Flora was my mother's closest friend in Miami, and she has been stuck in a wheelchair for many years now. She was the grandmother of my niece's youngest child, and she talked with my mother on a daily basis. By the time I got to Miami, she had checked herself into a hospital because of some pain that she was having, and she hadn't talked with my mother for a few days because she hated being drugged and incoherent. On the road to getting better, they finally talked on the phone and she said that she was going to be home soon. Flora lived vicariously through my 40th year adventures, wanting to hear all about my trip in October, when my dad and I drove up to central Florida to see the space shuttle launch, and this time she was really anxious to hear about my long train trip across the country. On that phone call from the hospital, she aske my mother to make sure to bring me with her as soon as she got home. I immediately thought that it was great that I had taken hundreds of photos on the way, so I could show her my whole trip. My mother told her that she loved her, and ended the phone call with the plan to talk again the following day at 3pm.
At about 2:30 the following day, we received the news that Flora was dead.
The cruel interrupted expectation of hearing from her best friend left my mother weak with grief. The whole house was quiet for hours, everyone sitting in their own corner, distracted with their own thoughts, trying to reconcile the uncompromising loss. There's no way to flip it over in your mind, even when the doctors were clearly to blame for Flora's death with careless drug prescriptions. Any way you look at it, she was taken away.
...and I sat there...and I thought about my parents...I thought about things left unsaid...and undone...and I exercised some re-evaluation in my mind. Have I told the people close to me how I feel about them, even if not everyone has been ready to hear it or is able to accept it? Have I wasted any moments with my family, taken them for granted, or worse, said things in the heat of the moment that I didn't really mean? When I make plans from now on, how can I count on any guarantees and then greet that appointment, that friend, that phone call with a blase attitude of entitlement? All I need to do is hear the sound of my mother being given the news, and I know - even better than I thought I've known before - that EVERY moment counts, and some things just shouldn't take you away from what is most important in life. This experience shook the hell out of me. The rest of my time in Miami was spent a little differently.
On that train ride home, I really opened my eyes a little wider, approached more people, and tossed any hesitation aside in favor of experiencing more. My last night on the train, I found myself at dinner with Art and Winnie sitting across from me, and Ann sitting by my side. The kinds of stories I heard from these people - their collective experiences, their amazing lives - could have made me feel like such a small person at that table. Each one of them could not speak without fascinating me, as if by sitting there I was as much in the presence of greatness as I was throughout my steps in Chicago and Washington DC. Art had knowledge about everything that came up, especially medicine, which was his field. Winnie had once auditioned at 20th Century Fox studios in the era of the greats. Ann, an interior designer, had dated Mr. Bushnell of Bushnell binoculars, and traveled the world. There I was, merely eating steak and drinking wine. When my turn came to talk, I told the story of my parents in Argentina and their trip to the United States, their sacrifices and difficulties, and then when I got to the lives my sisters and I have chosen, the whole thing became a story about honoring my parents, about their continuing inspiration and the closeness of my family. It slowly dawned on me shortly after I followed Art and Winnie back to our sleeper car (they were two doors away from my room). I sat in the freshly made bed by Jesus, our car attendant, and realized that we all carry our family history with us, that by being where I am and having had the experiences I've had, I've helped to fulfill my parents' dream of living in the USA, and that yes, although I fully felt the loss of Flora because she wanted to hear my stories, my parents still live through me. And I'm a writer, not for studios or for any industry but my own experience, which lends a bit of responsibility for having the ability to write.
I finally arrived in LA, and with a little perspective, I believe I figured out a good analogy for how I see my home city on the map. As I sit here alone in a restaurant (well, writing this part of the blog, anyway), I think back to life on a train and wonder how someone like me can thrive in a slow, social place like that and then turn around and carve my little bubble in this city. Here's the best I can do to explain LA: Imagine all of us at the supermarket. We're constantly shopping, pushing our carts and tossing both our basic needs and little luxuries into the basket. Not once would we think of looking in someone else's cart, not even at checkout, when we're laying everything out on the conveyor belt. At least, we don't look at the different items and attempt to decipher a story. Our groceries - our choices - are our own, and in the supermarket aisles we do not compete for a better collection than the next person. We're merely providing for our own and those who depend on us. It would be too self-serving to say that LA is competetive (with the exception of the entertainment industry), and I do honestly think it's inaccurate to say that LA is unfriendly or selfish. My city of angels is nearsighted, perhaps unwilling or unable to look deeper or beyond.
That's why I fit in. I don't blend in. I don't exactly even stand apart, either. I know, because of my actions and the legacy I carry from my parents, that I am the way I am because I've chosen to be this way. It's not inherent in the geography or tradition of where I live. It's not even valued much of the time. It takes me getting out of the city to find affirmation, or even the simple action of bridging the gap between people and exercising a little selfless curiosity.
Flora recognized this openness that I'm often encouraged to hide. My parents are proud of it. Thanks to Art & Winnie, Ann, Jesus, and the people whom I shared the whole trip with, I'll continue to trust my instincts in this wicked little town and do a little more than merely survive.
Art & Winnie, arriving home
Jesus, proudly standing guard
The rest of the hundreds and hundreds of pictures I took are at my Webshots page:http://community.webshots.com/user/sjirel
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