this way about San Francisco. My heart sinks when I think about San Francisco when I am away. I love my life there with R., but, after four years of unhappy flights “home”, I can say with certainty that the city will never have a hold on me.)

Sunday, 5:40 PM – JFK Airport

We have driven directly from the Indianapolis Airport to JFK and have arrived within 5 minutes of check-in. Sweet. I bid Jeremy a rushed farewell and snake through the Delta terminal. When I was booking my flights, I couldn’t remember why I hadn’t taken Delta in three years. At the sight of the check-in billboards, I remember why. They are disorganized, late and generally suck. True to form, the plane is delayed by an hour and a half. I begin to panic, as I do in airline terminals, and then fall into conversation with Tom, a distinguished-looking New Yorker of 22 years who appears to be an executive of some kind. He is headed west on business, ostensibly, but really to escape the Republicans. He begins to explain why he doesn’t get California, San Francisco in particular: “The city’s so spread out. They all surf.” he starts. I interrupt, “Right?! Everyone who lives there lives there to do things that have nothing to do with the city itself: surfing, hiking, skiing.” A fellow thinker, he replies, “I’m so gratified to hear you say that. I’ve always sort of thought that – that’s exactly it.” Tom has no idea how glad I am to hear that someone else, a sympathetic bona fide New Yorker no less, who agrees with views no San Franciscan I know will admit.

Monday, 12:40 AM – SFO

40 hours after I left, all but eight of them spent traveling, I am back at SFO. The plane trip home was predictably awful, but R. greets me with open arms, a ginger ale and a cookie which soothes my frayed nerves. Jeremy was very glad I went, saving him from four days of solo driving and post-break-up wallowing between bouts of regional NPR. I am glad I went, if only for those reasons. I am glad I went for the glamour points too. And I am glad to have seen Jeremy after all these years. I wish I could see more of my writer friends, but there you are: it’s a solitary profession and, as we get older, we are all focusing our lives more on output than on cross-country jaunts. Silly writers. Perhaps I will outgrow that attraction to sudden adventures, but I doubt it. They are the stuff of which books are made.