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Places
With You and Places Without You
We arrive in a village where we will spend the evening celebrating a young Transylvanian couple's nuptials. After we are introduced to our host families, three of us decide to walk off the morning drink before the bottles get passed again. We head towards the hill that protects the small enclave of houses. A mucky combination of mud, straw and horseshit paves the streets, sticking to our boots. Strings of red paprika dangle from the roofs. Soon the smell of manure gives way to thinning trees and fields of dusty grasses. My legs work hard to warm me against the rising chill of the setting sun. A drying field of forgotten corn reveals a small knoll that promises a panorama of the valley and surrounding hills. The stalks of corn whisper as we pass through. Stepping out onto the knoll, I feel, for the first time since leaving California, less dislocated, less disconnected. The beauty of the valley and hills calms me while the chatter of goats and chickens fills the valley and the strum of wedding songs drifts up to our ears. A star pierces through the sky and a crescent moon glows orange. We sit quietly while the darkness seeps into the sky. I long for your arm around my shoulder. I want to point to the moon, tell you it holds my love for you. I was surprised you were home when I called. It was 4:00 am in Budapest and I assumed you to be out zooming up and down the streets of San Francisco, but I had just finished reading your letter from last week and I longed for your voice, not your lies. I thought you would welcome a tipsy phone call from me. Your voice revealed otherwise. I could tell she was there and I slurred into the phone, "You can't talk can you?" You answered with a flat no. "I'm having a small dinner party," you explained, and quickly asked with great insincerity, "How was your Thanksgiving?" Your chilly voice sobered me and I slammed the receiver back in its place. The cobwebs hanging from my ceiling begged to be cleaned, but I lit another cigarette and wondered out loud to the cold walls what could have possibly happened to your desire to kiss the soft of my belly as you so vividly described in your letter? I knew the answer, but I didn't want to hear it so I threw the phone across the room. Heavy raindrops came with the rising sun and I watched the cobwebs and I drank cup after cup of peppermint tea to keep myself from calling you back. I wanted to reminisce about that time we dodged a deluge under the dripping cypress trees all the way to the top of Mount Wittenburg to catch a glimpse of the Pacific. I would have asked, do you remember how magical that was? You would have agreed. The clouds had cleared by the time we arrived at the summit and we stood panting under the refreshing blue sky. I bent over to touch a wild iris and you pushed me onto the ground and kissed me with your sweaty lips. You declared that my beauty was as perfect as the dancing sparkle of the ocean. We lay there for some time watching hawks circle and screech, your head resting on my chest. Clouds moved into the blue spot of sky and you yelled, "Last one to the bottom pays for burgers and beers." As you lifted me from the ground I leaned into you, my lips brushing your ear as I whispered, "I love you." It wasn't the fact that she was there when I called. It was the fact that you denied my existence. But then again, facts were never your strong point. Remember that night on the beach in Santa Cruz before I left for Budapest? We stretched out a blanket with bread, cheese, hearty red wine and the salt of the sea. We talked about our complicated history and our resolution to remain friends. You told me about your new relationship, the sound of the waves crashing on my jealousy. I asked if we could do this, be friends, sometimes lovers. You assured me we could. Like I said, it wasn't the fact that she was there when I called, it was the fact that your assurance was a lie. I am a hidden part of your life, another lie wedged between me and you, not to mention her. That night we kissed between bites and sips of wine, between our promises to remain friends as the clouds soaked up the fiery colors of the setting sun. Our bodies were hungry that night, touching, sucking and piercing our secret connection. I fell asleep wondering how I would feel living in a new country without you near me. I dreamed of long, sad goodbyes. I thought this was the end of the story, but once again I am some place you are not -- the crash of the cymbal, the cry of the violins; my knee cold without your warm hand. I sit in San Francisco's symphony hall, Budapest now a fading memory. This familiar city, without you, is now a foreign land. There was a slip of fate. We both know it is for the best, for all of us. My heart and head battle as I sit in the balcony, watching the arias shatter upon the floor. Desire swells and I can no longer resist. I imagine your hand caressing my knee as the music rises, and for a brief moment I am someplace with you, not without you.
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Another
bus trip with our teacher, this time to the edges of Romania where
the Hungarians still clutch to their traditions, including the making
of Palinka, a homemade plum liquor. The worn farmers traditionally
enjoy a breakfast of sharp cheese, dark bread and shots of Palinka.
We join our generous hosts with extra shots and cheers of "opah!"
My body warms and we load onto the bus, off to another village.
I turn on the Walkman and listen to another song of lies and kisses
late in the night. The heat of the moonshine appeases my rising
anger as I watch old women pull up roots from the side of the road.
