notes on this summer

Lakewood Nora gets sunburnt on Thursdays.

She sees ghosts on every front porch, storefront, tree lawn. She goes to the same coffee shop each morning.

She cries during sunsets. She lets her hair get stuck in her lipgloss, windows rolled down on the Shoreway. Lakewood Nora says she hates reminiscing and spends days hibernating in her past. Memory overlays truth like handwriting on an overhead projector’s transparency. She’s thankful for the lake’s breeze and avoids the places where happiness was once the only feeling she could see on the horizon.

She rents space in her body to newness. Tries it on for size. Everything fits better now. When she sweats, when the air is thick, she no longer gets angry. She lets things go. She spreads the ashes of her childhood pet along the edges of the garage of her first home. Her tears fall from behind her sunglasses, her lips don’t quiver. She still checks every room for spiders.

Ginger beer by the water, chain link fences, watermelon juice sticky on her legs. Do you remember biking to the river? Do you remember bruised knees in the backseat of your car? Do you remember the parts of the stories she’s beginning to forget?

There’s that house we loved, there’s that corner that was ours, there’s the street on which we danced in the rain. She greets each ghost by name.

Lakewood Nora had never been to Harborview Drive, off of Edgewater and West 117th. Each home is perched on the lake, guarded by cars and fireflies and wrought iron gates. How strange, to discover a new thing, now, in the depths of it all. Coming home feels like retracing steps that can never be repeated and it hurts. It hurts so much. But she didn’t make space for the pain of discovering something new in the midst of all that familiar ache of home. She says out loud that the best parts of her will never again exist in the way they once did. The new parts lack what they will never know.

Back in New York, caught in a thunderstorm on Elizabeth Street, there’s no one to stay dry for. She walks home in the rain.

bourdain day

I was asleep the first time Anthony Bourdain broke my heart. 

---

We met in a dream of mine. It was set in a Sleep-No-More-style haunted house, although there wasn’t anything particularly frightening about this one. It was a series of connected rooms with high tables and stools in the corners, dungeon cafeterias minus the hot-bar line, absent of any performance, a chill lingering like mist. The rooms were barren, made entirely of dark-paneled wood with burnished silver accents. I was winding my way through the maze and then there he was, the attraction, a ghostly star, perched at one of the identical tables in one of the identical rooms. A cold breeze drifted through and I wasn’t wearing layers. I shivered. He was outfitted in his usual: worn-in leather jacket, light-wash jeans, scuffed Clarks. Elbow on table, chin in hand. Eyes somewhere else, distant. Skin sallow, hair luminous. He hadn’t been waiting for me. 

Of course I couldn’t resist; I walked right up to him. I’ve had enough near-encounters in my life that I wasn’t going to let this one, this most important of ones, slip. I tapped his shoulder, slick in supple pebbled leather. He didn’t turn to me. 

I called him Tony and I told him how much he meant to me. I told him every step I took was only because he’d done it first. I told him I like that he writes the way he talks. That one’s really important to me. 

I talked at him while he stared at the wall. I finally ran out of steam, reading the room, eloquence muddling into rambling, ending with something along the lines of “You’re my hero.” I cringed, and with that, a slight smirk tugged at his mouth. A slow blink revealed a sideways glance in my direction, and the smirk widened. We locked eyes, he looked me up and down. I felt a cartoon-character gulp lodge in my throat as I waited. All of a sudden I was sick to my stomach. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

He pushed up from the table, not breaking my gaze. I don’t remember what he said to me; I only remember the feeling. Worthlessness. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

---

I was in the air the second time Anthony Bourdain broke my heart. 

I was getting off a tiny plane from the British Virgin Islands at the San Juan airport when I heard the news. I’d spent my entire trip, a luxurious yachting excursion with journalists and marketing executives on the Caribbean, perched on the bow of the boat, alone, headphones in, thinking about Anthony Bourdain. There was something about open seas, about the drama of the relentless sun and the lapping of the night’s unforgiving darkness, that was connecting me to Tony. I had an acoustic Elvis song in my headphones on repeat, and I was thinking of the tragedy of it all. I was feeling the weight of loneliness. 

I had just stepped onto the tarmac to retrieve my suitcase from the impossibly small aircraft when a man next to me said to another passenger, “Dude. You know Anthony Bourdain?” My ears perked up. I loved telling people I know Anthony Bourdain.

“He’s dead.” 

I didn’t believe him. I didn’t have time to believe him. I was late for my connecting flight, and I had to make it through customs and then through security and then to the other end of the terminal. It was only after I shoved myself into my window seat that I read the headline on my phone. He’d just been there, with me — I didn’t understand. I cried as we took off. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Everyone writes about how Bourdain opened their eyes. How he didn’t just meet people; he knew them. How he didn’t just eat food; he knew it. He wasn’t looking for anything and yet he was actively seeking everything. He wasn’t cliche or touristy or hipster or reverential. Everyone writes about what Bourdain taught them. How to travel, how to talk to people, how to eat. Yes, Tony influences our itineraries and our deli orders. Yes, Tony realized quickly into No Reservations that the story lay far beyond the dish in front of him, that the story lay in the complications and the problems and the points of intersection. But we can walk into any restaurant in any corner of the world and claim to know what Tony has taught us.

What about beyond that, though? Tony wasn’t teaching us how to spend our layover, damnit. Tony wasn’t teaching us to go to Vietnam! Tony wasn’t teaching us that you can learn about a person through the food they make. Tony was daring us. I dare you to look closer. I dare you to try harder. I dare you to go farther. 

Tony broke my heart in my dream because he was allowed to. Tony, to me, held so much meaning in that I wanted to be him, I wanted to know him, I wanted to see the world through his eyes because I thought, somehow, I would understand. I fancied us kindred spirits. I assumed, as fact, that someday our paths would cross. In doing so, I was terrified of his disapproval. But here’s the thing: Tony was a human. He was not a god — he was a person. He did not have to validate my existence, my work, my love for him. He spouted condemnation for many things I loved: hipsters, avocado toast, good coffee. We probably would not have gotten along, at least at first encounter. All those things I was saying to him, in my dream, calling him my hero — those were the wrong things to say. He was a human, he was a person, he was not a god, he was not a hero. He did not teach me that getting down to the core of a person meant hunching over a plastic table of noodle soup. He did not teach me that you won’t get to know a place by just visiting its landmarks. I knew those things already. So did you. 

What I should’ve said to him, what I wish I could say to him now, on this Bourdain Day or on every single other day that I spend thinking of him — I’m lonely, too, Tony. It hurts. Carrying the weight of yourself is enough and you carry the weight of too many; I can’t imagine how much that aches.  Sometimes it hurts to fight the demons. So we don’t. I understand. You’re not my hero. You don’t have to save the day. But I understand — I understand why you got tired of living in yourself. 

A lot of shit happened to me right after I spent a week on the bow of that yacht in the Caribbean, Tony dying not even included. I want to bottle that feeling I had, on the water, ruminating on Tony with Elvis in my ears, right on the edge it all. It felt like saltwater melancholy and heartbreak on the horizon. It felt like a storm brewing. 

I’m still here. But, god, Tony, I feel it — there was some magnetism in that water that made me think of what it would all be like if it were just over. Easier. I imagine if I’d jumped into the sea and never resurfaced, ahead of all that lay before me. Escaped it all. Here I am, bookending the worst year of my life, and I’m still thinking about it. Every day, everything hurts. And yet every day that I’m still here, I realize it more and more — that’s what Tony taught me. Life is fucking hard. And that’s where you find your story. 

Thank you, Tony, for yours. 

flight time

I see people in the airport and I promise myself I will no longer be them. I’ve always been them.

I get to my gate and there are three flights pushed ahead of mine, and three flights’ worth of passengers pushed in front of me. They have snacks at the check-in table. That can’t be good. I watch as a girl and her boyfriend wait in line to see if they’ve gotten off the standby list. The girl holds a packet of cheese sandwich crackers. You know, the orange ones. The guy wears a puffer vest and brown hiking boots. He looks optimistically nervous; she looks truly pissed. When I glance back up, she’s pushing away from the desk, her whole body zinging with that kind of air-hockey tension, combustibility, like you don’t know towards which direction she could shoot off. She mouths shit (like a drawn out shiiiiiiit, with a bite on the t), her eyes roll back in her head, and she stomps off to find their next flight. Her boyfriend trails hopelessly behind, the disappointer. He knows he didn’t do this to them, bump them from standby, but his mere presence means he’s the closest puck off of which she can ricochet. 

I’m that girl. I’m the one who can’t keep her fucking chill. Everything is a colossal inconvenience to me and to me only. I brought my suitcase on the subway on my way to this very airport situation, and no one even considered moving out of the way for me. How dare they? I didn’t realize how rude New Yorkers were until I took the subway with my suitcase at rush hour. Sure, stare at your phone as you’re walking down the train station stairs like a zombie as the only F train that isn’t 21 minutes away arrives, that’s fine. Don’t hold doors for the person behind you, that’s okay. But watch a girl try to make herself and her bags as small as possible in order to just…use public transportation and not even attempt to procure extra space? Fuck you and everyone in New York. Yes, sir, I am going to roll my overpacked suitcase over your foot. You are welcome. 

Don’t get me wrong, never would I ever move out of the way for anyone carrying a suitcase on the subway at rush hour. You think you can bring your massive house-on-wheels on the train at prime time? Think again, buddy. Take an Uber. 

I’m working on this. I promise myself I will chill. While I watched perturbed Raleigh-destined airport rats (or, as some call them, people) grab free Rice Krispies and Cheez-Its from the basket on the check-in counter, I sat on a railing and remained calm. My flight was delayed, too, and I’d been worried, earlier, that I wasn’t going to be able to make my flight straight from work. So I’d rushed to construction-war-zone LaGuardia only to sit in the weird part of Terminal C that’s down a baby escalator flight, that was actually a cool 95 degrees, just to watch this Raleigh flight get delayed. That’s okay, I don’t care. I have all the time in the world. 

I watched people make friends. Casual conversations are struck. This guy wants to be an actor, Brian Cranston is his idol and he met him outside of his Broadway show. This girl is going to North Carolina to visit her friend for the weekend, she needs to be back on Monday. Who makes friends at the airport? Is that what you’re supposed to do? This isn’t The Terminal. (I kind of wish this was The Terminal. Except why is it implied that all flight attendants are, well, flighty mistresses? Why is there no fidelity in this world? Catherine Zeta-Jones would never hold on for Mister I’ll-Never-Leave-My-Wife. Honestly, though, fuck you, Catherine Zeta-Jones. Find a non-married man. Fuck you, too, though, obviously, Mister — your wife doesn’t deserve you. Okay, I’ll unpack The Terminal next time.) 

I watched a man miss the 3-hour delayed Raleigh flight. He runs down the baby escalator. He’s not wearing a coat. He’s panting. The gate attendants wave their hands towards the jetway doors as they say, “Oh, that plane is gone.” He doesn’t wait a beat, just turns around and runs back the way he came. Good for him, I think. Problem solver. I’m a little confused as to how he could’ve possibly missed a flight that had Delta giving out snacks at the check-in counter (yeah, I’m still not over that) and why he wasn’t wearing a coat until I realize he probably had a connecting flight. Coming, I’m guessing, from somewhere warm. That was also probably delayed. Because LaGuardia. Ohhhhh.

Two pilots stand directly in front of me, like I’m not there. I guess they’re trying to keep the aisleway clear, but it feels a little aggressive and I’m kind of mad at them for it. Have you ever had a female pilot? I had one on a tiny plane from Tortola to San Juan. She was awesome and literally had those Ray Ban aviators. But I think that’s the only female pilot I’ve ever had. These two pilots standing in front of me are men. Hands in pockets, those ridiculous carry-ons that are half the size of the already-shrinking regular carry-ons. I decide I want a snack so I maneuver around their pilot shadows. One of them says jollily, “Oh, let me get that out of your way,” and makes a gesture like he’s going to move his suitcase. He doesn’t. I walk up to the table and grab some Cheez-Its. I’m away from my bag for all of 14 seconds, but I can’t help but think...unattended baggage… That’s the nice thing about traveling with someone, they’re there to watch your bag while you get snacks. They’re also there to be the hockey puck. 

That’s what I’m trying to work on. Not needing a hockey puck. Not needing someone to tell me to chill the fuck out. Not everything has to come crashing down. Sometimes things just don’t work. Sometimes you don’t get off the standby list. Sometimes all of the fruit snacks are gone at the Delta check-in desk and you can only have Cheez-Its. Sometimes you should just say shit without saying shiiiiiiit. Sometimes it will all be okay even when there are three flights backed up ahead of yours. You have all the time in the world.