Los Angeles, California
On second thought, I decided to reflect back on the year that has just passed. I mean, what the hell, right? This would be a lot easier if we were out of the messy pandemic that has immobilized a great number of us. Not all. But that's another subject.
I ended 2019 dancing salsa with Joel. We left the club around 11:30 as the floor had become too crowded. Women with augmented lips and breasts were there to be seen. There was freestyle, what I call duck-paddling, going on to pass for dancing. Lots of shakin' it. They didn't know how to dance salsa, but they clearly knew how to drink. And they were drinking crappy, sugary cocktails that they also knew how to spill on the floor. Dance shoes are suede-soled. Suede soles are not happy stepping in sugary spills.
I didn't have a problem with leaving early. New Year's Eve has never been a favorite holiday, though improved in recent years. Joel went home to his first love, Buster the Bassett, and I put on comfy pjs and watched the ball drop. I wrote in my journal: It's going to be a good year. Frankly, it was the worst holiday season I had ever experienced, and I was happy to see the holidays and the year ending. I signed off my last journal entry of the year, writing: As Scarlett said: After all, tomorrow is another decade...
The next day I wrote: It is a new time. I went to my friends' always lovely, annual open house. A few of us stayed late, and Steven, our host, rewarded us by playing his guitar and singing Beatles' songs. It was, I thought, a great way to kick off the year. There was one small incident, when someone called out as they left: I hope it's a good year! And another guest commented that she didn't like that. She thought the sentiment of hope wasn't "positive." I recapped all of this in my journal, writing: But it was real. Shit happens, and maybe the most and best we've learned to do is to hope for the best. And that's ok. It's a new year. A new decade. I do hope it's good.
Joel was sick through a lot of January. I wrote in my journal that he was killingly sick, coughing a lot. In retrospect, I suspect Covid, as we now know that the West Coast probably had Covid earlier than once thought. Cathy, my friend and pilates guru, commented that there was something weird going around. A cold that doesn't go away. She was also sick.
Ten days into the year, I spent a day with Lisa at Century City. It was a warm January LA day, and we ate lunch at Eataly, and had a lot of fun shopping and walking around the outside shopping venue together. I did, however, knock her agua fresca to the floor at the take-out place where she was picking up dinner at the end of our day. Luckily, clumsy doesn't really get in the way of a good girlfriend day. January 2020 was already much better than December 2019. I wrote in my journal: I have got lots of good in my life right now.
I got the call in February that a friend had passed away. It hit me hard. I hadn't seen her, hadn't seen them, in the five years since Tom had died. We stayed in touch through birthday and holiday cards. But I knew she wasn't doing well, and knew I should reach out. I just couldn't. They were the couple we saw regularly for movies and dinner and birthday celebrations. It was hard for me, and I couldn't surmount it. Lynnette admonished me that I should make an effort. It was the right thing to do, plus I think she understood that I would feel bad if something happened to either of them. I agreed that I should make an effort. And I said I would. But I didn't. It was now too late to let Susan know how much she had meant to me, but I told Larry that I would be there for him.
Lent began on February 27th, and as in the past few years, I wasn't giving anything up. I've given up enough, I wrote. But I was still in a better place as I began Lent without a practice of deprivation. On March 1st, I went to Mass at St. Charles Borromeo, the beautiful church I attend, which is nicknamed: The Church that Hope (Bob) and Crosby (Bing) built, as it was, at one time, the parrish of both. I returned home, and began getting organized for my upcoming trip. March 3rd was Super Tuesday and my guy, Biden, was doing well. Predictably not doing well in green and ultra-blue California, but everywhere else. I was now packed for the trip and ready to roll.
On Wednesday, March 4th, I flew to Phoenix out of Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. We were now aware of the pandemic, and had been advised to wipe down our seat and surrounding area on the plane, which I dutifully did. I had a conversation with my seatmate, who was traveling with her twin to meet a girlfriend in Scottsdale. We landed in Phoenix, and Lynnette was there to meet my flight, having just flown in from Newport Beach. Our annual Spring Training trip had begun. We went to three games: two Dodgers' games and two Giants' games (one being the Dodgers v. Giants). We met my family-but-in-a-good-way friends for brunch and met the new baby, Etta. And we went to our favorite Phoenix hamburger place, Zinburger, where I ate my last restaurant hamburger of 2020. It was delicious, washed down with a draft IPA. We played our favorite game, Ticket to Ride, each night in the bar at the hotel. We didn't realize that we were winding down from normal, and plunging toward a year of immobilization and isolation.
On the afternoon of our third day, Friday, March 6th, we Lyfted to the airport together, and Lynnette waited with me for my flight which was earlier than hers. I was flying to Monterey to meet my friends, Brendan and Diana. As we sat in Phoenix Sky Harbor airport, Lynnette told me that she never talks to anyone in airports or on flights. Even when she traveled with her husband, they didn't talk to each other. That's crazy, I said. I've met some really interesting people and have enjoyed the serendipitous conversations. Sometimes Lynnette and I just have to agree to disagree.
I boarded my American Airlines flight. It was a small plane, two and two with a center aisle. I dutifully wiped down my space with the folded Clorox wipes I had brought in a Ziplock. And... here comes my seatmate. A thirtysomething, pretty blonde with long eyelashes, and a huge carryon. She sat down and pulled an entire container of Clorox wipes out of her bag, like Mary Poppins!
Courtney from Austin, Texas, and I introduced ourselves and we talked through the boarding of the rest of the passengers. Towards the end of this process, a young woman came down the aisle, and stopped at Courtney's seat. I think you're in my seat, she said. Courtney began to rummage through her M. Poppins' bag to find her boarding pass. This took some time, and she never did come up with it. Never mind, the woman said, politely. I can just sit here, she gestured at the empty seat in front of Courtney.
Courtney had connected in Phoenix enroute to Monterey for a girlfriends' weekend in Carmel. And she was lively and lovely. We talked about our lives, and her three school-age kids, and how much fun we were going to have with our respective friends in Carmel. I had a Heineken, she drank champagne, and the flight went quickly. We were descending into Monterey Airport on schedule. And then, in that long space when planes are seemingly floating down to a lower altitude in preparation for landing, there was a shuddering clunk. It wasn't the sound of the landing gear being lowered. And then... we weren't descending. Over an interminable time, it became apparent that we were going back up. About ten minutes after we should have landed, the woman seated in the window seat across the aisle, with the aisle seat next to her empty, told us that her husband was at the airport and was texting her that they were indicating that we were no longer on approach. The chatter on the plane was diminishing. It was getting too quiet.
To be continued...
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