I Am Better At Hello

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California


Lydia, Debra, and I just celebrated our third annual Las Chicas weekend in Carmel. I don't think I am out of line, speaking for the trio, in writing that we look forward to this getaway all the year long. It is a three-day girlfriend fest with no husbands, no kids, no responsibilities, and almost no worries (residuals remain, who are we kidding, this is life). Prior to their arrival, I campaigned, to no avail, to get them to come for four nights instead of three. The last night of their visit, they took me out to dinner at La Bicyclette, despite my protests (at this stage in life I have learned to not fight it, and graciously accept the generosity of someone else picking up a check). In between: we walked, shopped, ate too much; I drank, Lydia drank a little; two of us went to Mass; we spent an afternoon at The Spa at Pebble Beach; we stayed up late talking; we laughed a lot.

The hard part of these weekends is: A) they only come about once a year; B) the time passes way too quickly. For me, the hardest part is saying goodbye. Whenever house guests drive away from my home, or from the house I rent here, I always wave and call out: Wave until you can't see me anymore. Inevitably, they turn the corner and I can no longer see them. I keep waving in hope that they will realize their folly, turn around, and return to tell me they are staying longer. When this doesn't happen, I dry my tears and go inside. Where goodbyes are concerned, I'm a lot like Karen Blixen. I am better at hello.


Renting a house in Carmel was supposed to be a one-time thing. I was going to spend my time alone working on a novel that I completed that first year. I managed to stretch that into another year (rewrites), and thanks to Billy's sharing my love for Carmel, the house rental morphed into an annual event. Each year I spend some portion of my time here by myself. And that always involves people (including Billy) leaving, and leaving me behind. And, it's hardest when they drive away from the house.


Watching Billy go through security at the tiny Monterey Airport is hard. We throw a kiss and a wave at each other, then I leave, usually carrying a copy of the Monterey Herald. I drive out of the airport and back to Carmel, generally running a few errands, perhaps a stop at Whole Foods, before returning to the house. The first day and evening is always an ordeal, but, as the days pass, it does get easier. And being alone is a bit of a luxury. I still have to work. I still have to market and cook. But the days open up with an extravagant offering of time, with the choice to do pretty much whatever I want. I don't have that at home.


Here, I spend a lot of time walking. I take myself to the movies, which is a solitary pleasure I very much enjoy; much more so than going out to eat alone. Each day at the house, I can eat whatever I want without worrying about Billy's preferences and/or health. I can watch TV, and it can be pure chick-flickness all the way. I listen to NPR; I listen to Sondheim or Pink; I take baths; I even watch TV in bed. While I watch little to no TV at home, here it provides some company at the end of a solitary day.


I think my challenge is to bring those simple pleasures home. At home, I'm always undone by the chore or project that needs attention. These things mount up -- filing, organizing, sorting, storing. All the things that come out and accumulate during the night to taunt you during your busy waking hours. I understand what people who have lost a home to a fire say about the final acceptance of that loss -- it can be freeing. In the end, it's the stuff that gets us, I fear. Here, there is less of it. Three tee shirts, three sweaters, three hoodies -- you get the drill. A book or two; my cookbook binder; checkbooks, and the requisite files of financial material; iPod; a handful of necessary cooking utensils from home; a bottle of single malt scotch; a tin of Scottish Breakfast tea. I live lean here, and the lack of clutter clears my usually chaotic mind.


Years ago, my friend, Joan, rented a house here in Carmel. It was way back before she purchased the tiny home that became the first house we ever rented here. Joan was in Carmel during the summer after her third and youngest son went off for the obligatory backpacking trip across Europe during his gap summer between high school and college (Joan and Don felt that their sons needed an early global experience lest they go off to college with a provincial sensibility). Joan wanted to reflect on what she called the second half of her life. Child rearing was finished. What was ahead? She spent her time mostly alone, walking and hiking in and around Carmel. She said that memories floated back to her -- things she hadn't thought of in years. It was a solitary and reflective period of time, and she came home changed.


Perhaps that was the kernel of the idea that brought me to Carmel for a month in January, 2005. Through the years since, I have spent time here alone, with my fristers, with just Billy, and, on occasion, with a houseful of family and/or friends. I've made memories brimmed with conversation, laughter, and solace. Each year, the time here is filled with these things. And, each year, Billy leaves and before he returns, Debra and Lydia come and go. When they drive away, I stand in the street waving until I can't see them anymore. I hope they will turn around and come back. But they never do. Still, while the transition after they leave is hard, the time alone is worthwhile. It brings thoughts to my mind, and onto my MacBook screen that might become a journal entry, poem, short story, or blog post. This, in turn, helps me to feel less bereft, despite the lingering melancholia I always experience after bidding goodbye. No small thing, especially if you are someone, like me, who is better at hello. Wave until you can't see me anymore, Chicas, and thank you all for reading my blog!