matriarch
Rotund retiree
- Joined
- May 25, 2003
- Posts
- 22,743
Part one (yes, that does mean there will be more)
It’s Sunday, 29th May, 2005, somewhere around 9am, I’m sitting at the table in the kitchen at our lodgings in Provincetown, Cape Cod, tea beside me, the coffee machine gurgling loudly behind me, Cloudy outside on the BBQ deck having her first cigarette of the day. It’s a beautiful day, from the windows ether side of the table I can see the roofs of several other of the closely packed, typical New England buildings. I can feel the breeze coming in through the window, and until the aroma of ‘come on machine, make me human’ coffee, overtakes everything, I can smell the sea.
I had awoken after probably the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks, relaxed, content and calm. I looked around my bedroom for the coming week, and sighed as the thought that had repeated itself since I first saw it, once again seeped through my consciousness – how I would love to wake up in this room every day. On the way to the kitchen to make tea (as necessary to me as coffee is to Cloudy……..and it’s a lie, she CAN speak coherently before she’s had coffee. And she doesn’t grunt or threaten to scalp you if you expect coherence), for the first time in weeks, months, I suddenly felt the desire to write. I had no idea what, just write.
I had left my laptop on the kitchen table after downloading yesterday’s photographs taken in NYC with Abs and Becca, so while the kettle was boiling I opened it up and sat here thinking.
A journal. That had to be it. A journal. Boring, ordinary, common as muck, but the perfect thing to put down my thoughts and impressions.
So here it is. And the title? Well I wanted something appropriate, something to indicate that I started the journal late. My holiday started at 7am on Thursday, when I left the house, not now. So I picked up on Cloudy and Vella’s word play, and came up with “The British are Coming………ooops…….The British are Here.”
There have been moments since the start of my journey where it would have been appropriate to start a journal, and I did think of it several times, but I just didn’t get round to it. I didn’t have the time or space. Now I do.
I didn’t start it at Heathrow airport, where the cursory glance over my papers by the American Airline security staff was almost laughable, not to say a little insulting – have I become invisible already, as a silver-haired non-threat?
Nor on the airplane, hardly into the seven and a half hour flight, when I squirted a whole pot of salad dressing down the front of my black tee-shirt, to the intense amusement of the charming young woman sitting next to me.
Nor at the airport in NYC whilst waiting in line for an hour at immigration to have my fingerprints and photograph taken, under the watchful eyes of armed airport police, striding around us all like shepherds, with their gun hand hovering menacingly over the pistol on their hip.
Not in the baggage terminal, where I was so relieved to see that my suitcase had not been towed away after all this time, that I said nothing about the fact that it had been thrown carelessly off the carousel into the middle of the floor where anyone could have taken it a claimed it as their own.
Not in the arrivals lounge where I was almost tearfully delighted to see that my booked cab driver was STILL waiting for me, over an hour and a half since the plane had landed.
Not during the long bus ride and walk with the driver to the makeshift car park (parking lot) during all the refurbishments at the airport.
Not during the ride into Manhattan that took an hour to get me to my hotel, and during which time I discovered that my mobile, which I did not think would work out of the UK, had been automatically transferred to T-Mobile/Cingular network while in the USA. (I haven't dared look at the bill since I got home.)
Not in the hotel in NYC where two friends had been waiting for me for an hour to go have dinner were still waiting patiently in the lobby. (Have you ever had dinner with two blind friends, who have the most outrageous sense of the ridiculous? Try it, it was one of the most entertaining meals I have ever had. So the lighting was low? So what? )
Not back in my room where I was treated to the constant serenade of an a/c unit outside my window – not mine, I hasten to add, but belonging to another room; it perfectly matched the view from the window. A brick wall. I was tired – my body was in NYC time, my head was five hours ahead in UK time, I had a case of severe indigestion from a far-too-heavy-and-far-too-late, but very delicious meal, so I put it off for another day.
I could have started it on Friday, when I collected an Earl Grey tea from the Starbucks right next door and made my way down the street towards Manhattan Waterfront, crossing the streets reasonably safely (watch the little white person, the colonial version of our little green man), until there it was - the Hudson River. Huge, blue, welcoming. Now I was happy. I was by the water. Big buildings, especially such very tall ones, make me feel claustrophobic. I was glad to leave them behind me. Not that I felt unsafe, quite the opposite, I didn’t feel unsafe or nervous at being in New York at all, simply overwhelmed.
I should have started it then, including the text messages to my son, making him insanely jealous as he struggled with the heat in his office back in England, while I’m sitting in very warm sunshine, surrounded by water, blue, blue sky, grass, trees…..and an awful lot of people doing the ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen’ thing – running, power walking, cycling, roller-blading all along the waterfront.
I could have started it with the phone calls I made to Honey and Cloudy, surprising them, and the disappointment that I would not be able to meet Honey for lunch as had been agreed, due to an unexpected business meeting.
I could have started it with the sight of the platoon of marines who disembarked from one of the Hudson ferries, and proceeded to run along the waterfront in uniform step, carrying platoon banners, chanting their cadence to the delight of the onlookers.
I could have started it with my pleasure at my first sight of the Statue of Liberty in the distance, growing larger as I made my way along the waterfront heading ever southwards, magnificent and inspirational in the brilliant sunshine, silhouetted against the blue, blue sky.
I could have started it with my lunch at one of the preponderance of restaurants on the ground floor of the world finance buildings (what a place to work……the view must be constantly distracting), and my delighted surprise at just how delicious is a real, freshly made burger, and wonder how anyone who lives in a country where these are the norm, could ever eat McDonalds or Burger King.
I could have mentioned the gasp of pleasure when I turned a corner to be faced with a Japanese style garden/harbour, restful and calming with rocky arrangements, overhung with feathery acacia trees, providing a cooling dappled shade from the now very strong sunlight, and my laughter when I was suddenly confronted by one of Charley’s favourite pets. It must have been one of hers, it was tame enough to approach everyone for food !!
I could have started it as I made my now very weary and footsore (new sandals – bad move) back to the hotel, collecting a bottle each of coke, water and orange juice on the way.
I could have started it with the phone message on my room phone from Becca telling me when they would be arriving, and realising I had time for a nap before then. But I forgot the 'do not disturb' sign, and was awoken by room service asking if I wanted my room tidying or fresh towels. Imagine my forced smile. No thank you. I’m fine.
I could have started it with the sudden nervousness when my phone rang and I heard Becca telling me they had arrived, and would be with me in 20 minutes.
I could have started it with the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me when we finally met, and I leave it to you to imagine the length and hardness of the hugs between the three of us before even a word was spoken.
I could have started it with the surreal feelings of walking back down the waterfront, hand in hand with two people whom I consider close friends, but until now I had never met, and yet there was no restraint, embarrassment or awkwardness between us. I can state categorically, that the people you know as Abs and Becca…are quite, quite real – only more so. And don’t let Abs even try and fool you into thinking she’s a hard-headed bitch, she’s a total marshmallow. (And I am so going to die for that, next time we meet).
I could have started it with the wonderful, fun, enjoyable, serious, interesting, and frequently outrageous evening the three of spent together, details of which are, and will remain, a closely guarded secret.
I could have started it with yesterday morning, when I deposited my luggage in Abs and Becca’s room, (check out was by 11, and my flight wasn’t until 3), and the breakfast we had, the laughs, the sights, and the suddenly sobering and very moving visit to Ground Zero and the museum of remembrance set up in St. Paul’s church, right next to the spot, followed by the cab ride uptown to Times Square and Broadway, in ever increasing and more uncomfortable heat.
I could have started with the hard, emotional goodbyes shared between the three of us, in the lobby of the hotel and on the pavement before I got in the taxi and drove away from them with tears in my eyes, and an uncomfortable lump in my throat; my buddies that I had only just met, and did not want to leave so quickly.
And finally, I could have started with Newark Airport, and the nervous wait for Cloudy to arrive, her flight from Alabama, due in only half an hour before our joint one to Boston was due to leave. And then suddenly, there she was. In full technicolour glory and accent. The embodiment of everything she is in AH. We found our seats, stowed our luggage, and started talking. We didn’t stop talking until we went to bed last night; on the flight, through baggage collection, in the taxi, at the harbour waiting for the ferry (coffee and dunkin’ donuts), on the ferry, checking out the apartment, during our evening stroll through town amongst the throng of holiday visitors, through dinner…..we just talked and laughed.
Nervousness? Awkwardness? No way. Old buddies, who know each other a lot better than would be expected from just talking on line.
So here I am. Here we are. Cloudy and I. In Cape Cod. Sitting in companionable silence (apart from my fingers on the keyboard), at the kitchen table, working up to starting the day. Our first experience of Provincetown in the evening, the evening before, on a holiday weekend, was a revelation to me, and I believe to Cloudy also. I live in a very popular tourist area, so crowds of people are common to me, but not the variety and number that we experienced that first evening. We had meandered amongst the huge crowd of happy holiday makers, checking out the many stores which stay open in the evenings; places to eat, stores to return to in daylight for a better, closer look, and finally settled on a bar & grill to eat. A delicious meal, served by a quite charming waiter. A really good start to the holiday. We had strolled down to the beach, which at night I do believe is even more beautiful than during the day. It has a special magic for me.
We had initially spent some time unpacking, and familiarising ourselves with the layout of our delightful and charming home for the next week. A large attic apartment in a typically New England home; wooden, high, our ‘penthouse suite’ accessed by one external slight of steps, across a deck and up an internal flight of steps that both of us swear are going to either kill us, or give us leg muscles such as we have never experienced before. A not unlikely event, considering we have to up and down them each time we wish to smoke, as this is a non-smoking rent.
The apartment consists of two very large double bedrooms, light, airy, comfortable, spacious. Furnished in an eclectic style that appeals to all tastes. The stairs lead into a central lounging area, with comfortable armchairs, walls lined with books of every type. I defy anyone to come here and not find something to read that will appeal to them. The chimney from an old fireplace has been hollowed and outlined in dark bricks, and in the ceiling is a skylight letting in the almost continuous sunlight. All the other rooms open off this central area; to the right the large, bright kitchen, homely and comfortable; the intriguingly shaped bathroom, where anyone taller than Cloudy would have real problems in the shower, which is fitted under the sloping roof (I, being a midget, of course have NO problems. I have forgiven Cloudy for one of her first comments – “Y’all are so tiny.” *sigh*); the two large bedrooms, one on each side of the house with different views, and at the end, opposite the kitchen, a smaller room with a single guest bed, which doubles as a couch. And one final room, which is open to view, but not to be used – the studio of one of our hosts – a very talented artist. Her pictures adorn most walls of the apartment.
From the moment we arrived, we both felt at home and comfortable, not only in the accommodation, but in the actual town. Provincetown is a place with a special magic that became apparent the moment we stepped off the ferry from Boston.
Companionable silence. An intriguing phrase, because most of the time, silent we are not! Two women, similar likes and interests, there’s a lot to talk about. We have months of getting to know each other to now transfer to real life. And how surprisingly easy it has been. But even more surprising, considering the where and how we met, the one thing we do not talk about is sex. Books, art, children, past lives (that means ‘work, not regeneration), likes, dislikes; or we don’t talk at all; like now - Cloudy sitting at the table to the right of me, coffee in one hand, book in the other, me clicking irritatingly away on the keyboard. And there she was, gone. She was up ridiculously early, at 8am, so having had breakfast, (English muffins, toasted, served with butter and marmalade) she’s gone back to bed to read. That’s what I tell myself, hoping it wasn’t the irritation of my typing that drove her away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
to be continued..........
It’s Sunday, 29th May, 2005, somewhere around 9am, I’m sitting at the table in the kitchen at our lodgings in Provincetown, Cape Cod, tea beside me, the coffee machine gurgling loudly behind me, Cloudy outside on the BBQ deck having her first cigarette of the day. It’s a beautiful day, from the windows ether side of the table I can see the roofs of several other of the closely packed, typical New England buildings. I can feel the breeze coming in through the window, and until the aroma of ‘come on machine, make me human’ coffee, overtakes everything, I can smell the sea.
I had awoken after probably the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks, relaxed, content and calm. I looked around my bedroom for the coming week, and sighed as the thought that had repeated itself since I first saw it, once again seeped through my consciousness – how I would love to wake up in this room every day. On the way to the kitchen to make tea (as necessary to me as coffee is to Cloudy……..and it’s a lie, she CAN speak coherently before she’s had coffee. And she doesn’t grunt or threaten to scalp you if you expect coherence), for the first time in weeks, months, I suddenly felt the desire to write. I had no idea what, just write.
I had left my laptop on the kitchen table after downloading yesterday’s photographs taken in NYC with Abs and Becca, so while the kettle was boiling I opened it up and sat here thinking.
A journal. That had to be it. A journal. Boring, ordinary, common as muck, but the perfect thing to put down my thoughts and impressions.
So here it is. And the title? Well I wanted something appropriate, something to indicate that I started the journal late. My holiday started at 7am on Thursday, when I left the house, not now. So I picked up on Cloudy and Vella’s word play, and came up with “The British are Coming………ooops…….The British are Here.”
There have been moments since the start of my journey where it would have been appropriate to start a journal, and I did think of it several times, but I just didn’t get round to it. I didn’t have the time or space. Now I do.
I didn’t start it at Heathrow airport, where the cursory glance over my papers by the American Airline security staff was almost laughable, not to say a little insulting – have I become invisible already, as a silver-haired non-threat?
Nor on the airplane, hardly into the seven and a half hour flight, when I squirted a whole pot of salad dressing down the front of my black tee-shirt, to the intense amusement of the charming young woman sitting next to me.
Nor at the airport in NYC whilst waiting in line for an hour at immigration to have my fingerprints and photograph taken, under the watchful eyes of armed airport police, striding around us all like shepherds, with their gun hand hovering menacingly over the pistol on their hip.
Not in the baggage terminal, where I was so relieved to see that my suitcase had not been towed away after all this time, that I said nothing about the fact that it had been thrown carelessly off the carousel into the middle of the floor where anyone could have taken it a claimed it as their own.
Not in the arrivals lounge where I was almost tearfully delighted to see that my booked cab driver was STILL waiting for me, over an hour and a half since the plane had landed.
Not during the long bus ride and walk with the driver to the makeshift car park (parking lot) during all the refurbishments at the airport.
Not during the ride into Manhattan that took an hour to get me to my hotel, and during which time I discovered that my mobile, which I did not think would work out of the UK, had been automatically transferred to T-Mobile/Cingular network while in the USA. (I haven't dared look at the bill since I got home.)
Not in the hotel in NYC where two friends had been waiting for me for an hour to go have dinner were still waiting patiently in the lobby. (Have you ever had dinner with two blind friends, who have the most outrageous sense of the ridiculous? Try it, it was one of the most entertaining meals I have ever had. So the lighting was low? So what? )
Not back in my room where I was treated to the constant serenade of an a/c unit outside my window – not mine, I hasten to add, but belonging to another room; it perfectly matched the view from the window. A brick wall. I was tired – my body was in NYC time, my head was five hours ahead in UK time, I had a case of severe indigestion from a far-too-heavy-and-far-too-late, but very delicious meal, so I put it off for another day.
I could have started it on Friday, when I collected an Earl Grey tea from the Starbucks right next door and made my way down the street towards Manhattan Waterfront, crossing the streets reasonably safely (watch the little white person, the colonial version of our little green man), until there it was - the Hudson River. Huge, blue, welcoming. Now I was happy. I was by the water. Big buildings, especially such very tall ones, make me feel claustrophobic. I was glad to leave them behind me. Not that I felt unsafe, quite the opposite, I didn’t feel unsafe or nervous at being in New York at all, simply overwhelmed.
I should have started it then, including the text messages to my son, making him insanely jealous as he struggled with the heat in his office back in England, while I’m sitting in very warm sunshine, surrounded by water, blue, blue sky, grass, trees…..and an awful lot of people doing the ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen’ thing – running, power walking, cycling, roller-blading all along the waterfront.
I could have started it with the phone calls I made to Honey and Cloudy, surprising them, and the disappointment that I would not be able to meet Honey for lunch as had been agreed, due to an unexpected business meeting.
I could have started it with the sight of the platoon of marines who disembarked from one of the Hudson ferries, and proceeded to run along the waterfront in uniform step, carrying platoon banners, chanting their cadence to the delight of the onlookers.
I could have started it with my pleasure at my first sight of the Statue of Liberty in the distance, growing larger as I made my way along the waterfront heading ever southwards, magnificent and inspirational in the brilliant sunshine, silhouetted against the blue, blue sky.
I could have started it with my lunch at one of the preponderance of restaurants on the ground floor of the world finance buildings (what a place to work……the view must be constantly distracting), and my delighted surprise at just how delicious is a real, freshly made burger, and wonder how anyone who lives in a country where these are the norm, could ever eat McDonalds or Burger King.
I could have mentioned the gasp of pleasure when I turned a corner to be faced with a Japanese style garden/harbour, restful and calming with rocky arrangements, overhung with feathery acacia trees, providing a cooling dappled shade from the now very strong sunlight, and my laughter when I was suddenly confronted by one of Charley’s favourite pets. It must have been one of hers, it was tame enough to approach everyone for food !!
I could have started it as I made my now very weary and footsore (new sandals – bad move) back to the hotel, collecting a bottle each of coke, water and orange juice on the way.
I could have started it with the phone message on my room phone from Becca telling me when they would be arriving, and realising I had time for a nap before then. But I forgot the 'do not disturb' sign, and was awoken by room service asking if I wanted my room tidying or fresh towels. Imagine my forced smile. No thank you. I’m fine.
I could have started it with the sudden nervousness when my phone rang and I heard Becca telling me they had arrived, and would be with me in 20 minutes.
I could have started it with the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me when we finally met, and I leave it to you to imagine the length and hardness of the hugs between the three of us before even a word was spoken.
I could have started it with the surreal feelings of walking back down the waterfront, hand in hand with two people whom I consider close friends, but until now I had never met, and yet there was no restraint, embarrassment or awkwardness between us. I can state categorically, that the people you know as Abs and Becca…are quite, quite real – only more so. And don’t let Abs even try and fool you into thinking she’s a hard-headed bitch, she’s a total marshmallow. (And I am so going to die for that, next time we meet).
I could have started it with the wonderful, fun, enjoyable, serious, interesting, and frequently outrageous evening the three of spent together, details of which are, and will remain, a closely guarded secret.
I could have started it with yesterday morning, when I deposited my luggage in Abs and Becca’s room, (check out was by 11, and my flight wasn’t until 3), and the breakfast we had, the laughs, the sights, and the suddenly sobering and very moving visit to Ground Zero and the museum of remembrance set up in St. Paul’s church, right next to the spot, followed by the cab ride uptown to Times Square and Broadway, in ever increasing and more uncomfortable heat.
I could have started with the hard, emotional goodbyes shared between the three of us, in the lobby of the hotel and on the pavement before I got in the taxi and drove away from them with tears in my eyes, and an uncomfortable lump in my throat; my buddies that I had only just met, and did not want to leave so quickly.
And finally, I could have started with Newark Airport, and the nervous wait for Cloudy to arrive, her flight from Alabama, due in only half an hour before our joint one to Boston was due to leave. And then suddenly, there she was. In full technicolour glory and accent. The embodiment of everything she is in AH. We found our seats, stowed our luggage, and started talking. We didn’t stop talking until we went to bed last night; on the flight, through baggage collection, in the taxi, at the harbour waiting for the ferry (coffee and dunkin’ donuts), on the ferry, checking out the apartment, during our evening stroll through town amongst the throng of holiday visitors, through dinner…..we just talked and laughed.
Nervousness? Awkwardness? No way. Old buddies, who know each other a lot better than would be expected from just talking on line.
So here I am. Here we are. Cloudy and I. In Cape Cod. Sitting in companionable silence (apart from my fingers on the keyboard), at the kitchen table, working up to starting the day. Our first experience of Provincetown in the evening, the evening before, on a holiday weekend, was a revelation to me, and I believe to Cloudy also. I live in a very popular tourist area, so crowds of people are common to me, but not the variety and number that we experienced that first evening. We had meandered amongst the huge crowd of happy holiday makers, checking out the many stores which stay open in the evenings; places to eat, stores to return to in daylight for a better, closer look, and finally settled on a bar & grill to eat. A delicious meal, served by a quite charming waiter. A really good start to the holiday. We had strolled down to the beach, which at night I do believe is even more beautiful than during the day. It has a special magic for me.
We had initially spent some time unpacking, and familiarising ourselves with the layout of our delightful and charming home for the next week. A large attic apartment in a typically New England home; wooden, high, our ‘penthouse suite’ accessed by one external slight of steps, across a deck and up an internal flight of steps that both of us swear are going to either kill us, or give us leg muscles such as we have never experienced before. A not unlikely event, considering we have to up and down them each time we wish to smoke, as this is a non-smoking rent.
The apartment consists of two very large double bedrooms, light, airy, comfortable, spacious. Furnished in an eclectic style that appeals to all tastes. The stairs lead into a central lounging area, with comfortable armchairs, walls lined with books of every type. I defy anyone to come here and not find something to read that will appeal to them. The chimney from an old fireplace has been hollowed and outlined in dark bricks, and in the ceiling is a skylight letting in the almost continuous sunlight. All the other rooms open off this central area; to the right the large, bright kitchen, homely and comfortable; the intriguingly shaped bathroom, where anyone taller than Cloudy would have real problems in the shower, which is fitted under the sloping roof (I, being a midget, of course have NO problems. I have forgiven Cloudy for one of her first comments – “Y’all are so tiny.” *sigh*); the two large bedrooms, one on each side of the house with different views, and at the end, opposite the kitchen, a smaller room with a single guest bed, which doubles as a couch. And one final room, which is open to view, but not to be used – the studio of one of our hosts – a very talented artist. Her pictures adorn most walls of the apartment.
From the moment we arrived, we both felt at home and comfortable, not only in the accommodation, but in the actual town. Provincetown is a place with a special magic that became apparent the moment we stepped off the ferry from Boston.
Companionable silence. An intriguing phrase, because most of the time, silent we are not! Two women, similar likes and interests, there’s a lot to talk about. We have months of getting to know each other to now transfer to real life. And how surprisingly easy it has been. But even more surprising, considering the where and how we met, the one thing we do not talk about is sex. Books, art, children, past lives (that means ‘work, not regeneration), likes, dislikes; or we don’t talk at all; like now - Cloudy sitting at the table to the right of me, coffee in one hand, book in the other, me clicking irritatingly away on the keyboard. And there she was, gone. She was up ridiculously early, at 8am, so having had breakfast, (English muffins, toasted, served with butter and marmalade) she’s gone back to bed to read. That’s what I tell myself, hoping it wasn’t the irritation of my typing that drove her away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
to be continued..........
......So....you don't mind sharing your bed right?
