Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
My two comrades-in-arms, Debra, whom we call DG, and Lydia, whose monogram is LOL (as a group I refer to the three of us as Las Chicas) left Sunday night. They left very slowly. I saw them through security at Monterey Airport; we all waved before I turned to walk to the parking lot. I called Billy on the way home to mitigate the damages of girlfriend separation. Once home, I poured myself a glass of wine, finished off what was left of the macaroni and cheese (made with truffle cheese, rosemary fontina, gruyere, cheddar, AND creme fraiche), and settled in for episode two of this season's Downton Abbey. I didn't hear my phone ring, nor check it for calls/texts, until after ten o'clock. Turned out their flight had been inexplicably delayed by at least an hour. Not the way you want to end a fun weekend, especially since both of them had to be up at 5:30 Monday morning. I got up at 7:00 yesterday, in a half-hearted gesture of solidarity. Seriously, I'll do a lot of things for my friends, but disrupting my circadian rhythm is above and beyond the call of duty.
Regardless of the travel-debacle ending, it was a fast, furious, and fun weekend (I just threw in furious to boost the alliteration). I picked them up at the airport on Thursday night. I had prepared a sign -- a big, red, hand-lettered Las Chicas, done on the cardboard back of a letter-sized lined tablet. I stress hand-lettered. Art is not my strong suit. When I got to the gate, there was a guy, in a suit, holding a paddle that read The Lodge at Pebble Beach. Now, I am more or less known for my ability to do just about anything that is FUN or FUNNY, even if it is in the grey margins of embarrassing myself. But I felt plainly stupid to pull out my sign while that guy was standing there. Not, I will write, because I believed I was the first person to make a silly sign. But it was only the two of us meeting the flight (did I mention how small - like bus-station small, the Monterey Airport is?). Luckily, his passengers deplaned before the girls, so I pulled my sign out as soon as I saw them. And they laughed (as did I, but more from the relief of not looking like an idiot to strangers -- I frankly don't mind so much looking like an idiot to friends -- I always, for right or wrong, figure they're laughing near me, not at me).
We hung out at the house that night and each of the three subsequent evenings, talking and laughing. We are so good at this. During the day we walked and shopped in town in spite of the freezing cold (west coast freezing cold = temps in the high 40s). We went to Pebble Beach Spa for massages. Lydia and I went to Mass on Sunday, after which they treated me to lunch at The Bench in The Lodge at Pebble Beach on a brilliantly beautiful Sunday afternoon. It was, as always, a pleasure to spend time with them both, and to have the ability to do this in such a perfectly comfortable house in one of the most beautiful places in California. This was, I think, our fifth long weekend together in Carmel, and I consider it a gift that these two fristers have never missed an opportunity to join me in sharing the beauty of Carmel, and the celebration of our Las Chicas friendship.
So, today, I am hunkering down for the remaining four nights that I will be here on my own. They are prognosticating a warming trend. I even heard the word seventies invoked with regard to the coming weekend temps. Each trip takes on its own life in a way, and I haven't been walking as much as usual this year. Rather I am using my time alone to write in my journal and ponder the coming year and the changes it might bring. That can be heavy stuff, so I appreciated the distraction my fristers brought to me. No matter what comes, having close girlfriends can be the absolute best thing a woman can have in her life. I think even more so as time goes on. So even though it has been stunningly sunny and gorgeous since they left, a part of me feels bereft of their company. And in that part of me that always looks forward to the time that we spend together, there just ain't no sunshine when they've gone.Yikes! Someone read this post, and reported back to me that I had forgotten to...wait for it... Thank you for reading my blog!!!
Showing posts with label Las Chicas Weekend. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Las Chicas Weekend. Show all posts
January 15, 2013
January 18, 2012
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!
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!
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.