drewd The Adventures of Carlos d'Avis

I feel as if I have so much to say , so much building up in my head and heart, but then fail over and over to embark on any descriptive journey. Shall we? Let us. Let us go. Let go.

I have a tendency to remark, seriously and sometimes not so much so, "The moon is full. I should be traveling." I said as much last night at dinner on a friend's balcony. The moon is full tonight and tomorrow I fly to Boston for two weeks with the family. I should be out walking underneath the full moon right now. How far to the Atlantic?

I caught glimpses of Mount Rainier at sunset last night, from the aforementioned balcony, and then again this evening while swimming in Lake Washington. When I arrive late for my swim, and the sun is already hidden behind the hills and trees, I can stroke away from shore and back out into the daylight. At the buoy, with the low sun on the chill lake, the mountain is there. Here, in Seattle, you say the mountain—the mountain is out—and no one doubts as to your subject. Here, in Seattle, the weather and landscape so dominate our perspective. There, there is our mountain, Rainier: wonder at its majesty. Here, here we are in Seattle, where the rain falls always and life is still somehow marvelous.

Saturday afternoon I will swim again in a small lake, quietly beautiful in the Northeastern way, no grand jagged mountains, no salmon somewhere down there in this same lake as me. But beautiful, with its own little bass: I will swim again in New Hampshire with my family.

I departed for Costa Rica in January and have not seen my father, sister, or brother-in-law since. (My mother visited me in Peru.) Good then that I will reunite with them, that I will join them in a week of escape. Well, relative escape: I will still be working remotely. What's new?

What is new, what is nascent? I will see Nicole, my sister, for the first time since our fateful May 3rd conversation, me in a Mendoza hotel room and she in Boston. She, newly aware, told me she was due with her and Mark's first child, due on my birthday December 9th. This woman, this Colie Wolie, has a little Blueberry in her belly.

I am so excited. Life will continue and our family will grow. And Nicole and Mark will likely not enjoy so many naps in future years. Sleep, then, now for me and perhaps not then: what uncle will I be?

Rare is the morning when I can just sit down and start working. I check web comics first; I look at Tumblr, Flickr and Facebook. I tweet a twittle. I try to get my mind running and engaged. I attempt to care about life enough to motivate my working.

What does it take? Sometimes, a happy song.

Sometimes, a sad song.

Perhaps I'll consider an old photograph of me and Whit, 2001 say.

And then I'll marvel at a new photograph of us, thanks to Dave for the capture.

I'll think about breakfast with Faye and I'll think about my swim yesterday and the cool lake water yet to come in New Hampshire. Okay, I can do this.

I am sitting in my house, having just finished a bowl of Joe's Os with raisins, drinking French press of Victrola's Guatemalan Huehuetenango. Funny that, how you can leave the country for half a year, travel all over, and then still find it acceptable to eat the same breakfast as you always did. I am the same Carlos as always.

Today is Friday the 13th; I returned two months ago to Seattle from Ecuador and all. I have spent the last two months fully tangled up in work. I have spent the last two months up and down emotionally and, overwhelmingly, trying to puzzle out who I am now. I am some version of Andrew.

I was driving up I-5, all the way from San Francisco to Seattle, on no reasonable schedule at all. The time was five in the afternoon, perhaps, and I was nowhere close to the Oregon border. I had been seeing signs for Mount and Lake, all Shasta and gorgeous and northern California.

California was good—so good. Claire, Whit and I ate In-N-Out for our first meal back in the Golden State. I saw my cousins and I saw my aunt and uncle: love. Maren and I drank so much good coffee and ate so many delicious foods. (Brioche doughnut holes at LaMill Coffee are for real.) I had drinks and hugs and laughs with the incredible community in San Francisco.

Whit and Claire's couch felt like home. Sparkle Motion felt like home.
I was good, glorious ol' Drew.

So I was on I-5, right? And I saw the bridge approaching, and I started thinking, Am I the same, the same boring? Driving to Seattle without any magic or perspective?

What am I leaving? Where am I going? Fuck it, I need to jump in this lake!

I crossed the bridge and pulled off the highway, winding my way down a dirt road and nearly bottoming out a few times. Funny that, how I make poor driving choices on country roads whilst in fragile emotional states.

I parked. I made my way down through the brush to the rocky shore and slipped out into the cool milky blue. I am still traveling.

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The universe is shaped exactly like the Earth
If you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were

The Los Angeles freeways felt disturbingly like home. I was coming down the Grapevine, driving 85 MPH just like everyone else, and there was the 55 MPH speed limit sign: I laughed at it and eased off the accelerator a bit. And then I saw the signs for Magic Mountain and there were the 20 minutes of stop and go traffic.

Passing by the exit for 210 East felt wrong—not heading to Claremont, for once—and so did listening to some random indie-folk as I elected instead 405 South. I changed up The Tallest Man on Earth for Mika; "We Are Golden" felt like Los Angeles no matter the singer's origins. And then I changed again, to the 2004 Braineater Pump Up Mix. "F*ck Wit Dre Day" was just right.

I'll be staying with my aunt and uncle in the Valley for the next few days, catching up with friends in the area and working as much as I am able. Los Angeles... California... what are these places?

I spent the last three days staying near Palo Alto with my cousin Cindy, her husband Jay, and their sons Adam and Eric. I played with Bionicles and regular-type Legos, drew pictures, sprained my ankle, went to the beach, and generally fulfilled duties as cool-older-cousin. So apparently one of the themes of 2010 is catching up with Bolivian family: in other words, being a better person.

On I-5 South, just a bit south of Gilroy and early in my drive today, I noticed first a black plume of smoke up ahead of me. It wasn't the smoke monster from LOST. I reached eventually a mess of brush fire and fire trucks on the opposite side of the northbound lane. Traffic was backed up for over three miles but at the front of this jam were half a dozen people or so, dancing and singing in the median with a trumpet, accordion, and tuba.

My aunt and uncle's street in Woodland Hills smells of sunshine and eucalyptus. California!

I write now from It's A Grind, in San Francisco. Claire, Whit and I arrived yesterday afternoon, after a surprisingly painless 10-hour drive from Portland. This is what I look like RIGHT NOW.

We stayed in Portland at Claire's parents house; George and Hansine were most gracious hosts, as always. Our time was spent seeing friends and family, drinking wine and beer, watching World Cup—¡Que viva España!, eating delicious food, and playing lots and lots of cornhole. And I suppose Whit and I worked a good bit.

Of particular note, we caught with Hannah and Ryan; Giselle and Gavin; Kelly; Hilary; and Spencer, Michaela, and Sebastian. The last two are Spencer's twins and Whit and Claire's niece and nephew: super adorable.

Portland has a few favorite spots and revisiting them did not disappoint. We met Giselle at Bridgeport Brewery: their beers and happy hour food were so great on a hot afternoon. My first time here was with Dave, following some Portland summer Ultimate tournament.

Whit, Claire and I ventured to Powell's bookstore, where I wandered around in a happy daze and finally purchased four titles: Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha, Manhood for Amateurs, The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, and a novel for a friend.

Hilary, Hannah, Ryan and we three ate lunch at Pok Pok, which is likely my favorite Thai restaurant. Their chicken wings are incredible and we also devoured a summer special: fresh corn-on-the-cob cooked and glazed with coconut milk. So good!

So that's what I've got for now! Off, I think, to find some San Franciscan lunch and then keep on the work.

How will I stop wandering, and when?

Seattle lasted me a good three and a half weeks before I felt that pull again, before I picked up and went elsewhere. It's not you, Seattle, it's me...

You see, I have a lovely little Civic at my disposal; I am reunited with Sparkle Motion. Of course I drove south to Portland with Claire and Whit. I am still a traveler, a vagabond, a rolling stone.

A month has now passed—four weeks—since I returned to the United States. Work has continued apace. I have discontinued my morning photographs, at least for the most part. I reunited again and again with dear friends. I played Potlatch.

Last night, after a day of flower picking and cornhole and delicious miso-peanut-butter chicken, I reclined in the living room of the Fisher house, with a little glass of port in my hand and Hansine, George, Claire and Whit all about me. We discussed my future. George declared me a complex person: a rare honor?

A hummingbird rests on the telephone wire out stretched across the blue sky beyond me, still but for a bit of head swivel, a bit of observation and consideration. I look down for a moment at my computer; I look back up and the bird is gone.

"Wait, what?"

I was surprised to be caught so off-guard. Eric and I were sitting at Eugenio's drink stand on Cocktail Alley in Montañita, Ecuador. Every night this lane running to the beach would get busy, young folk stationing themselves in plastic chairs at carts filled with fruit, copious limes, and bottles of every conceivable hard liquor. We were drinking mojitos, naturally, and sitting across from Kate and Marie, two young women from England.

Marie repeated, "You guys talk like We Are Scientists."

I was astounded and delighted.
"You know We Are Scientists?"

"Of course: they're big in England."

"Um... I went to university* with them. They played on campus all the time. We were obsessed with The Creeper, you know, from their first album."

"Really? The Creeper? I've never heard of that song. I don't think that's on their first album..."

"Safety, Fun, and Learning?"

"With Love and Squalor?"

Le sigh. See, I don't blame the girl. We Are Scientists like to pretend that "Safety, Fun, and Learning" doesn't even exist. Boo. Therefore, I'm sure the guys, er, scientists won't mind my posting "The Creeper" here.

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Kate and Marie thought we were, perhaps, 25 years old. Hah! Yeah, not so much.
We asked if they were 22. Nope: 19.

"Right, you would have been 11 years old when Safety, Fun, and Learning came out." And I declared, laughingly, "You definitely don't pass the half my age plus seven rule."

Eric and I switched to drinking Scotch. The Creeper, indeed.

* I am well aware Harvey Mudd College is not a university. One must speak thusly to be understood by English girls. University, not college.