You Talkin' To Me?

Robert De Niro is not driving. And it wouldn’t matter if he was. Because I am one red light away from going all taxi on my driver.

“Where, exactly, are we going?”

“Manhattan.”

“Nooooooo. Manhattan is back there. Behind us.”

I admit to being cartographically challenged. Two degrees and numerous test scores, however, prove that I am not stupid.

We are not going to Manhattan. If we were, it would be in front of us. Not fading in the distance through the rear view mirror.

It is past midnight and after nine hours of travel I have landed in a smoky cab that has alternated between breaking the sound barrier and dancing on the edge of disaster. I’m green with the apple threatening to make a re-appearance, and we’ve missed every green light since crossing the bridge. The first bridge.

We have been honked at, cussed at and cut off. My water bottle flew under the front seat like it was propelled with rocket fuel and at the last red light my seatbelt locked so tightly that it is now the last line of defense between my panic-stricken aortic chambers and the light of day. Or, in this case, the plexiglass wall that is the only thing separating the cabbie from the fist keeping him awake.

“I missed the turn. Gotta go ‘round.”

“You ‘gotta go ‘round’?”

“Lady, I had a long day. Stop kicking the wall!”

A long day. He had a long day. Did he promise a little girl that he wouldn’t die if the plane crashed? Did a little boy promise him that he’d take care of his sister when you’re gone? Did he sit beside a man knocking on the 100^th door who farted and whose knees danced up and down for five hours? No. He didn’t. But I did and I don’t really care how long his day was, because I want mine to end.

“I had a long day, too. And I would like it to end. You stop napping and I’ll stop kicking. Deal?”

That’s right, dude. You might think you’re Robert De Niro. But you’ve got Kathy Bates in the back seat.

And she’s not happy with the ending.

Things That Go Bump in the Night.

“I don’t ever want to lose you.”

It’s the witching hours when her words cut deepest, a soft whisper against my neck while tiny arms hug me tightly in a silent defiance of all things cruel and unusual. Night after night, I answer the call of her voice as it floats uneasily down the hallway, crawling under the covers to wrap my arms around her as she fights to stay awake.

Of all the ties that bind it is this bond that should never have been forged – a childish fear of the dark that death brought to life – that holds us closest.

Ever the contrarian, my daughter plays quietly night after night in a mound of covers, soft pillows and stuffed animals while my son greets the sandman before I cross back over the threshold of his room. Hours after the lights are dimmed and flecks of light begin to dance across her walls, her whispers float down the hallway as bunnies and peacocks and kittens and puppies band together in familial threesomes.

A mommy. A girl. A brother. Never a daddy.

She knows that a daddy is warm and safe and happy. But what memories remain – distant embers that burn brightly for brief moments triggered by the way light falls in the hallway, the way an ordinary object sits on a shelf, a story long forgotten remembered in laughter – are indelibly linked to the pain and confusion of loss.

For weeks afterward she drew pictures of the man that had vanished without warning, as though the carefully drawn images would change time and space. And then the man grew smaller and less colorful before taking his perch in the clouds before vanishing altogether, an image that faded into the background along with the pain. She questioned why she could not float to him with the balloons that disappeared into the vast sky above, and why he could not slide down just for a moment. As time passed she let his image return, on her terms and on occasion, in vivid color and warm context.

But with age comes understanding and the realization that childhood fantasies often remain unrealized while fears do not. She knows that there are gaps in the childhood that is shaping her, but does not understand who or what they are. Her days are filled with laughter and contentment, interrupted by what is missing when it erupts like a festering sore accidentally scratched. The world that stopped turning now spins on a new axis.

But it is the dead of night when things that can go bump do. And it is at night when things disappear into the dark. Because when daylight broke they had.

And tonight sleep has abandoned us both, because as darkness settles tomorrow I will disappear into it far away from her and from him. I cannot promise her the one thing she needs, but of this I am certain. When daylight breaks tomorrow she will be sleeping peacefully under the covers.

In my room.

Please, Take Your Seat.

Buzz about the Pan Am-era aside, I’ve never understood the excitement of air travel. If there’s glitz to be found, it must be in the other terminal. The one I’m not flying in or out of. I’ve been on airplanes for as long as I can remember, racing the sun as it sets on the horizon. 

As a child a rattling DC3 – more tin can than twin engine – was the only way in or out of our little town. While other kids learned how to navigate bus routes and subway stations, I learned the most efficient way to maneuver through airports in various cities and towns, what to pack and what to carry. As an adult, I refined the art. I once flew to Washington, D.C. to sit through a meeting before flying to New Jersey for a presentation and then back to Arizona for an important event. In 24 hours.

For me, a plane doesn’t mean exotic places and breathtaking landscapes. It is simply a means to an end. There is, however, one thing that never disappoints. The boarding process.

It’s like playing Roulette – you never know what you’re going to get when you spin the wheel.  

In five minutes, this airplane is supposed to taxi down the runway and lift me up and away for nine days. But while everyone is seated, the woman directly in front of me has yet to park her disheveled rump. I’m secretly hoping the flight attendant will man up but watching her blatantly ignore him, I am resigned to the fact that we simply aren’t leaving the tarmac anytime soon.

“Lafayette? I have your duty-free merchandise.”

“I’m not Lafayette. I’m Rucher.”

“Ma’am, do you have a seat on this airplane?”

“I do, but it is at the back of the plane and they just boarded.”

“That doesn’t matter. You have a seat assignment and so do they. And you are in theirs. I have to ask you to move to your seat immediately so that you don’t delay our departure any longer.”

I’m headed to France not because it was my first choice, but because the girlfriend I arm twisted into going with me wanted Italy and I wanted Scotland and neither of us wanted England. But, the more I Googled the more I ogled. Ancient abbeys, opulent castles and towering cathedrals. Bucolic countryside and gardens bursting with color. Crepes, cheeses, wines and breads. A history so deep you could spend a lifetime swimming in it. Landscapes both pastoral and powerful. Looking up to see who "they" are, I can’t help but smile. The guidebooks were right.

French architecture is spectacular.

Rules of the Road.

If we weren’t in a Babylon standoff, this would be a good time to make casual mention of the professional camaraderie he shares with my late husband. Even mentioning the fact that he is my “late” husband might be helpful. Except that right now it doesn’t really matter what I have tucked away in my arsenal of feminine wiles because it is clear that he is not amused. 

At all.

And yet here I am, standing in the middle of a medieval cobblestone street wedged between the tiny car zipping us around Northern France and the irritated gendarmes glowering up at me from their unimpressive car of official importance. Irritated gendarmes who happened to turn down this tiny cobblestone street lined with tightly knit and not-quite-straight medieval buildings at the same time that we did. 

Going the wrong way.   

We have managed to ride the Paris underground, drive the city’s maze of fast-moving one-way streets and navigate small villages bursting with flowers, husbandry and centuries-old manor houses and cottages. We didn’t sink in fabled quicksand, jumped a car parked so close to the French Coast that if the wind blew any harder it would have gone into the French Coast and we’ve proven that tow trucks are no faster on this side of the pond than they are on the other. But it is here, in the labyrinth of this windblown seaside town’s walled and winding streets, that Fodors, Vodafone and good behavior have abandoned us.

I’ve asked a garbage man, an electrician and a surly waiter. We stopped in the middle of a road and accosted a lady out for a stroll. And I am fairly certain that when she turned to look for traffic and my face filled her window, the woman in the parking lot locked her car doors. The man parked in the alley was in my direction-seeking sights until we pulled close and realized he appeared to be busy with his toolbox. Which is why standing in the middle of this road with the long arm of the law glaring at me is on par with the American thunderstorm brewing in the little Twingo behind me.

“Vous parlez anglaise?”

“Non.”

“Ah.”

If you’ve been following along, you know that while challenges do not become me they also don’t get the best of me. And getting back in the car without a well-defined route to the beachfront retreat that is the entire – and only – reason we are lost is not an option. Mentally evaluating my options as I stand in the intersection of foreign irritation and friendly fire, I have no choice.

A smile. A flutter. “Directions, s’il vous plait?” Return to the smile. Flutter again. Movements that are as comfortable as a wet sweater or a pair of shoes two sizes too small. Watching his gestures and listening to his partner’s laughter I realize that no matter what happens in life, there are some things that never change. Like the way a smile can stop traffic.

And get you a police escort to the front door.