spontaneous
“One must dare to be happy.”
There are moments when I enjoy being the center of attention.
There are other times when I do not prefer to be seen.
Admiration comes with a fee. It's usually hidden. At Honey, none of the lingerie is tagged with a price. Size, style, match, and colour. No price. Bras start at $120. You can purchase a set for $200. You have to ask about these things. It’s not out on display.
The dry cough of my neighbour draws me from slumber. Gone are the mornings of rising and drinking coffee on the rug. Lost are the moments of hummingbirds. I'd have coffee in my apartment on West 8th Ave and teach a yoga class. I don't miss that—the teaching. Not yet.
I make a single cup of weak coffee at the plastic machine beside the bathroom sink. I pull a styrofoam cup of water. Tear open the plastic wrap, "Arabia Morning Blend," and shake the powdered cream into the cup as I wait. My hands are dry. I’m not used to the desert. In Vancouver, the damp is all over. I don't miss that—the damp. Not yet.
Sipping the coffee conjures a taut hum to start up in my body. I strap on my ankle weights and do With Ease. I neglect to remember how the class opens with Bakasana (crow) and moves into Ustrasana (camel) within the first 10-minutes. I pause it, turn up my music, and do a couple of Sun Salutations before coming back in. The heat crackles within me, and I smell my skin grow frothy and pink. It's the first crack into this feeling— this freeness— I've experienced in two days. I luxuriate.
Breakfast is orange juice in a plastic carton, a doughy banana muffin, a granola bar, and Yop! yogurt. I drink water and eat the granola bar. It's cold from being kept in the fridge, and all I can taste is the sugar. I check out at 9:30 AM. I'm early for my shuttle. My room is clean, my bags repacked, my teeth brushed, and used towels stacked in the washtub. I'm ready to go.
It's already fourteen degrees. I don a black pair of chunky sandals, baggy jeans, and a creamsicle shirt that billows like long curtains in the wind. My leather satchel wraps around my chest. I need hand cream.
Once I check out, I move to sit outside in the shade to observe the desert. It's a nearly-white sky; the blue is iridescent. Palm trees ring the pool in the courtyard of the motel. The desk manager wears a white bindi and oval glasses and nods at me through the window. This is where I wait for the shuttle to go back to the airport, to catch one last bus before I arrive in Flagstaff.
I enjoy these long, quiet moments alone. To decompress. It's wonderful to wait somewhere in silence with no thing to do but muse and daydream. I have no one to talk to. No where to be but right here. I have a list of time-stated tasks to be done, and not right now. At this precise moment, I am free to roam the passages of my mind and allow the landscape to guide me.
The yellow bushes are speckled with dark, lush purple flowers. Several cacti stand up tall against the heat. Cars glide by on the highway, their windows flashing rays of sunlight. A black truck with a tanned figure pulls up to the motel—a man in a dark tee with curly hair and deep brown eyes. The arm slung from the window appears casual and tattooed. He smiles a perfect, white-toothed smile at me. The smile of one who knows you. A smile that says more than hello. He nods at the window and gestures with a wave to the hotel manager.
Where you headed?
The airport.
That's where I'm going; hop in.
Are you here to collect me?
Yes, we do this all the time.
I'm getting a shuttle at 9:55 AM.
A slow smile, another wave at the window.
You can ride with me; there's lots of room.
I bend over to pick up my purple pack. I've hitch-hiked—several times on the Sunshine Coast and the Islands. Galliano and Gabriola. In India— I accepted a seat on the back of the motorcycle each time I left Tushita Meditation Center. I exalted on the back of the bike for the length down the hill. I tried to tip a cyclist once as an overture of my gratitude. The driver shook his head and said, Nah! Nah!
Where are you from?
Before I answer, the hotel manager comes out of the office, "she is not going with you. We have her a car."
The man in the truck smiles, "It's no problem."
I stand between the two men who contemplate my arrival. My hands clutch my pack. I press my heels down to the ground and stand a little taller. The man in the truck drives away. Smiling. Nodding. Slowly angling, the black car back onto the road pointed at the sun.
The hotel manager shakes his head and sighs, "You have to be more careful. Phoenix is notorious for bike gangs. He would have robbed you and dropped you off somewhere with no thing and no way to call for help. They do this to young women."
When I was travelling through Brussels, I went for a long walk one evening through a courtyard surrounded by trees. Three men played basketball under the moonlight. Their grey sweatpants shone under the street lamps. Their naked backs gleamed with sweat in the moonlight. As I approached, the three stopped. Loud music blared from a stereo perched on a windowsill four stories high. Jazz. A cacophony that bounced forward and backward through trumpet and trombone. I had to pass through the wire fence to get to the other side or turn around and double back. My path zigzagged through the court. Once I passed the gate, I observed the seclusion: we could see out, yet no one could see in owing to the trees. One man set the ball down and perched atop it, toes pointed at me. Intermission. As I walked closer, I heard the two standing speaking in low tones. French. I've no languages aside from English. One man wiped his brow, the taller one standing and pointed at me. Mouthing something. The one sitting stood up. Six eyes bore into my shoulders and back as I sidled by—one step at a time. Keep your head high and pace even. Arm by my sides, driving forwards. I make it to the other side of the court as the brash music settles into something low and soft: piano. As the melody shifts, my body burns. I feel regret.
My uninhibited actions, movement without cohesive planning and preparation, is bait.
A bell chimes. The hotel manager is being called inside. He looks at me gently, "you must be more careful."
When the shuttle arrives, he waves me off. I know he is smiling at me though I've not seen the upward curl of his mouth. Not once. The shuttle to the airport drops me at Terminal four. I purchase a fried egg and spinach sandwich and sit outside in the sunlight to wait for my ride to Flagstaff. Three women arrive. Young, middle-aged, elderly. Three decades of family. The bus arrives, and we have twelve seats to spread out. It's a three-hour drive.
I chose the seat at the very back—the far left corner. I watch the desert plains roll by sand, stone, and cacti. My stomach lurches. I feel desperate and alone. We drive past flatlands into rocky hills. The prickly pear cacti grow upwards and sideways from the grey rock jutting out of the mountain. Small pink buds perch on the top. The oldest woman tells the young girl, "those are called paddle cacti. The pink parts are the fruit you can pick to make syrup for jellies."
Sometimes, to feel at home, all I need is a detail to touch upon.
I pull out my journal. Write, my hands declare.
Photo, source.
