An Apology

This is an apology for going away, for leaving you, for not doing the best job at my challenge, for coming back, for wanting to pretend like it never happened, for using it as an excuse.

This is a note of self-forgiveness—there was no other way it could have happened. I wanted it so badly that proving to myself I could do it is worth more that the regrets, although I regret it everyday. I did the best I could, I planned it the best I could. I didn't expect for it to traumatize me so psychically. I didn't expect my plan to backfire so tremendously.

This is a vague reference to my milestones of danger and survival: the infections, the illnesses, the encounters, the bizarre self-created storylines. 

Whose forgiveness do I seek? 

***

In the days leading up to my departure from Amsterdam, the hot water broke in the the illegal public-housing sublet my roommates and I inhabited. I could not take a hot shower. I lugged buckets of boiled water up the stairs to the bathroom, and bathing involved standing in a dish tub with a rag.

In the days leading up to my departure from Amsterdam, I took impulsive bike rides into the city center, quickly selecting and purchasing apparel from Esprit, Didi, Mexx in a whirlwind of muted sentimentality. I was fixating on the extra suitcase I would bring back: finally I acquired it from a second hand shop in Westerpark, a hard shelled navy blue Samsonite. The center of my purpose was packing the suitcase: purple sweater dress, bottles of cranberry wine from Vlieland, Amsterdam map collage, playing cards from a local artist on Witte de Withstraat, luikse wafels, stroop wafels, jumper from Ameland, fuzzy Esprit sweater, Dutch toiletries... and the things that could not fit and would be left behind... As the physical weight of the suitcase grew, its weight as proof—as evidence—likewise grew. My productivity abroad was directly correlated to this suitcase arriving in San Francisco intact and as a fully realized souvenir, while the nostalgia it represented weighed down my ability to proceed into San Francisco unhindered.

But when I think of this I don't think of the metaphysical weight the suitcase put on my psyche; I think of the often overcast summer slowly opening the trees along the canals, the distinct sound of Dutch-Moroccan children playing, and the rush of the sun shining in the afternoon. My misery was the two sides of leaving: the happiness at going home finally, and the reluctant acceptance that I would never have another experience like this again, that time I tried to live in Amsterdam when I was 30.

***

On July 1, 2013, I flew direct from Amsterdam to Philadelphia. When passing through immigration at Schiphol Airport, I was detained for overstaying my tourist visa, and was ultimately banned from entering the EU until July 1, 2014. When I arrived at PHL, the United States was mine, it was foreign, it was fascinating, it was home, I was still an outsider, I had endured many abuses at the hands of myself and of culture and of loneliness.

Watching the 4th of July fireworks from under the Echo Bridge on the Schuylkill River, I began to move on from the abuses: a sliver of resignation, a sliver of aggression: the way you feel when you discover the thing you pined for all your twenties just destroyed you, and you could not have kept living without having been destroyed... But maybe you still believe it's possible to fall in love. 

***

The one thing I learned from Amsterdam is that I need a reason to get up most days of the week, I need the pressure of something at times disdainful to be successful.

I couldn't wait to get away from the thing that made me get up at 7:20 a.m. five mornings a week, and then I was miserable and depressed when I didn't have that very thing, even though theoretically I had Amsterdam.

What is a human without a routine?

I was going back to my job at the library, and couldn't be happier. 

***

 
When the hard shelled navy Samsonite suitcase finally made its way across the U.S., from the Philadelphia Greyhound station to the San Francisco Greyhound station and to my apartment in the Richmond District, opening it was an aromatic poof of my abuses: all the second hand smoke that had clung to the walls and furniture of my room in Amsterdam, a parting gift from the previous inhabit; the light traces of my roommates' Dutch fabric softeners; even the changing seasons on the street and the stiffness brought from hanging clothes to dry in a staircase.

Nineteen months ago I returned to San Francisco, my home: the place where I understand the weather, the place I grew into an adult, the place where my mom has made a life with me. I'm a strange nationalist, a Californian. California, my favorite country.

This blog proceeds accordingly, having honored its mandate for ashamed and/or reflective silence.

Being a Writer vs. Living as a Writer: The Story and the Stories about the Story

“And how much of that have you actually accomplished?” the third poet asks me. I had started the conversation when we were in line for the toilet, and now we’re packed into the door jam of the tiny venue, discussing what I do in Amsterdam. He had asked me if I study or work here? I answered I was working on a novel and a poetry chapbook inspired by my experience sailing on a cargo ship from Argentina to Belgium last summer. The stories about the story. 

“You rode on a cargo ship?” 

I answer the question the way I usually do, with the story I no longer want to tell: Yeah, I took a cargo ship across the Atlantic… it took 35 days... it was an Italian cargo ship... no, I didn’t work on the ship... My trademark Californian monotone. My gaze fixed toward the floor. I’ve told the story so much I now regard it as boring. Still, it remains central to my creative output. Still, it was immensely formidable to the following months. Still, my subconscious brandishes it like a medal of honor: in a recent nicotine patch dream I tried to choke out the story to long estranged friends I haven’t seen in years.

Interactive component of the MAS Museum in Antwerp, Belgium

In so many cities, in so many months I’ve used the stories about the story of the cargo ship as an alibi as if I needed one to be present: I’ve told artists, poets, landlords, friends, strangers, family members, and roommates that I’m writing a novel and a chapbook about my experience on a cargo ship. I’m trying to decide how much to make fiction and how much to make an historical account of oceanic shipping; I’m trying to decide how long the chapbook should be, how many individual poems I should include.

Shipping route diagram in the Port of Antwerp exhibit at the MAS Museum

I’m on a high speed train to Belgium, I’m sleepwalking through the Houston airport sobbing behind Versace sunglasses, I’m in a bar in New Orleans’s Marigny yelling above the jukebox, I’m getting ready to go to a squatter art space/dance club in Amsterdam and all the time I’m dragging the shackles of the story and the stories about the story behind me. I’m disappointed when people don’t ask more questions; I’m put out when someone latches on to its uniqueness. 

Gloves hanging above Hazenstraat in Amsterdam

But this is the thing: I’ve written in the novel only once since I left Amsterdam last fall. I’ve worked on the poetry chapbook only a few times since the New Year. My alibi is a fraud. 

* * *

The public library is typically low key for a weekend night. I’m curled up in one of the chairs by the windows on the 6^th floor that cups its form around your body. Amsterdam’s understated yet enchanting skyline sits modestly across the Oosterdok and I’m not ashamed to be alone in the library on a Saturday night, chuckling to myself over the latest novel I’ve plucked from the Engels – Romans section. In fact, I am quite pleased with myself. 

Colorful view above Damsplein in Amsterdam;
twice yearly a carnival occupies the square

A couple weeks ago I sat in a kitchen in Antwerp and typed Skype messages as raindrops fell on the skylight above my head. I was messaging a very important figure that, in many ways, is the emblem of the cargo ship story and the novel/poetry-turned-alibi. Mikhail, my steward. Finishing my coffee and itching for a shower, I shook my head and turned off the screen of my iPad without responding to his last message. I rubbed my eyes wearily. I turned the iPad back on and tweeted, “I’m watching the end of my story develop right before my eyes.” It was settled, for me at least: I was never going to see him again. 

Cathedral of Our Lady in Antwerp, Belgium

More recently I passed out seven copies of a 13-page nonfiction essay double spaced and printed on good quality A4 sized paper to my writers workshop. In the weeks between sitting under the skylight in Antwerp and this moment in my writers workshop I had written and revised this essay four times. I pitched it to the Los Angeles Times Magazine and compiled a mental list of other places to submit it. I declined invitations to go out with my roommates and friends to work on this essay instead; I willfully logged off Twitter to turn my attention toward this essay. The subject of the essay was not the cargo ship, it was not the novel about the cargo ship, it was not the poetry chapbook about the cargo ship, and it was not even set within the last year. It went back to the beginning of 2011, to the time of the Japanese earthquake and tsunami and all that shook and flooded my private experiences of the same time. 

I am prey to a dangerous type of nostalgia: my nostalgia misdirects the affection for a specific place, time, and aura as affection for the current existence of the people who were there with me. The shorter the time period, the intenser the experience, the more likely this dangerous nostalgia will take root in my heart. I am left wandering neighborhoods that belong to the past alone, longing for the zeitgeist of the past period and obsessively remembering the people who use to be there. The only way to time travel and avoid sentimentality is to write, to encapsulate that past moment and its energy in a coherent composition. 

Facades on the island of Procida in Naples Province, Italy

In this way I mix up being a writer and living as a writer: there is some division between living the experiences that make for good stories and actually writing the stories, and I am still trying to find it. 

* * *

I’m dodging parked cars, laundry lines, scooters, and other pedestrians down Gradoni Chiaia in Naples; I’m growing dizzy watching the chaos of tiny cars, scooters, and motorcycles revolve around the Umberto-Sanfelice traffic circle; I’m swooning from the quiet solace the view from Castle St. Elmo provides on top of the hill, a breath-taking vantage of the city, its port, the bright Tyrrhenian Sea golden in the setting sun. This is where my people from the ship come from, and I recognize the willingness of the locals to communicate in bad Spanish, broken English, and gestures as the same welcoming temperament I found on the ship.

Congested traffic route of Gradoni Chiaia/Via St. Caterina  da Siena, Naples, Italy

I find Chief Chef Rafael’s cuisine in the courses served at Osteria della Mattonella one street over from our apartment: fried cod with its bones intact submerged in marinara sauce with floating olives and a soup of blended spinach with beans. I find the motion and familiar signage of my cargo ship in the ferry to the island of Ischia. I find Crescenzo’s hand movements in the baker’s and the private car driver’s communication methods. I find Fabio’s boyish good looks in the countenances of baristas running espresso shots down the narrow, cobble-stone streets. I find Gigi’s plump figure and sad smile buzzing through traffic on Corso Vittorio Emanuele on a grey Vespa. 

View of gulf of the Tyrrhenian Sea with cargo ship from Castle St. Elmo, Naples, Italy

I am here with my travel companion, a good old friend from Los Angeles, and I will not see anyone from the ship. I suppose I am trying to create new memories but really I am chasing the zeitgeist of the Grande Buenos Aires; despite this I fight my dangerous nostalgia with a reticent, road-worn heart. I observe Naples as an outsider; I will never delve into the real life experience of a Napolitano. Bittersweet is an understatement in this sense. I will spend most of my trip alternating between the melancholy this causes me and the euphoria the invigorating beauty brings me.

Panorama of Pompeii, Italy

It’s somewhere between Positano and Pompeii, on the only highway to and from the Almafi Coast, Via Guglielmo Marconi, that I realize it’s ok to wait a couple years to write the stories about the story of the cargo ship. It’s the distance I need to separate living as a writer from the coherent composition that will take shape. Sitting on top of a green hill at the back of the ancient town of Pompeii and lapping up the vista of the ruins, the modern town just at the border, and the Tyrrhenian at the horizon, I take solace in my recent writing endeavors: encapsulating the zeitgeist of the Japanese earthquake and tsunami in an essay, encapsulating my sleep deprived sophomore Spring semester in a poem, encapsulating the denial of the abandonment of my step-mother during my 4th grade Easter play in a poem. I don’t think these experiences are validated by the essays or the poems; the essays and poems are validated by my willingness to submerge myself in the original experience. 

View of Naples, the port, and the base of Mt. Vesuvio, Italy

As Clarice Lispector wrote, “I’ve looked into myself and discovered I want raw, bloody life.” 

The Country of the Grande Buenos Aires Meets London

Yours truly, on the ship in the Port of Tilbury

When I walked off the ship into the port of Tilbury in the UK, my first shock was being able to read the markings and labels on the bales of ply wood that were stocked in the warehouses. It was Sunday and the industrial area was eerily quiet, the sky was a hazy blue, and the temperature was comfortable—what I imagined was a classic late summer day in England.

England?!  I thought to myself.

Although I could sense something familiar in the climate that signaled to my senses that we were, indeed, in North Europe, a part of me was still in Brazil, still somewhere near the equator in the Atlantic ocean, still outside the hot waters of Dakar. Of course we had been coming towards North Europe for some time, but the ship rocking to the rhythm of the open sea was more like a state of being than a state of moving. Coming to a new port is like leaving a country you previously didn’t know existed (the ship), only to realize that geographically this country is neighbors with countries all over the world.

I spied this spider's crazy handiwork in a discarded tire on our walk to the Seamen's Club/Seafarers' Center 

Tilbury Seafarers' Centre

Panorama of our docking place: to the left is another Grimaldi ship, The Grande Africa, whose chef and crew I chatted with at the Seafarers' Centre, and to the right is my ship, The Grande Buenos Aires 

The Germans and I were making our way to the Seaman’s Club in the port to check our email. As we crossed the long driveway from the ship to the main road, which cut through a bank of warehouses, I exclaimed at the novelty of the experience. The lorries and fork-lifts were still and no souls crossed our path. We stepped on metal ties that had been discarded from the ply wood bales and kicked up a metallic chorus that echoed throughout the still space.

MV Grande Buenos Aires.
Date: 09/09/2012
Port: Tilbury
Next Port: Emden
Shore Leave
Expires

Besides briefly stepping into the port of Dakar to buy souvenirs a few meters from the ship’s cargo hatch, the Germans and I had not been on land for 17 or 18 days, and the last time we had checked our email had been 20 or 21 days ago. Around the time we docked in Dakar, I used the ship’s email account to send a message to friends and family via satellite, which was refreshing: it reminded me I had people on the outside that were still thinking about me although I felt safely insulated, surrounded by my ship family and the rhythms of sea life.

View from the ship's cargo hatch.

Some of my peeps: Chief Cook Raphael, Driver Crescenzo, Steward Mikhail, new Chief Cook Marcelo, and Engine Officer Filipo. This was Raphael's last night with us; he was disembarking the next day. Note the stocking caps acquired from the Seafarers' Centre.

We ended up staying in Tilbury for almost 4 whole days, which afforded me several trips to the Seaman’s club (picture: drinking Stella Artois with some of the crew—we were the noisy Italian contingent—and trying on hand-knit stocking caps left for cold seamen) and a couple trips to the mega-market Asda just outside of the port (where I stocked up on chocolate and booze, two things the ship lacked). That would have almost been enough civilization for me, but then I learned I could take a 40 minute train ride into London from Tilbury.

London! I hadn’t even considered this possibility!

On Monday September 10, the passenger’s steward, Mikhail, and I took a short day trip into the city. The Paralympics had wrapped up the day before, but residual athletes, donning their country’s exercise costumes, flooded the area near Parliament and Big Ben. I felt as though I was beholding the society of a booming metropolis for the first time—there were children! and women! and people from all nations! As we made our way through the crowds of tourists, I remarked to Mikhail that I could tell what countries folks were from just by looking at them—their attire, their hair style, the features of their face gave them away. Considering Mikhail was a Ukrainian that had immigrated to Italy and I was routinely mistaken for nationalities other than American, I wondered aloud, “What country do people think we’re from?” He deftly answered, “From the Grande Buenos Aires!”

Big Ben! I had only been to London once before, for a few hours in 2000 as part of the Belgian exchange student program. I have an old picture of my 17 year old self in front of Big Ben on that trip, too, and I was wearing my trademark Op Ivy hoodie.

Mikhail takes a picture - and look! Men, women, children!

These peeps were protesting outside of Parliament, some specifically regarding the Olympics and others different issues. I love seeing a city's protesters, but that's probably just the San Franciscan in me.

Mikhail.

TPOD: Tool Pic of the Day

I liked this little edifice. I read the plaque but I can't remember what it said :(

Closing of the Paralympics.

In the late afternoon, a fleet of military aircraft blazed through the sky, leaving a trail of red, white, and blue smoke (think union jack, not stars and stripes), which was the official ending of the Paralympics and London’s big summer. We returned to the ship in time for dinner, and I learned that the ship would be docked in Tilbury for another day, at least—Grimaldi seemed to have some problems coordinating with the port workers, which was causing delays to the on- and off-loading of cargo—so I could go to London again the next day, as well. For me, it was all good news, but the Germans were growing impatient. They had been traveling already for a year, and the woman’s son was scheduled to arrive in Germany for a visit in a couple weeks. The original itinerary of the ship would have had them home in Freiburg by now, and besides, they were sick of pasta, pasta, pasta. They wanted sausages and potatoes! 

The Germans and me at dinner: PASTA!

On Tuesday, September 11, I got up early, had a light breakfast, made sandwiches for myself, and headed towards the train station again, this time alone. I arrived to Fenchurch station in London a little before 9:30; the working stiffs had mostly made their way to their offices, and there was a startling crispness and quiet to the streets. My first stop was an HSBC atm, where I got a shockingly good exchange rate: £50 for $83. It was a gorgeous day, bright blue skies and large, white puffy clouds. As I made my way to Petticoat Lane, where the merchants were just setting up their stands, and up Brick Lane into the Shoreditch area, my heart kept bursting at being alive, at beholding this strange moment in which I found myself.

Whenever I came across a map, which are usefully placed all around the city, I took a picture since I had not obtained a thorough map of my own, yet. Cheers to the graphic designer! 

It seemed like all of London was under construction; this and some other signs (e.g. the abundance of independent and chain shops alike) makes me think London remains prosperous despite the economic downturn strangling the US and parts of the EU.

Scenic capture on small street near Petticoat Lane.

Reflection squared: the ideal scenario for a self-portrait

Brick Lane, where the London Overground crosses.

For one, I was surprised to find my self-agency had returned: reading and speaking English indeed made tourism easier, but I also suddenly felt re-aligned with the flow of energy I had embodied when I traveled in Europe last summer (mostly) alone. I had felt young, endlessly excited by the magic of being alive, and totally on fire for life last summer. Coming to London with Mikhail the previous day had been fun and exciting—there is something special involved in sharing your discoveries of a place with someone—but today I was reminded of how much I love wandering interesting streets alone, stopping to take artsy photographs of reflections in mirrors and windows, staying in a museum all day or only for 30 minutes, searching racks and racks of clothing for the perfect blouse. This agency and contentedness made me well up with self-pride and love, which is something I had lost in Argentina. I felt as though, perhaps, I was coming full circle.   

Street art on Brick Lane

Brick Lane is a cute little street with tons of vintage shops, clothing and jewelry boutiques, and furniture stores.

Coming from Brick Lane to Bethnal Green Road

Scenic view of an East London street.

Once I made it to the area around the Shoreditch High Street station, I stopped for a glorious café latte, made with fresh ground espresso beans and organic pasteurized milk (the ship only had high temperature processed milk, which didn’t need to be refrigerated but also tasted a bit gross to me). I dusted bits of raw sugar onto the thick foam and took little crunchy bites as I gazed out the window at young, hip Londoners meeting and departing from their friends in the late morning.

"I'm a poster. An advert." Love the social/political awareness of the graffiti on this advertisement. 

It's true: adore and endure each other.

Cool street art.

There were attractive local maps wherever there was a cycling station. London employs the easy community bike rental scheme found in many major cities, such as Paris and Barcelona.

In the early afternoon, I took the tube to the Waterloo station and walked along the Thames to the Tate Moderne, in front of which I found a nice bench and ate my sandwiches. The scene was simply stunning: the cotton ball clouds drifted calmly through the brilliantly blue sky and reflected in the waters of the river, while the City of London dazzled me from across the shore. I found it difficult to pull myself away to enter the museum, yet I did, and took in a couple of exhibits, including one on Poetry and Surrealism.

On Blackfriar's Bridge

Self portrait in reflective window

Panorama of the Thames outside of the Tate Moderne.

Click to enlarge, then read the text of "The Bigger Picture." I felt like this embodied my experience on the ship. I didn't cry in the Tate Moderne (probably because I didn't find any Van Goghs there!) but I got pretty close when I read this. It reminded me that I have a poet's spirit, as well as how influential the Surrealist have been to my work. 

The Uncertainty of the Poet, by Giorgio de Chirico (1913)

After the Tate Moderne, I crossed Millennium Bridge into the City of London  and stopped in the Tourist information center, where I got a nice map and directions to a local book store. Once I found the bookshop, called Daunt Books, I submerged myself in English literature for a good 60 or 90 minutes. Although during my travels I had become dissociated from my life back in California as a library paraprofessional and book artist, I instantly felt at home, surrounded by books I could read and understand. This led me to think there must be something inherently “bookish” about my character, that I can unequivocally be comforted by books and the information and stories they carry. Again I realized my voyage had razed qualities of my personality, and then these qualities had re-manifested themselves, naturally, reinforcing truths about myself I held to be unalienable.

From the top floor cafe of the Tate Moderne. You can see Millennium Bridge...

Crossing Millennium Bridge

Welcome to another attractive map!

St. Paul's Cathedral

I left the bookshop after limiting myself to one purchase—a book called How to think more about sex from a British series called The School of Life (the title of the book sounds much more risqué than it actually is)—and did some good old fashioned shopping. First I went to a drug store that had a Clinique counter, and stocked up on toiletries. Then, to a stationery store to buy stickers—I was going to make some Kelci-trademarked lighters for my friends on the ship. Lastly, I was on a mission to acquire at least one new piece of clothing: I had been subsisting on the monotony of 2 pairs of travel pants and 3 tank tops for what seemed like forever. I found a beautifully feminine blouse at Top Shop and felt like I had accomplished something great.

By this time night was beginning to fall—it was late summer, fall was threatening around the edges of the twilight, yet the sky stayed blue until about 8 or 9 o’clock. I strolled past St. Paul’s Cathedral, awash in orange lights that contrasted with the cobalt sky, and made my way to a restaurant/pub to partake in the British specialty of fish ‘n’ chips and a pint of London Pride beer. It was delicious, and I was amused by the Chinese business people that had flooded the place, drinking wine and champagne and partying down.

Chinese business peeps getting down in an English restaurant and pub

Fish n Chips! Yes we have good fish n chips in San Francisco, but it seemed authentic to have it in London. 

Going down into the tube.

A nice touch of stenciled street art on the ubiquitous "Mind the Gap."

After dinner I headed back on the tube to the area around Fenchurch station, and popped into a local Irish pub for one last pint of London pride. While nursing my beer alone, I watched the televisions they had installed around the perimeter: Barak and Michelle observed a moment of silence on the lawn outside the Whitehouse, their heads bowed. “Oh yeah, it’s 9/11,” I murmured to myself. My memories of the day—and more strongly, recalling memories of the day with friends and loved ones as we grew older—threatened to flood my mind; instead I reveled at being alone in a pub in London, about to catch a train back to my ship, which I considered my country, as the moment I found myself reflecting on the anniversary of 9/11. It's a strange life, but it feels really good to be me, I thought as I took the last gulp and set down my empty pint glass. I had fallen in love with London today, and had fallen back in love with myself.

Building ablaze with lights near Fenchurch Station. Good night, London!