I know yesterday happened. I just can’t remember much of it.

I’d taken the red eye from Salt Lake City and arrived in time to grab a shower and dash off to… an engineering conference. The inhumanity! I may as well have laced a pot of chamomile tea with Nytol and drank it in a warm bath while being serenaded by John Tesh, those guys are so boring. I yawned shamelessly through the entire event. And by “yawned shamelessly” I mean, “fell asleep and did that head-nod thing.”

When I finally managed to escape Perdition and got back to the office, I learned that The Guardian had reprinted my NY Times column. Yay! I’ve yet to see it, but I’m anxious to grab a peek to see if there was any sort of accompanying illustration. If there was, I have every hope that it was a bit less…Unabomber than the Times version. They are paying and all, so I can’t really complain. I mean, they could make Ben the spitting image of Grandpa Munster and I’d simply grimace and endorse the check.

It was nothing short of a Thanksgiving miracle: My brother broke his ankle and we got to skip all the lines at Disneyland.

Perhaps the breaking of the ankle wasn’t entirely fortuitous, but not waiting in the 95 minute line for Pirates of the Caribbean was personally very worth the blisters I got from pushing him around in a rented wheelchair all day. I still have the marks on my palms – my wheelchair stigmata.

I also drove my brother across the desert from Los Angeles to Utah Valley. In a blizzard. We traded in the wheelchair for his 4WD truck and made what is normally a nine hour drive in no less than fourteen hours. I have to say the highlight of the journey was when we slid OFF THE ROAD and into a DITCH.

“Jay, we’re going off the road.” I said. I’d felt the wheels grab at nothing and the truck start to take its own course.
“Okay. It’s cool… just turn into it.”

As calmly as all that, I did just turn into it and off we went, like dozens of other cars we’d seen along the snowy highway, into the steep shoulder. But unlike the dozens, we had four wheel drive and a road savvy big brother.

“You handled that very well,” he said when we were back on the road a short time later.
“Oh, you think? Because I felt like crying.”

For the rest of the treacherous drive, we followed closely behind a semi, following in the tracks it left, taking advantage of its size and road wisdom. We also took his license plate number and truck ID to send him a thank you note. You know, for keepin’ us out of harm’s way and on the straight and narrow.

It was kinda like that poem, Footprints. Only, with less Jesus and more tires.

From time to time, my coworker Gracie will bring me pictures of her male friends to review. I usually look at the photo, ask the appropriate questions (How old is he? What doe she do? He’s not always that drunk, right?), shrug and say, “I’m sure he’s very nice.”

“You gotta get me a picture to send him,” she says.
“Okay, I’ll get to it in a minute.”

And I never do.

It’s not that they aren’t perfectly nice-looking guys; the whole process just seems so very… inorganic. Like catalog shopping for prospective dates. You can’t tell anything from a photograph — not the tone of his voice, or how he smells, or if he uses the proper forms of critical homophones. All of which I prefer to know before I agree to an evening of dinner or drinks and awkward pauses. I mean, if he smells good, that in and of itself can make up for two or three lulls in the conversation. But if all I know is that he’s sorta tall, has nice teeth and nice forearms, what good does that do me? There’s no such thing as chemistry insurance for blind dates. You don’t get a payout for the time you could have been spending eating Kraft Mac n’ Cheese and watching Everybody Yells at Raymond reruns with your neighbor, who you already know is good company.

To quote my Irish alcoholic ex-boyfriend, “I just can’t be arsed.”

Yet another fine example of the need for dating insurance.

When I arrived Friday night (late, again) to meet a friend, I was already out of sorts. I’d broken a shoe. But that really had nothing to do with anything. I was just feeling cross. He could tell (I was wearing my foul mood like a gaudy lapel pin) and by the time dinner rolled around, conversation had shifted from careless bar chatter to serious matters. Heavy things passed between us over the table in an LES Eurotrash establishment. I lost my temper. He lost his. We’ve rarely exchanged harsh words with one another, much less said things that needed much apologizing for. But Friday night took sorries over email and then again over the phone, to make sure they were levied thoroughly.

After Friday evening, I left my apartment only once — to have lunch with The Kate at our Union Square rendezvous spot. Had she not insisted, perhaps I’d not have left at all. She knew I needed it. I don’t know why, but I tell Kate things I’m too embarrassed to tell most folks. I cry on the phone to her when I’m drunk and sorry, and I let her buy me lunch when I’ve managed my money poorly and am on the brink of yet another two-week poverty. Kate is never allowed to break up with me. Ever.

The remainder of the weekend was taken up by sorting out the current family drama (it’s a doozy!) and sleeping — dreaming strange, frightening dreams about being sucked into a bottomless lake. I’d say there’s something symbolic to that, but there were aliens involved, and that’s just too X-files to be meaningful. The South Africans we met in Spain made several guest appearances, so I spent this morning emailing to make sure they had not, indeed, been sucked into a lake by alien tubes.

When I got home from Morocco, I swore these feet would remain planted for the foreseeable future. I was exhausted. But last week, Mom insisted I join the family for Thanksgiving (which I have not done since I was 17 ) and so off I go to Los Angeles on Wednesday. I’m fairly sure I’ve never needed Disneyland more than I do now, so I can put up with a bit o’ smog and more plane time for some tide pool adventures with my sibs and a turkey I don’t have to stuff.

Incidentally, going to California always puts Joni Mitchell in my head. And I gotta ask: What is a sunset pig?

I just met the Snorer!

For the eight months or so that I’ve been living in my apartment, I’ve been aware that I was living upstairs from a man with a remarkable snoring capacity. I don’t hear street traffic in my apartment (even with the windows thrown wide), but I hear the Snorer.

He’s typically asleep and sawing away before I go to bed each night, and the moment I lay my head on the pillow, we’re bonded by his night music. Every single night.

At times, I’ve even suspected there was more than one of him, the range and volume has been so incredible. But because he’s so graciously put up with me coming home tipsy and clattering about in stilettos in the wee hours of the morning (not to mention Sir Hal’s late night mishaps), the Snorer and I have lived together in perfect stranger harmony.

In the lobby just now, I held the elevator door as a stout man in a wooly sweater got in. He pushed the button for his floor and made friendly conversation.

Hello, how are you?

Fine, thanks.

Strange weather out.

Mmm hmm. Makes me think of flying monkeys.

When he got out at the floor below mine and I heard his keys in the lock before the elevator doors had even shut, I just knew. I’d just met my downstairs neighbor. I’d just met the Snorer!

Now if only I could make the acquaintance of the Baker of Yummy-Smelling Things on the second floor. That would be a relationship worth pursuing.

His fingernails were a deep green — almost black — and his dirty fingers were wrapped around a coffee cup, the kind you get from a street vendor. He’d gotten on the uptown 6 train and took the vacant seat next to me. When he sat down, I braced myself, expecting him to smell bad, to reek of urine and liquor. But he wasn’t drunk.

“I’m a little bit crazy,” he informed the couple to his left. They looked uneasy, shifted away from him, as though they were afraid they’d catch crazy. The man went back to his coffee. He took a sip, glanced in my direction and offered me some.

“You want to share? I got it for free. Real nice man to give me free coffee.”
“That was nice of him,” I said. “But no, thank you.” The middle aged black woman seated across from me smiled sympathetically and adjusted her camel trench coat.

“I’m a little bit crazy, you know.”

I was vodka tipsy and feeling weary from the evening that had not gone quite right.

“We’re all a little bit crazy.” I said.

He started rambling, and as the train rocked and swayed, I zoned out for a bit. Until his voice got louder, addressing the whole train.

“Happy holidays, everybody. A good Thanksgiving with a big plump turkey. And stuffing. And cranberries. And shrimp salad. And potato salad. And corn on the cob.”

The same woman smiled again and shifted in her seat. Maybe she was amused about the corn on the cob. I was.

“And one more thing!” He said, even louder and more animated. “Apple cider!”

No one was paying attention to him. Well, not no one. The smiling lady and I were.

“Apple cider doesn’t have all those preservatives. It’s more natural than apple juice, right?” He looked toward me for affirmation. I nodded. “I mean, right? Apple juice is from concentrate; like that you buy in the grocery store. But apple cider comes right from the apples.”

The next stop was announced.

“Drop in center! Next stop!” he announced to the train. “Drop in center. Open twenty-four hours. Drop in center! Next stop!” He stood up, sipped his coffee, and when the doors opened, he stepped out onto the platform. I followed; it was my stop, too.

“I’m a little bit crazy,” he told an MTA cop at the 86th Street station. “But I got me some free coffee.”

If you’ve been around for a while, you know how I feel about nighttime (if you haven’t, there are links at the end for background).

I’ve made a career of insomnia. And to add insult to sleep-deprived injury, there’s something about the dark hours that I find intimidating. I write missives in the dark, when I’m feeling small and isolated and more human than I’d like to. Thankfully, with very few exceptions, I feel better in the morning. Restored.

Not today.

This morning, I was in a Get the Fuck out of My Way sort of mood, made infinitely worse by the woman with the bright pink Betsey Johnson shopping bag who shoved past me into the already-full Four Express. I’m not one to be rude to strangers, so I closed my eyes and thought mean, vengeful thoughts. That’d show her!

Vengeful and late, I flew up the escalators and into Grand Central, my heels making sharp clacking sounds against the marble floors, I caught a glimpse of a wall clock and pushed on even faster. Three minutes to get to Fifth Ave. Three. It’s amazing what being a few minutes late does to my brain. It gets busy with adrenaline fueled to-do lists, deadline adjustments and excuses. In such a state of mind, I started my routine crossing of the Grand Central crush. In all that bustle, it was sort of surprising I heard them at all. These chirping, pixie-like tiny voices. But when I did, and when I saw the pint-sized bodies they belonged to, I grinned like a silly fool. Smiled for the first time all morning.

Twins, no more than two years old, there was a wee girl on either side of a mother patiently maneuvering through the crowd.

“One more escalator,” said the mom. “We have to go up one more escalator.”
“One moe es-ca-laaaay-toe,” sang Tiny Voice number one. She wore tiny sneakers with red flashing lights (ingenious toddler loss prevention tactic). And had she not been so easily identifiable, I may have snatched her up right there and hurried off with her. Relax, her mom has another one.

Personally, I think Tiny Voices are a lot more soothing than those silly desk waterfalls, and it’d have done wonders for my attitude to plop her on my desk. I’d have gotten far less actual work accomplished, what with the “Now say, ‘rhinoceros” going on.

Wiiiii-nah-soe-us!

But really, so what? I’m not billable on Fridays anyway.

Background:
Sometimes the Night
Still Night & And in the Light of Day

We’ve chosen an Italian place where the only thing worse than the live piano seems to be the service. We wait ages for the antipasti. Then over clinking forks, and in between shifts of people-watching, Mom brings up my childhood. We talk about the old days and her lips draw thin in the familiar way that lets me know she’s concerned.

“Things were so hard then,” she says. “We almost lost the house.”
“I remember that.”

She looks at me across the table, frowns and rubs her thumb back and forth over the nail of her ring finger. It’s a mannerism we share.

“You couldn’t possibly. You were so small.”
“I remember you cried when I grew out of my shoes.”
“Yes, I did. You have an amazing memory.”
“To a fault,” I say and prod at some fresh mozzarella on my plate.

Down goes her fork and she props her elbows up on the white linen cloth — a behavior that as a child, would have gotten me a swift kick under the table. Elbows off! When she folds her hands, I realize that I don’t just have her mannerisms; I have her hands. Long, tapered fingers. Byzantine, someone said recently.

“I told your father that I’d be rich when I got a run in my stockings and could go buy another pair.”

I feel a sort of pang in my stomach, and mention how different things are now, as though that will alleviate it. A friend told me once that the good thing about being poor as a child is that you aren’t entirely aware of it. I was aware. I learned very young, per my mother’s constant “Want? Or need?” to distinguish between the two types of desire. Jean jacket? Want. New shoes? Need. My mother always found a way to give us what we needed.

Want it? Work for it. That was the other thing she said.

I’m aware these days of the disparity not only between “want” and “need,” but between what I need and what I have — the things I had at twenty-five that my parents didn’t have at forty-five. New furniture. A dry-cleaning bill. Credit card debt.

A shameful number of worn-once shoes.

I acknowledge this over chocolate mousse cake and Mom smiles.

“You know I’m so proud of you.”

She’s not talking about my status of living anymore, but about other things that are bothering me, none of which she can fix. She offers no advice and instead asks,

“Do you have food at your apartment?”

Other stories about family & childhood:
We Three & Pollywog Hill
Food is Love
Something to Cry About

There’s a new brand of feminism out there, it seems. A seedling of hippest, most savvy subculture of the New York social scene, this is not your mother’s bra-burning, march-on-Washington feminism. Oh, no. The Hipsters do not burn their bras (lest what should protrude glaringly — but oh-so-fashionably — from their off-the-shoulder sweaters) and they do not march. They blog.

So far, this is what I’ve gathered about the content of the Hipster’s Guide to Feminism:

Writing about dating is boring. Sooooo boring in fact, that should anyone actually do something just that inane, it is your obligation (as a proud supporter Hipster Feminist Movement) to be completely incensed by it.

This makes perfect sense. I mean, I get outraged by tired, boring things all the time. Why just this morning, I considered drafting a post about my militant opposition to Quaker original flavor oatmeal. Do people actually still eat that? They should be skewered.

It is shameful to do something neurotic in the name of love, but not nearly as shameful as not having a boyfriend. These two statements are to be made one right after the other, so as to fully illustrate the (ahem) dual nature of newer, hipper feminism. The Hipster feminist must consider anyone who does engage in (and is foolish enough to admit) the abovementioned behavior, a shame to womanhood and consider it a valid (and truly feminist) criticism that such a person cannot get a boyfriend to save her life.

This is also surprisingly logical. I was glad to learn that it’s as wrong to talk about the pursuit of a male counterpart as it is not to have one.

Being a strong-willed, independent woman and being human are mutually exclusive. If you have committed the unthinkable atrocity of succumbing to any sort of un-feminist impulses, you lack self-respect.

One of the Guide’s more poignant lessons, I think. That a person’s entire character can be defined by a response to a single situation is brilliant! It certainly makes things much simpler, and saves all that time that would have been used in say, understanding and empathy (two time-wasting efforts which have been — thank god — fashionably replaced with snark and condescension).

There are many more important, fundamentally feminist teachings in the Hipster’s Guide to Feminism. The Guide really gets to the meat of the issue; consult yours today, in order that you not remain ignorant of this important movement. I assume the mailman must have dropped off the Guide around the same time as fresh copies of The LES Girl’s Fully Illustrated Reference to Fringed Bangs and The UWS Handbook to Gold Lamé Shoes. I say assume, because, I haven’t actually received it.

Apparently, I live in the wrong neighborhood.

When I woke up this morning, there was still a backpack taking up significant space in my hallway. It’s been over a week and there was still unpacking to do, strange smells to wash out of travel clothes, and more stories to tell. But like Jen said the other night, “How can you tell someone about Morocco?”

You can’t. I didn’t keep a travel journal, for the very reason that I couldn’t find the right words. You can’t really tell anyone about it and be satisfied you’ve done the experience justice. But you can tell them about the people you met or the waterfall you saw, or the being Joey-ed in the streets of Marrakech. Which I’ll do. Before I forget.

The people we met:

We were a different foursome every evening in Marrakech. Aussies, Kiwis, Dutch. Even a Canadian or two. One night, our company was two Brits who’d driven to Morocco from England. Far more intrepid than Jen and me, Bob and Robin fearlessly sampled every fruit and nut in the marketplace and even, to no one’s intestinal destruction, drank the water. We met them on the terrace of Hotel Ali, shared their almonds and dates, ate with them in the open air dining stalls of the Djemma El Fna and then took them to dessert at one of the nicer, terraced restaurants — spreading the gospel of Stupid and Fancy. Over gelato and an amazing view of Marrakech, they told us stories of mountain adventures, broken down cars and of babysitting future lords and ladies of England.

We learned that Bob is not allowed to carry his own passport. Rather, Bob is not allowed to lose another passport (the English government will not issue one more replacement), and so Robin, the straight man, keeps it for him. There was something absolutely jolly (for lack of a better word) about the pair of them, and I was sorry to see them move on. They were headed for the Moroccan/Algerian border. We asked them if they realized it was a disputed border. Of course they did; that’s half the fun.

My favorite pair of travelers was a Kiwi couple currently residing in Holland. They shared our adventure to the Casca D’Ouzoud, and are the kind of people you’d invite over to dinner, simply because you like the way they talk about things. I was also personally enamored of the way Nadia said my name, and sometimes ask Jen to mimic it for me. It’s absolutely charming. They bought wine enough to share, and kept Jen company while I was sick. Laying on the cold, questionably clean tile floor, I’d hear Jen’s voice float down from the terrace, followed by Nadia’s light laughter, and feel just the slightest bit sorry for myself. It was missing out on those moments — not so much the ones involving haggling with Souq merchants — that left me with regret about eating those ill-fated apricots. (I blame Bob and Robin, wholly.)

Being Joey-ed:

After Jen and I had successfully navigated the maze of the Souqs, filled our bellies on Tagine and taken a carriage ride through the Medina, we decided to wander some of the narrow streets surrounding the Djemma El Fna. We dodged mopeds, children, stray cats (of which there are a never-ending supply), peeked into courtyards, movie theaters and tiny shops. As we made our way back to the center on a particularly crowded cobblestone street, a moped came to a stop right in front of us. The driver, all of sixteen, leaned to one side, gave us the up-and-down and said,

“How YOU doin’ ladies?”

“Jen!” I said, grabbing her arm. “We just got Joey-ed! In Morocco!”

“No sir!”

“We did.”

“I know, but I can’t believe it.”

We were more believing later, when on our three-hour ride back from the Casca D’Ouzoud, we heard Madonna, Beyonce and Shania Twain on our driver’s chosen radio station. And Abdul knew the words.

(Photo by Jen)

When I was 12, Mark made fun of my eye shadow.

On Saturday, I sat with Mark, his fiancée, Susan and my mother, lunching at the Marriott. Mark is now in his early forties, and I, well I’m a healthy distance out of adolescence, and I figured it was time to let bygones be bygones.

“I hated you when I was a kid, you know.”
“Oh really?” He looked amused.
“Yes. You made fun of my make-up. It was nearly unforgivable.”

When my West Coast sister called last night to gush with me about all things New York Times related, I told her about lunch with mom and Mark.

“He was mean,” she said. “He told me I set the table wrong. And he made fun of your make-up.”
“You remember that?” My sister had been no older than eight at the time, but it seems she was also holding on to a fifteen year old grudge.
“Totally.”
“Well, he’s nothing but nice now and his fiancée is ridiculously likeable.”
“He’s engaged?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmmm… I always thought he was gay.”

While I’d never thought he was gay, I’d always thought that Mark was a grown-up. So when my mother reminded me of the math — that Mark was only twenty-five when he used to come to Sunday dinner at our house — and recounted some of his antics of those days, I realized, he was not a grown-up at all. And I should have let him off the hook for that comment years ago.

But you know, hell hath no fury and all that.

I was saving up my excitement for tomorrow morning, when I could open the Sunday Times, see my name in print and squeal like a six-year-old on Christmas. Sunday brunch was scheduled (we seem to need very little occasion to throw a champagne brunch), and I’d put my brain to figuring out just how I was going to introduce the column appearing in the Sunday Styles column, Modern Love.

But damned if I haven’t been caught resting on my laurels. The online edition has already been published!

The piece is, like everything here, about me. And it’s about Benjamin. Don’t worry, he already read it. No scandalous surprises there. It’s about being a blogger and dating a blogger who is also dating other bloggers (she knew about the article, too). You see where this is going. And also perhaps why it was so fitting for him to guest-host while I trekked Morocco.

Go. Read. I have to get in the shower. My mother is in town this week and today, we’re brunching. I just love that I get to teach my mother how to brunch properly. Too bad she’s such a light-weight.

Re: the article

Many thanks to Daniel Jones, editor extraordinaire, for asking me to contribute, and for helping me cut to the chase. And to Ben, for being equal amounts pain in the ass and most cherished friend.

And in response to those who clearly have problems with discerning things like tone and theme: I am not proud of what I did or how I behaved or for feeling the way I did. But that’s how it went down, and I’m telling it like it was. End of story.

If I’ve learned anything from years of reading Dooce, it’s to leave your work life out of your blog. But without saying too much, I’ll reveal that today, I’d have much rather played Taxi Scavenger Hunt in Tangier than put in one minute of my eight (nine, ten) hours at the office.

And now, I’m too tired to blog. We’ll catch up tomorrow.

We left Marrakech in the rain.

I shouldered my backpack and stepped carefully down the winding, tile walled staircase at Hotel Ali and braced myself for the usual (and sometimes overpowering) smells of the Djemma el-Fna. To my great relief, the rain had tempered the caustic kerosene and petrol vapors, as well as the smell of spices from Tagine pots steaming in the center of the market. I’d burnt up my last day in Morocco, passing in and out of sleep, trying to recover from the havoc a few dried apricots had wreaked on my system.

I vomited every half hour for seven or eight hours. I clung to the edge of the toilet in our small, white bathroom, sweat pouring down my body, weeping. I couldn’t walk, stand up, or even lie down. Jen wanted to take me to the Red Crescent. It was just a short walk, catty-corner across the square, but I refused, preferring to die on the bathroom floor than be taken to a Moroccan hospital.

It made me a little delirious. And in my delirium, the 4:20 AM call to prayer began to sound eerily familiar. I crawled onto the bed, lay my head on the cold pillowcase and closed my eyes.

“Dust in the wind…. All we are is dust in the wind.”

I heard Jen chuckle from the next bed. She’d been awake almost all night, worrying and fussing over me as I cried and gagged and begged for her to have me killed. I was certain she could find someone in the old city who’d be willing to do it for a price.

“You know what I think they’re really singing?”
“No, what? Not Dust in the Wind?”
“He drinks a whiskey drink, he drinks a vodka drink…”

I laughed and clutched my stomach. Laughing hurt.

“I just might miss these early morning calls to prayer,” I said, curling up into the fetal position.
“Me, too.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll call you every morning at 4:20 and sing Dust in the Wind. It’ll be like we never left.”

On our final day, I slept as Jen set out with my money and her shrewd bargaining skills. I sipped Sprite, nibbled bread and listened to the din from the merchants and buyers outside the window, and finally the rain. Voices boomed from the minarets. The market emptied and Jen returned. She showed me my souvenirs and I felt sorry to have missed the shopping. I was trying to ignore the regret I felt at spending so much of our time there stuck in Hotel Ali, but I was also fairly relieved that we were leaving. There was some measure of comfort knowing that I was only thirty-six hours away from being home.

Where I could be violently ill in my own bathroom.

Picasso museum: Malaga, Spain

“My granddaughter calls those ‘butterbyes,” he said, pointing to the graphic detail on Jen’s t-shirt.

We smiled at the older man, knowing that he’d struck up conversation with us primarily because he’d heard us speaking English. A language in common is kinship enough. We awed appropriately over his granddaughter’s cuteness and he continued,

“And then we smack her and say, ‘No, you stupid kid.”
“You’re sick!” his wife laughed, giving him a friendly shove.
“Now you’re telling me? After all these years?”

I stood on the marble stairs, one step below the sixty-something couple (or was it seventy-something? They were most likely well-preserved by their good natures) and thought, “Hmmm. It really does still happen.” And I believed in marriage again, even if just for a minute.

We toured the museum, studying Picasso’s love life canvas by canvas. It occurred to me that he changed his mind an awful lot — the ballerina, the mother of his child Paulo, and countless other muses. It didn’t seem as repugnant as it used to. Maybe I’ve become more realistic about ‘love,’ and changed my expectations of it. I walked through the salas, pausing to fall in love with La Banera, and realized that I’d lost a bit of romantic idealism somewhere. The strange thing was, I didn’t mourn its loss. Mostly because, after our encounter with the couple on the stairs, I knew it’d come back to me eventually.

Fifth Avenue: New York, NY

After reading what Benjamin wrote during his guest spot last week, I have this to say:

Ben made a lot of mistakes in our relationship. And so did I. For every time he let me down or hurt me, there were that many times that I let him. It’s not easy to explain, and I don’t think one, or even fifty blog entries could do it justice. But what I’m getting at is: I don’t credit or blame him, or anyone else, for feeling the way I do about love and romance and the ‘til death do us part mumbo-jumbo.’ It’s been a group effort. Nor do I believe that all hope is lost. There’ll be a day when someone will make me feel like romance is worth all the effort again. Someone who’ll give me the appropriate amount of space, open cans for me, know when to push and when to shut the hell up.

For now, I believe in chemistry, attraction and making good use of a hostel common room. I believe in love for other people; I see it every day. Shiv’s shiny new ring, Stuart’s immigration, a retired couple on a world cruise.

I believe in everything in its own time.

Settling onto a wooden bench to wait for the two-hour wait for our train, I told Jen that I thought I was a little bit in love with the ticket agent. It was less about his looks than his manner. Though, with his handsome face and the thick, caramel-colored scar running down the bridge of his nose, his looks were nothing short of intriguing. But that he wanted nothing more from us than our train fare and the English words for “top” and “bottom” made him the sole person we’d met in Tangier that did not want to take advantage of us.

Our Lonely Planet guide book had warned us about Tangier. We read it, and we thought we understood. But those were just words. I do not think there is any way to adequately prepare a person for just how it feels to step off the ferry and into a swarm of men, all telling you, “come this way.” Not one of them wanted to help us. They wanted our money and they wanted to intimidate us. That much was clear. We were bullied, lied to and frightened, all between the ferry and the train station.

It’s quite possible to fall in love with Marrakech — to grow accustomed to the smell of kerosene in your hair and clothes, to see the charm in the hard sell of local merchants in the souqs, even to imagine missing the booming, 4:20 AM call to prayer from the surrounding minarets. But what we appreciated about Tangier was the cab driver who only sort of swindled us, and who was maybe a little less intimidating.

The station master himself had even tried to prey on us — an indication that we were not to let down our guard while in Tangier. It wasn’t until we were tucked away in our couchettes for the overnight journey to Marrakech that we were able to relax. And still, not completely. I’d be lying if I said our experience in Tangier didn’t taint the rest of my Moroccan experience. But it did take a full day in Marrakech for me to take a break from feeling defensive, from being a bit afraid.

But like I said, it’s quite possible to fall in love with Marrakech. Or rather, maybe it’s impossible not to.

I wonder if I will always say that the best cup of coffee I ever had was made for me by a Portuguese man named Paulo. I think I will.

Paulo runs a hostel in Malaga. Please note that I use the term hostel quite loosely in this case. The Roaming Bull is a condo in the foothills overlooking the Mediterranean, bunk beds in three of the bedrooms for the travelers who come and go. But that is as hostel as you’ll get with Paulo. He makes a mean paella, an even meaner sangria and a worthy adversary in the fight for the toilet in the morning.

“I’m too old for this shit,” he moaned, hungover.
“Even I’m too old for this shit!” I countered and made a dash for the bathroom.

Instead of heading to the beach or the plaza for dinner and drinks, we’d stayed in that second night in Malaga. All of us. Henry, the young Denmark-dwelling American, Nino & Roman, the South Africans, Jen, Paulo and I. When the sangria was gone (or Paulo got tired of making it) we drank beer… with Jack Daniels. We played “I never” and something that involved clapping and hand signals. Trick-or-treaters came and were given the bottle of whiskey. I was back at the dining room table, a stranger’s hand on my knee, unwisely ignoring the water that Jen had brought me from the kitchen.

Call it… doing my part to help foreign relations. Or call it hormones. But my appointment as goodwill ambassador to South Africa is sure to come any day now. He was young and likeable. He smelled really good. And, boy, could he kiss. When I crawled into bed at six that morning I was pretty sure the hangover I’d have on our trip to Morocco would be worth it.

It was.

Viva Espana.

Incidentally, I’ll likely fail to do any justice to my experiences abroad. Maybe when the jetlag wears off I’ll be good for more than a quick story. But for now, that’s what we’re working with.

Despite dallying with The Moroccan Weight Loss Program (read: 48-hours of food poisoning hell), I am home safe and sound. Jen, who missed her calling as girl scout and nurse was better than any travel companion I could have asked for — better than I deserved. As the week unfolds and I share some of our stories, you will all see exactly what I mean.

I’ve a gift for the sassy broad who watched Sir Hal, one for the bicycle who maintained this fish’s blog, some postcards and even a scandalous story or two (read: international incident). But for now, I have a date with a hot shower, and then His Excellency who requires some squelching.

The clouds are moving quickly over the New York City skyline this morning. The season is rapidly changing. It’s time for me to cut to the chase.

I didn’t volunteer for this week’s guest edit to gloat, or flaunt, or be cheeky about the last year. It hasn’t been my best. People have been hurt, tears have been shed, and hearts have been bruised. Of this I am neither proud, nor dismissive.

I volunteered, I think, to clear the air. To own my mistakes.

That Heather has found forgiveness in her heart is beyond me. That through repeated disappointments she should remain my friend is bigger than me. I know neither her secret, nor her motive. I just know that she has, and that she is.

I’ve learned a little something through it all, though. Just as I’ve learned something over the course of this week’s assignment. Which neither diminishes nor ameliorates the pain I’ve caused.

I have been careless, short sighted and selfish. I have let my addiction to external affirmation — to being loved — overshadow the ramifications of my behavior.

And for that, I am sorry.

It crystallized at the REM show last night. Michael, who was at a loss for intra-song banter, sang:

It’s easier to leave than to be left behind
Leaving was never my proud

And so it is. And so I do. And so I have.

I have a new record coming out in a few weeks. It’s called “Love & Other Indoor Games.” It occurs to me now that I know nothing of the subject. Not that I’ll stop trying to learn, and to love.

And so, head in hands, I return you to your regularly scheduled program.

Good night, and Godspeed.

Heather had a million reasons to move to New York City. I was the least of them.

Still, I lobbied heavily in favor of the move, not so much to further our relationship (I was, not surprisingly, single at this point but remarkably weary of getting involved in anything).

I told her (rather arrogantly and somewhat in jest) as often as she would listen that New York is Varsity. “You’ve played JV,” I’d type. “Come play Varsity. Step it up.”

I goaded her. I teased her. And I laughed with her. But only because I knew she could do it. She has the moxy, the hustly, the smarts.

“Picture yourself in Times Square tossing you barret into the neon-splashed sky.”

In a matter of weeks, Heather was knocking on my door. In her left hand, a garment bag, in her right, my hand-made “Welcome Home” sign, and on her face, a wide smirk.

“You’re gonna’ make it after all, baby.”

That Heather had the courage to pick up and move her life in a matter of weeks says a lot about who she is. She got a new job in a heartbeat. And she had the flexability to change her vision for herself on a dime. She packed up an entire Boston life (with the help of her Boston friends), pointed it south, and only looked back long enough to be grateful. I never once heard her complain, or whine, or wish she were somewhere other than she was.

That Heather had the courage to pick up and move her life in a matter of weeks also says something about who her friends are. The Tribe (as they call one another — I’m pretty sure I’m not included amongst them) is close, and reliable. They welcomed her amphatically, carried boxes, poured red wine and dried tears when Heather’s beloved cat made himself scarce.

Heather stayed at my apartment for a week. I was pretty squirly about it. I helped as best as I could. I was good for a supportive conversation, a home cooked meal and a beer, subway directions and a cup of coffee, but I was distant. I was scared. I didn’t want her to get too comfortable in my little bachelor world (as if that was possible). But it’s not about me: it wasn’t then, and it isn’t now.

This Fish doesn’t need a bicycle, she wants one. And that’s the best reason of all.

Tomorrow: My Friend Fish

It was spontaneous. And naughty. Which made it seem like a pretty good idea at the time.

The sky was white outside my window. The streets below were strewn with grayed snow. I was cold. And I was alone. We were IMing…

MTVITAMIN: Meet me in Old Saybrook.
HLH: Ok.

Done and done.

Two thoughts ran through my head on the train north: 1) ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this’ and 2) ‘I hope she answers the door in fishnets.’

I was dating someone else. And Heather knew it. It was the elephant in the room. Not that we noticed. We were otherwise preoccupied…

You remember the post. Heck, I do. It was pretty steamy, pretty cute, and pretty vague. Which is basically what went down up there in Old Saybrook. Steamy, cute, and vague. And because she’s not here to set limits, that’s all you get.

Except. Except that it felt awkward. And exhilerating. And wrong. And good.

It was kinda’ messed up.

It’s weird. My best and most trusted friend was in town for a wedding that weekend staying at my apartment. I was trying to get back to New York to hang out with him — it was Super Bowl Sunday or something. When I told him what I’d been up to, he rolled his eyes and laughed. And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t laughing with me.

If I didn’t know it would all turn out ok in the end, I’d swear it was a pretty stupid thing to do, sneak away for a weekend trist with an Internet Starlette. While I was dating someone else.

But I do love an adventure. And I do love breakfast in bed.

Tomorrow: Fish Moves In

It’s well into the wee hours of a very cold December morning. Heather and I are standing in front of Parkside Lounge on Houston. Sarah B is on the corner over Heather’s shoulder, hand on her hip. Heather is crying. Emphatically.

It was a Thursday night. It was a really fun Thursday night. I had just released my new record, ‘Almost Home,’ and played the last show of a 17-date tour. I was shredded, but elated. I was a little bombed. I was surrounded by my friends. And I was falling in love. But not with Heather.

But you wouldn’t have known much of that from my journal that night:

We had a hell of a time at the Parkside Lounge after party (as you’ve no doubt seen in the photos). I don’t remember much: political debates with Bruce, salsa dancing with Heather and Sara, me on the CD player, The Pixies, The Brooklyn Gang, me in a baby seat in the snow… lotsa’ fun. We closed the place down. I got home at 5, cooked some eggs, microwaved some vegetables, blogged, then fell into bed.

What I omitted (dude, my site ain’t anonymous) was Heather ‘n me post-salsa dancing. When she found out that we wouldn’t be kissing, and that I was dating someone in New York, well … Sad Fish. Drunk, Sad, Uncontrolably Weeping Fish.

It’s a pretty clear picture in my head: the black of the sky, the white of the snow, downtown hipsters all blurry in my peripheral vision, yellow cabs and neon. And tears. Lots of freezing tears.

I remember that I kept saying, “But I’m just a boy! I’m just a stupid boy!”

All those tears didn’t seem worthy of me. Come to think of it, all those tears probably weren’t about me at all.

Tomorrow: The Lost Weekend

We kissed all night, sleeping in fits and starts, then woke up to kiss some more …

Heath was down BK way to hang with Sarah B (internet superstars keep to their own, apparently). We rendezvoused. I don’t remember the pretense. I seem to recall that it had something to do a pajama party. But there they were, Bloggeratti Extraordinaire, tossing back two lemon drops to every one of my dirty martinis. Next thing I know, we’re all bombed, blogging from my Hell’s Kitchen laptop:

[11.9.03 3:00] — It’s 3 a.m. Que Sera Sera and Fish are in the hizza. And we are all bombed. Which is fun.

BW: I’m wearing Fish’s pajamas.

FISH: Drunk Fish. Thank God for typing lessons in the 8th grade, and thank God for vodka. Sara B and Benjamin have seen just how long my Laura Ingalls hair is and just how many lemon drops can drink. Sarah B might convert me to lesbianism and Benjamin might make me believe boys should wear pink.

You get the idea. It was a giggly, silly, and perfectly appropriate start to a giggly, silly, and perfect relationship.

Until bedtime.

We were piled into bed together, Heather, Sarah, and me, but, God Bless Sarah (and God Bless her for not mocking us since) for repairing to the living room futon.

I remember knowing it was about to happen. We were too close, talking too softly for it not to. I was torn by attraction/aversion. Not because Heather is anything less than beautiful, or anything less than desperately attractive (have you ever sat in a meadow of dew-kissed mountain wild flowers? That’s how delicious Heather smells), I just knew better.

I mean, at this point, so do you. But we’re going to anyway …

I am centimeters from her face. Her smile slips away. She is straight faced. Her eyes are dark. And it happens. We kiss slowly, patiently. Her lips are soft. It is gentle, and sustained, and sweet …

Heather had a train to catch in the morning. The three of us walked to the subway. I was a little shell-shocked — had I just gotten myself into a long-distance relationship, again!?! — but I kept right on smiling. I hugged Sarah, who passed through the turnstile and left Heath and I alone.

Heather looked up at me with an expression that I’ve seen dozens of times since: her eyebrows lift, her forehead furrows, and her lips pucker. She is vulnerable. And for me, that’s just a little bit scary.

Tomorrow: The Meltdown