Anthropologies: A Family Memoir

Part Two: Notes on Travel

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PartTwo. NotesonTravel For if every true love affair can feel like a journey to a foreign country, where you can’t quite speak the language, and you don’t know where you’re going, and you’re pulled ever deeper into the inviting darkness, every trip to a foreign country can be a love affair, where you’re left puzzling over who you are and whom you’ve fallen in love with. —Pico Iyer, “Why We Travel” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 At the restaurant, Fernando wipes a porthole clear with his sleeve. People on the boardwalk step into the clarity of the circle, just for an instant, and then back into the mist. Behind them, the gray seawall , the open ocean and sky, all gray, the surf pounding. It is raining, a misty rain. Sandpipers skirt the waves. A man with a beard stands gazing out at the ocean, then down at a small piece of paper he holds cupped in both hands. His lips move as if he were praying. The room at the hotel is the same one we rented on our summer pilgrimages to San Diego, to water, when our children were young. Now they are grown and their absence momentarily astounds me. We leave the sliding-glass doors and curtains open for the cool breeze and the sound of waves. Fernando naps. I read Love in the Time of Cholera. Marquez . “The weak never enter the kingdom of love, which is a harsh and ungenerous kingdom.” I put the book down and remember the woman on NPR who told of climbing into her husband’s hospital bed as he lay dying of liver cancer. She put French music on the stereo because they never got to see Paris. We have never been to Paris. We have never been to Italy. But we have raised two children. And this, Fernando believes, is what we were put on earth to do. He’s actually said that to me: I have finished what I was put on earth to do. I don’t quite understand it. I lie on my side, looking at the sea through the white bars of the balcony. I put my hand on his warm shoulder. No matter how long you have, there is never enough time. We wake up to a room flooded with sunlight. 40 Part Two Fireworks that night over the water. Our fingertips touch. Bursts of gaudy color cascade down to their reflections. My eyes love, especially , the silver ones: stars shooting out of a central blossom of color, purple, maybe, red. An electric blue. We plan our extravagant dinner. I will drink a crisp white wine. A grilled artichoke with aioli for starters . Then, for the gentleman, sea bass wrapped in a potato crust, tiny spring asparagus on the side. Lobster bisque for the lady? Grilled scallops on new greens? A lemon tart with crème fraiche for dessert. Two spoons. We will walk in the dark, our arms linked, all the way down to the roller-coaster. The edges of the waves, lit up by microscopic sea animals, glow an iridescent green. Is there a moon? We will make love with the sliding-glass doors open. The last morning, the light on the ocean is slate blue, glassy, so beautiful it is painful to behold and I say, I see why you like to walk at this time. Then Fernando looks at me and in his eyes, that shy look of pleasure they have sometimes. Notes on Travel 41 2 I am watching Fernando walk across the lawn near Old Main. There are huge olive trees on this side of campus, their dark limbs gnarled and low. This is in 1970 and I am staying in an old brick dorm with green linoleum on the floors. I have met Fernando before, but we will not start dating for a few years. He is tall. He has wavy hair. He is wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a white tee shirt. He saunters. His car, a muscle car, a red Plymouth Fury, is parked on the street behind him. I am a student at the art camp where he works as a waiter. I am sitting on the grass watching him, writing a story. Gravity is a serious thing— (I write. I am sixteen.)—it holds us here on earth, pulls us to her. Imagine gravity losing its hold. You will fly...