{tennessee, the state. knoxville, the city. part v.}

{old city.}

You guys. Did I really never finish posting my Knoxville trip photos?! I was going through my drafts and found this post half-complete just sitting there waiting for me to remember it. I am terrible at drafts. My gmail drafts folder has 562 drafts in it. I'm not even kidding. (That probably says a lot about me, but we won't go there...) Apparently, the "draft issue" spills over into blogging also. Anyway, here is the last of my Knoxville trip from May.

Despite the fact that I left the draft unfinished for so long, Old City was actually my favorite part of the city. (There's a slight chance I said that about the Market Square too, which would be true also.) It was a set off a bit from the main downtown area, which made it feel like we were stepping back in time. I think I would have loved the city just as much in the late 1800s, although I did read that crime, violence, and drug abuse thrived in Old City through most of the 1900s. Today, the area is much, much safer and has an authentic historic feel I don't often find in most historic districts. If you're ever in Knoxville, I highly recommend the walk down the hill to spend some time in Old City.









{part i, part ii,  part iii & part iv.} {the end.}

Granola {Part II}

My dirt driveway dipped and I had to jiggle the key in the lock more than I remembered. The sun met me when I finally walked through the front door. Warm and golden. I opened the slider door and stood on the back deck listening to the river. The river was calm that morning. I was calm.

I went back inside to call my mom and let her know that I had arrived safely. A tiny spider ran across the kitchen counter top. I grabbed a piece of newspaper from the nearby box of dishes and whisked it into the sink, turned on the water, and watched it go down the drain. My phone call still had not gone through. Cell phone service would definitely be a problem here. I already knew that, but I thought with two bars of service in my kitchen I would still be able to place a call. I moved out to the back deck. Dialed again. Again the call failed to go through. My first wave of panic moved through me.

Thankfully, it moved through me and out of me. More annoyed than anything, I grabbed my phone and my keys and headed back to my car. I knew I had cell service at the small grocery store three miles down the road. I would call my mom and let her know I arrived safely and I would call the cable company to let them know not to call my cell phone upon arrival. My service was spotty at best, but my calls went through. I carefully explained the situation to the cable company and told them I would be back to my apartment in less than ten minutes. “Just don’t call my phone to make sure I am there because my cell doesn’t get service. Please tell the service people that I am definitely home.” I put my sunglasses on and drove home. Home, I drove home.

I decided to unpack a few of my boxes already in the apartment while I waited for the cable company to arrive. I unpacked two boxes, located my landline-phone, moved my furniture around, and plugged in my cell phone. It was the only clock I had and searching for service was quickly draining the battery. The cable company was ten minutes past the two-hour window they had given me. A second wave of panic swept through me. I forced it out, grabbed my keys, and headed for the grocery store parking lot.

I called the cable company. The call went through on the third try. “Ma’am, we called you to make sure you were at your residence and there was no answer. We were within our two hour window.” I took a deep breath and calmly explained that I had asked for a note to be placed in my file not to call my cell phone number. The customer service representative said the men were still in the area and asked if I could provide a landline they could call prior to arriving at my apartment. I explained that the phone and cable installation I scheduled was due to the fact that I did not have a phone. I wondered how rude it would be to add “duh” to the end of that sentence. I refrained and gave myself a point towards adulthood. She told me not to worry about it, she would tell the men to just go to my apartment and note in my file not to call first.

I drove back to my apartment in silence. “The men” would arrive within the hour. I stopped unpacking. I sat on my back deck in the afternoon sun. I wanted to call my mom. I wanted to send out a can-you-believe-this email to a few of my friends. I just sat. And listened to the river.

“The men” never arrived. I drove to the grocery store parking lot again. I called the cable company again. I got a different customer service representative again. The representative told me they tried to call me before they arrived at my apartment and received no answer. Again. I asked with a flat tone if we could try it all again. This time without the phone call. He said no. “The men” were no longer in the area. I needed to schedule another appointment. For a week and a half later. I hung up the phone without saying another word.

I got back to my apartment as the sun began to set. It cast unfamiliar shadows on my wall. It would be my first night alone in my apartment and I felt very, very alone. A third wave of panic swept through me. I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t push it out. I worried it would drown me. Before the sun sank any lower, I grabbed my keys and sprinted back into my still-fully-packed car. I sped out of my driveway and bottomed out on the steep incline. The sound of the packed dirt against the bottom of my car echoed in my ears the entire way back to CT.

[To Be Continued...]

{part i}

[Disclaimer: I always have difficulty determining how much of "the story" is mine to tell. This series on my year in Vermont is my version of the year. I am erring on the side of caution to not tell the stories of my friends who journeyed through the year with me. Names, places, details, etc have been changed or omitted for the privacy of the people I care about - and yes, I care about all of them. It's a bit of an old story, really. Most of their journeys have taken them down paths (in Vermont, out of Vermont, some having never set foot near Vermont) that make that year only a distant memory. It is for me, too. But it's such a good memory - a full, rich, important memory - that I want to share my part of the story here.]

A Place in Brooklyn

I found an apartment in Brooklyn. When I share the news, I qualify it with the distance it is from The Brooklyn Neighborhoods. It's far. And they ask how long it will take me to get to class. It's far.

I cried on the subway platform on the way to see the apartment. It was too good to be true and the hope of it all - the hope that it could be mine - suddenly became too much to contain. It exploded and calmed in the same moment, warm tears spilling over. Yes, this is me. This is me. I kept thinking.

New York can be hot and unforgiving in the summer. (Although, I have for years now said it will never compare to a DC summer.) The sun felt only warm and the breeze - there is a breeze in my new neighborhood - just a bit cool. I will be on a shoestring budget and an off-hours schedule. The place fits both and a large kitchen with enough counter space for a coffee pot and a blender for smoothies. Enough floor space for morning yoga. High enough ceilings to hold my hopes, clearly.

I'll be getting rid of my bed down here in DC. I have a sordid history with beds, mainly comprised of me trying to get rid of them. "You cannot, cannot, cannot get rid of your bed," she insisted four years ago. I responded by bursting into tears trying to explain how difficult it is to move a bed alone. She acquiesced on account of my tears and asked me just to think about not getting rid of it. I did, but I got rid of it any way, piece by piece, until I moved to DC four years later with an aerobed that I slept on for six months. I inherited a real bed when I moved into this place, but I'll donate it before I move to Brooklyn. I can't move it alone, so away it goes. I'm somewhat independent, I suppose.

There will have to be a trip to Ikea for a new bed for my new place. I'm exhausted just thinking of the production it must entail get to an Ikea and get a mattress home. There is always the mail order option, but my shoestring budget cringes. And then I realize. I will have help in New York. My brother is a borough over and my parents are a car ride away. Moving a mattress no longer has to be an "alone" project. And maybe I will not look at my next bed only as something I have to get rid of or move. Maybe it no longer has to be attached to my independence.

I'll move my dresser and bookshelf and desk from Connecticut to New York. I'll hang the artwork I've collected the past year. I'll put up curtains the first week. I'll unpack my boxes and my bags. How long has it been?

I have an apartment in Brooklyn. When I share the news, I qualify it with the distance it is from The Brooklyn Neighborhoods. It's far. And they ask how long it will take me to get to class. It's far.

Because how am I suppose to say: This is me and it's home already. I'll buy a bed and unpack my bags. It's time and I'm ready.

Off

It was a day today. You know. One of those days. I walked into the office this morning and declared I was "off". I was. I spent the day knowing I had it all wrong. The world had me all wrong and I had it all wrong and everything was just wrong. It was how the humidity holds you on a hot day; even in the air conditioning you can't shake it off. I realized early afternoon that it was my perspective. My perspective was all wrong. As if I had been wearing someone else's glasses for the past few hours. Or the past few years.

I took a lunch break and read a book. I haven't taken a real lunch break in years. I haven't read a book "for fun" during a lunch break in years and years. It helped me breathe through the afternoon. It kept me out of a bathroom stall in tears. "I'll figure it out," I vowed. I'll figure out how to take off these glasses. I'll figure out how to find my own. Again, perhaps. Still, the afternoon hours were all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Early evening, I asked her what day it was. I meant which day of the week. "Wednesday, July 11th," she responded. Wednesday. I was unexpectedly right on that. July 11th, I was unexpectedly wrong about that. All day I thought it was the 10th.

July 11th.

No wonder my heart is heavy. Of course I felt as though it was somewhere else. That I was operating without it, my compass, my glasses.

It was with someone else who needs it more than I today. It knew better than I. And off it went. Thank goodness, off it went.

Granola {Part I}

We saw the apartment on a sunny July afternoon. Tiny, one-bedroom, quaint, and quiet. The kitchen had one counter, the bedroom had a closet, and the bathroom had a tiny spider on the shower spout. I named her Charlotte and let her be. It was her place until I moved in at the end of August. We spent most of our time out on the back deck. It was new with dark brown stain and the rush of the river below. It reminded me of my childhood and I joked with the landlord about tubing to work each morning. He didn’t laugh.

We negotiated the rent in the corner of the main living area. It was my first real price negotiation. Other than the ceramic picture frame I purchased as a highschooler in Tijuana with a hug to an old man. He kissed me on the cheek and made my blood freeze. I paid too much that afternoon in Mexico and wanted wholesale redemption. I wanted to know I was a girl who could stand on her own feet and do right by herself, for herself. The landlord didn’t even answer when I tossed him my first offer. He let it drop to the floor and stared at it. I panicked and flushed.

I needed this apartment. There was only one other available apartment in the area. It was double the price and didn’t allow overnight guests. Ever. It took us three and a half hours from home, forty-five minutes of which were spent driving away from the highway over mountains and through valleys, to arrive in a town where I knew no one. My best friends no longer lived down the dorm hall or shared a townhouse bedroom wall. Everyone lived states away and I already knew late-night AIM messages weren’t going to suffice. I needed overnight guests. So I needed this apartment at a price I could afford.

I crumbled under his silence. I let my desperation show through. I took a leap of faith that he wouldn’t ask me to hug him. “But I. $350 is really the only thing in my price range because I just graduated and I’m starting this program here called AmeriCorps which is like the Peace Corps but not really but I’m really volunteering and not making any money because they want us to live- well I’m just not making any money but I can pay rent and.” It came out rapid-speed, jumbled with an abrupt stop. I realized I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even know how to explain what my upcoming year would look like. Primarily because I had no idea what my upcoming year would look like. But it worked! “It seems like a really great fit for you and I’d love to have you as a tenant. How about $375?” I took it. And I didn’t even have to hug him. Although, I almost wanted to.

We drove back to CT that night after unsuccessfully navigating the small town’s roads. “I don’t get it; the road just ends. And why are most of them dirt? How do we get to the rest of the roads?” The summer air cooled after sunset and we drove around with the windows down and our sweatshirts on. We hardly saw another car until we were a few miles down I-91. The stars were plentiful, though.

I signed onto AIM when I got home. Debated writing an email about my new-found, first apartment and decided against it. It had been a silent summer between us. I knew better than to blame it on Fiji and class schedules and email access. He asked me to go and I said no. And I knew better than to blame it on that. A silent summer was better than the year before, filled with frustration, hurt, and Eminem on repeat. It had been the summer before that one when the Fievel Goes West theme song reminded me of him and he called me at 9pm, he called me at midnight.

Over the next few weeks, I bought black photo frames from Walmart to hang photos on my new walls. I claimed my brother’s couch as my new couch. I stopped at tag sales on Saturday mornings for lamps, cupcake tins, a baker’s rack. I gathered the makings for a home. A first home of my own. We made two trips before I moved in. One to clean and bring up the smaller items. I vacuumed up Charlotte and about twenty of her closest friends. I felt guilty about it, but I wasn’t planning on having any roommates, never mind of the six-legged variety. One trip to bring my bed, the couch, and the baker’s rack. We didn’t stay very long that time. I planned to return alone, for good, at the end of the week with the last of my belongings.

He returned from Fiji that week. The first time the phone rang, I spent too much time trying to decide whether to answer. He hadn’t given me a return date. I’d forgive him despite myself, and I wasn’t ready for my own betrayal. The call went into voicemail and he didn’t leave one. I answered the second time on the second ring. My voice distant, my choice of words protective. We caught up quickly without detail. It was the first time we had talked since I left the bar in tears, almost four months ago. His flight left two days after. We talked as if it didn’t happen. We talked as if it all hadn’t happened. “Are you taking your old Saab up to Vermont?” Yes, of course I was. He told me that he worried about me in an old car in a rural area. “What if it breaks down and you don’t have cell service?” I told him not to worry, I would be fine. But my stomach turned over. He knew more about rural areas than I did. I hadn’t worked out the dynamics of what no cell service meant on a day-to-day basis. I cut our conversation short. I wanted to keep the distance. It was easier. He said goodbye and then took a breath, “Hey Em, you know I love you.” It was somewhere between a question and a statement. “I love you too.” Somewhere between a question and a statement. It meant everything and it meant nothing. It would be a month before I heard from him again. Everything would be different.

I stayed up too late that night packing the rest of my things. I left early the next morning to meet the telephone and internet installation people before noon in Vermont. It was a gorgeous sunny day. I stopped for an iced coffee, cranked up the volume in my car, and sang nearly the entire three and a half hour ride to Vermont. I couldn’t wait for the next year to finally begin.

[To Be Continued...]

[Disclaimer: I always have difficulty determining how much of "the story" is mine to tell. This series on my year in Vermont is my version of the year. I am erring on the side of caution to not tell the stories of my friends who journeyed through the year with me. Names, places, details, etc have been changed or omitted for the privacy of the people I care about - and yes, I care about all of them. It's a bit of an old story, really. Most of their journeys have taken them down paths (in Vermont, out of Vermont, some having never set foot near Vermont) that make that year only a distant memory. It is for me, too. But it's such a good memory - a full, rich, important memory - that I want to share my part of the story here.]