Making promises

Tags

discipline, Food, friends, goals, honor, hope, project, promise, restaurants, wine, writer, writing

I promised something the other day. A promise so promising that the little hairs raised on my arms. It was not without a bit of hesitation- the tug I felt was a nagging reminder of my habit of over commitment. I get so excited about things and ideas that I overcommit myself. I’m invincibly capable and optimistic, I’m also flighty and passionate in spurts. I grant myself naps as easily as committing to 10k runs (note to self, T-7 days til the next one).

I’m sitting at the bar in my favorite restaurant; the place where I go for my birthday, the place I recommend to strangers, the place I take myself on dates. I’m lounging alone, shamelessly slurping truffled tagolini through my teeth, twirling pasta onto my fork with a spoon, savoring sips of Montepulciano between bites.

There is an ebb and flow to restaurant life that engages the best parts of me. I love the hustle and flow of hospitality; the service and care of food and wine, moments punctuated by clinks of glass, sounds of voices filling the space. It’s the rolling of an ocean of little moments of bliss. What an amazing industry this is.

“They treat the grapes like it’s an Amaronè,” Jen’s schooling me as she pours me another glass of wine. “It’s honey and sunshine,” she coos while pouring herself a taste. Jens in work mode, she’s speaking in the dignified respectful tone of voice she reserves for guests. I’m just her friend here in the midst of all this energy, contributing my commentary via written words and appreciation.

I’m writing a bit between courses, pondering the things that make us better. I’ve promised 10 min of writing a day- each day, until the 21st. I am desperate for the nudge I need to write regularly again. Honoring myself is one thing, honoring my friend’s faith and admiration is another. I adore her. I’m better because of her. I’m writing this on my phone in a restaurant at 11:30pm because I respect her- and am hopeful that this; like every other thing we’ve collaborated on is a brilliant success. Legendary tales of epic proportions. Magic between magical people. Also- I respect myself. I want to set goals and not only meet them, but crush them. I want to be a writer, but writers are only writers if they write.

I’ve decided to give myself permission to succeed- taking my wildest dreams and taming those damn stubborn fearful beasts into docile lap kitties. It is possible. I’m wrestling with doubts and fears- nothing more. I’m capable of whatever I want. Overcommitted or not, my playing small does not serve the universe.

I like this. All of it. The challenge, the spontaneity, writing to be better; to honor something bigger. It feels right. It tastes good. One step, one bite, one sip after another.

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Taking a shower

Tags

Adventure, beginning, Casablanca, death, end, hope, life, loss, love, travel

“In English? Ahh no….” Haitham says. He says that every time we sit and open menus inevitably written in French. I wonder briefly if he is humoring me, trying to make me more comfortable. I haven’t really seen him and it’s become a bit awkward between us.
“Meat or fish darling?” He always asks the same question, and I always give the same answer.
“You pick love, I eat everything.”

He’d picked me up a bit earlier, frenzied and distracted. It was the middle of his work day. Dressed and ready, I felt like a little doll in his dollhouse, excited to be chaperoned through the next outing. He had a lot of unexpected problems that had kept him at work non stop, and I’ve spent my time in Casablanca alone, waiting for him. We were both feeling the strain, wanting our time together to be amazing and having circumstances make that impossible. After lunch, it’s back in the car, and back to his place where I’ll sit and wait until he is done with his day. I feel like I’m barely moving through each day, not participating as much as I’m smiling and nodding at the right times. I don’t know how to be me here. It is all so unfamiliar.

Later, I pace his spacious apartment, peering out to the courtyard imagining throwing a dinner party for our friends under the open sky. Despite it being beautifully furnished, it is nearly empty of personal items. There’s a couple novelty party hats, DVDs, and one pair of pajama pants, but that’s it. I sit under the skylight on the velvet couch and run my fingers along dust on the coffee table, leaving my mark. There isn’t much for me to do but wait. The internet has been forgotten and disconnected. TV only chatters in French or Arabic. The fridge holds cocktail mixers and a few things that needed to be tossed out. The only thing in the laundry pile were sheets and towels. A deep discomfort forms in the pit of my stomach. I don’t understand. “He doesn’t live here,” I think.

It would take me days to get the courage to ask him about it. By then, the thoughts had been ruminating in my mind too long. Especially when he would repeat his customary “I’ll be back in 10 minutes,” which meant anywhere from two to three hours. My thoughts always spiraled…He’s in an accident. He’s not telling me everything. The over abundance of cosmetic products worry me. The stripped bed and lack of personal artifacts stress me out. As does the fact that he doesn’t get ready here. Where the hell am I?

“This is where I stay when I need some time to myself,” he explains after I’d finally blurted out my discomfort one morning as he was leaving. “I’ve kept this place for years but mostly I stay with my parents,” he continued, no doubt perplexed by my outburst. I deflate a bit, not knowing what I expected him to say. Of course he does. That’s the norm here. It’s totally normal for people to live with their parents until marriage. I thought back to the beautiful pics he’d sent from his parents terrace. I’d probably stay there too.

The next day the phone ring splits through my half nap; he’s back to collect me. He’s still distracted from work and doesn’t tell me where we are going. I couldn’t know and don’t really care. Being with him punctuated my day, and I was still hopeful our time together would turn magic again. We speed through the streets and end up at our friend Fatim’s house, the beautiful girl in the red dress I met in Miami. I’m starved for the familiarity, so excited to see her.

“I can’t believe the girl from the elevator is in my living room,” Fatim laughs and sets down a tray of glass decanters filled with three different types of juice. It is beyond surreal. We’re seated in a gorgeous plush room. It’s my first taste of a visit to a home. More drinks and food are brought out by a woman. She nods and smiles at me, eyes cast down.

We’re sitting sipping fresh orange juice, and Haitham’s phone rings. He grabs his smokes and excuses himself, and us girls launch straight into girl talk. We hash about our ex’s, hopeful conversation about how maybe we aren’t damaged from the things we’ve been through, but I know I am. My imagination spins out of control at the slightest hint of absurdity.
“How is everything?” She asks me and I wonder what to say.
“He’s very busy.” I continue carefully, “I don’t even think he knows how stressed out he is. I think this stress level has become normal for him. It’s just too much.”
She nods. She knows.

Other friends show up. I’m enthusiastically introduced, everyone wants to meet the American girlfriend from Miami, except I’m unable to communicate other than through smiles and nods. Everyone speaks French. I sit, sip, and pretend to relax, like I’m not feeling alone in a room full of people.

The topic was our friend Amin and his sister. Their father had passed away unexpectedly about a week before, and the hush this left amongst the group was palpable. They were sorting out heading over to console the family, and Fatim graciously stopped to explain the whys and how’s to me, “When someone we love- friends, or family, has something bad happen,” she paused looking for the way to explain in English,”We share each others pain.”

I’m struck by the tenderness of this. It’s such an incredibly different culture from my own, and I’m regretfully unfamiliar and unprepared for it all. But this? This idea resonates with me deeply. Their foundation is built on a deep resolve of respect and loyalty. I’m drawn to it, wanting to ask more but not sure of the questions.

We all leave and again, as we get in the car I’m not sure where we’re going. I’m surprised when we pull up to a house and I see everyone there too. He brought me to their house? I stiffen with discomfort, aware that this family and their grief is an incredibly personal thing. Haitham senses my discomfort, and takes my arm in his, “We’re going to spend some time here. It is important. This is what we do.” I nod not having a choice, and hastily re wrap my scarf to cover my shoulders. My hair is down, I’ve got makeup on, I’m all wrong for this. I feel uncomfortable. It’s not fair, I wasn’t told I’d be here! I wanted to explain, to pull on his arm and beg to go home, but couldn’t. Instead I walked into a beautiful home full of family and friends to be together; to share their pain.

The hair stands up on my arms from the raw beauty of it all. The house itself is incredible, spacious and ornately detailed, every inch luxury. There are about a dozen women traditionally dressed, hair covered in beautiful wraps with matching Jilbab dresses surrounding the widow who is dressed in all white, as is customary for 40 days after her husband has passed.

Amin greets me like an old friend. Only a few weeks ago we were out partying in Miami, and now somehow I’m in his home in Casablanca with his family. I can hardly begin to absorb it all. He is incredibly kind, bringing me in close with a hug. A wonderful host, he is the one to introduce me to everyone new. I nod, smile, and to everyone in turn kiss both cheeks before perching on a velvet settee in the corner. Tiny china plates with perfectly folded napkins are placed before everyone and giant curved platters follow heaped with pastries and almonds, served one after the other. Next is mint tea, it is ever present in Casablanca and there is nothing like it in the world. I look around at everyone tucked into hushed conversations. What am I doing here?

After a bit, Amin brings his mother over to meet me. Incredibly humbled and grateful to be there, however inappropriate, I bow my head unable to communicate my condolences. “Meaghan,” Amin says, “This is my mother. Mom, this is Meaghan.” Everyone is silent, watching us. She looks at me and smiles, “American?” She laughs and breaks the ice. Everyone laughs, and she continues in beautiful simple English,”Welcome to my home.” In this moment, I admire her strength and understanding. We are just people, in uncomfortable and unfamiliar situations and I’m grateful for her bit of humor. I’m grateful to be there to share it all.

In the car on the way home, Haitham and I are silent. Despite the fact that I’m on vacation, I’ve found myself in the thick of real, raw life. I’d hoped to experience Casablanca to it’s fullest and I had. I was living life here, real life. Emotionally exhausted, in limbo, a bit lost- headed back to the dollhouse I tilt my head back against the head rest and breathe.

Back at the apartment that he doesn’t use, I feel the weight of everything; my friends loss of his father, my loneliness, Haitham’s absence and the longing for our connection to reappear, the unfamiliarity of it all, my desperation to be appropriate…

In Casablanca there is a thin film of red dust that travels with the wind. It covers everything; the buildings, cars, people, the insides of my nostrils and throat. As I wash it off me later, the dirt from my feet pooling in the bottom of the shower, I finally break down and cry.

Walking home

Tags

Adventure, destiny, hope, love, miami, path, romance, story, travel, universe

June 11, 2013

Wincing, I peel very slowly- a two day old band-aid off my left heel. I mentally calculate that its been through three showers and note to self… gross.

I have bravely, impetuously been breaking in new shoes to wear all over Europe, trying in vain to save myself from the mistake I made years ago with my pony hair zebra print flats. They left my feet so battered that I had no feeling along the side of my right big toe for years. Although, I’m not faring very well now I surmise looking at my bandaged toes.

It’s one of the things on my increasingly long to do list. It seems every time I cross something off, I remember something else. Buy plug converters. Make sure passport has enough pages. Pay old parking ticket, and for that matter- where does one park a car for the summer?

I am spiraling from an elated high, the anticipation of a summer of certain life changing adventure- way down to logic and foresight. What if I run out of money or don’t have anywhere to stay? Or worse…what if I get kidnapped and chained in a basement somewhere??

“….And she was never heard from again..” my friend teased me. I was overanalyzing while chowing on pre movie pizza, drinking happy hour wine. I was, as usual, obsessing.
“Stop!” I laughed, swinging my glass of Sangiovese. “Didn’t I get enough shit when I was swept off by the last Moroccan?” He looked at me and rolled his eyes.
“Only you could say something like that.” He was right. Leave it to me to meet Morocco, the sequel.

Last Saturday, I strapped on sassy ankle high boots, black leather short shorts, and sashayed to meet friends at a Lincoln Road hot spot. As I approached the crosswalk, I noticed a trio emerging from a cab, two guys, and a girl with a fabulous red dress on chatting in French. We all waited at the crosswalk and I strode on to Juvia, a restaurant overlooking South Beach. Best place to sip champagne. I stepped in the elevator and as the doors began to shut, an arm swung in from the side and caught it. The same people from the crosswalk step in, laughing amongst themselves. Once in the restaurant, I met with my friends just in time for them to want to leave. We headed instead to Segefredo to sink into couches and cocktails, one of my favorite places to sit and watch the South Beach parade; runway if you will. After all, it was Saturday night.

My friend had been waiting for a guy to join us all night. Not uncommon, most of us locals operate selfishly and consistently on what we refer to as “Miami time”, which is about an hour to an hour and a half late. He finally arrived and introduced himself to the group. She looked pointedly at me at some point and said, “He’s from Morocco.”

Immediately stirred up, I tune in. My ex was from Morocco. I believe when he told me he was from Casablanca I immediately asked, only half joking- “Is that a real place?” I had to look it up on a map. Not a proud moment.

As we were settled in talking, drinking, socializing- more friends approached. I looked up in disbelief. It was the people from the crosswalk and the elevator. I threw my hands up in welcome laughing, “I feel like I’ve seen you everywhere tonight, right?” I stood to double kiss everyone hello, they laughed with recognition, and the chemistry of the group elevated a notch. Turns out, they were visiting from Casablanca.

One of the guys sat right by my side. We began to chat, his face revealing more than he knew. I immediately recognize this trait, I can rarely hide my thoughts. Whatever I’m thinking or feeling is all over my face. On him it was so endearing, this man was interested in me, I realized with a grin. He was disarmingly handsome and had an incredible accent. We alternated between small talk between ourselves and the conversation between the group of us. My summer travels came up.
“I am going to Europe,” I said. “For four months.”
“Ooooooh nice,” he exclaimed. “Where to?”
“I thought about Morocco,” I said honestly. I’d wanted to go there since I’d dated my ex, but with him it would have never happened. It might have well been a fictional city from the movie like I thought.
“You should come,” he said effortlessly. His friends chimed in, “Yes yes! You have to, you’ll love it,” they exclaimed. I beamed, suddenly excited. It was so foreign to me to hear. Almost like I hadn’t been allowed to go.

I told them about London, Dublin, St.Tropez and Paris, to which he remarked- “Paris? I have a place in Paris. Let me know when, and you can stay there. I’ll call my guy. He’ll meet you with the keys.”

I breathed in sharply. Was this a joke? Had I really met another handsome Moroccan who speaks 5 languages and has a place in Paris? Seriously? Yet this guy was different. He was so open, natural, easy. There was no anxiety, I didn’t feel like I was being tested, or was walking on eggshells like I did with Marc. He seemed genuine, open, like his heart was pounding out of his chest.

“You know,” he said slowly, eyes cast down. “When I first saw you at the crosswalk, I felt like lightening had struck me. I said immediately to my friends, ‘Whoa whoa whoaaaa. Look at this girl, she is amazing. This is my girl.’ ”
They all laughed and teased telling me the story. Our story.
“Her legs!” The girl in the red dress exclaimed. “It’s your legs,” she’d cooed as I’d stood there oblivious.
“Then we got on the elevator,” he continued. “And you were there too. I didn’t know what to do. I lost you in the restaurant. I looked everywhere.”
“She was sitting down,” the girl exclaimed. “I saw you,” she smiled at me.
“I kept asking, where is my girl?” He continued. “Where did my girl go? You left before I knew it.”
“And then you arrived here,” I continued, clapping my hands, loving the story.
“Yes,” he laughed again. “They were coming here to meet up with everyone” he said gesturing to friends of friends, our little group considerably expanded. “But I was heading back to the hotel. I was done, just so so tired. Then I saw you,” he looked at me and smiled. “It is destiny. I was supposed to meet you.”

My heart was now thumping out of my chest as well.
“I feel like I found you. I was calling you my girl before I’d even met you,” he reached down to take my hand, and I let him. I sighed, resigned. I know full well I have no defenses against this. Romance of this caliber is what I’ve come to expect from happily ever after.

“I don’t know anything abut you,” I said, shy the next morning when I picked him up at his hotel after a night apart. (I am a good girl).
“Ask me anything,” he laughed. My mind was blank, where to start?… We settled into the drive and silence. He chimed in after a few minutes, “I know how I feel when I’m with you. The rest, we will learn in time.” I relaxed, his ease contagious. I realized I felt the same. No need to make it stressful. We just were. We were together because we wanted to be, headed out to spend the day on a boat with friends. My hand was in his, smiles on our faces.

The next couple of days were a romantic whirlwind. Tiny moments seared into my memory. The two of us standing waist deep in the ocean, his thumb and finger tilting my chin up to his face and saying, incredulous “I’m falling in love,” as I melted. Coming back from a morning run to him tangled in my sheets. My heart pounding, watching him sleep while thinking, “Is this him? Is this my person?” Leaning my back into his chest with his arms around me, stretched out on a chaise lounge ocean side, watching the waves and feeling the rise and fall of his breath.

Plans were made, things were whispered, Sinatra was sung. We had a blast enjoying every minute we could. All too soon, I took him to the airport. As we parked, my favorite song magically began playing. Etta James, “At Last” had us suspended in a perfect moment. Even though we were running late and delirious form lack of sleep, we sat for a moment and listened to the song til the end. I’d brought a card to write a love note in, and was carrying it with me through the airport pen in hand, unable to think of a single thing to say. Standing in line, I used his back and finally penned; “Although we are apart, it is our destiny to be together again,” and tucked the card into his backpack.

I walked by his side until I couldn’t anymore. We hurried our goodbyes, neither of us wanting to have to say them. I turned to leave, disoriented and completely lost suddenly. I turned the wrong way and walked with purpose until I realized I had no idea where the parking garage was. I turned back and as I passed him again, I hurried, embarrassed for being so disoriented and flustered. I finally found my way out to my car and sat for a bit, trying to get my bearings. Had that just happened?

I don’t know what happens now. For the first time in my life, I am free. I’m single, I have no obligations for the next four months, I’ve sublet my place and am prepped to travel the world and write about it, one meal at a time. I was very settled into the idea of a summer alone, exploring…. and now this.

“We will travel together,” he shrugs as I try to stifle the thrill this brings me. He has such grandiose ideas of travel, “I’ve always wanted someone to share the world with. I want someone to travel with me.” My insides tugged with recognition, hadn’t I said those exact words myself? Haven’t I felt just that as I stood before a thousand memorable moments and soaked them in solo? He speaks 5 languages I don’t know, but this language I knew. This subtle longing for your other half is familiar to me.

My most independent self thinks I will do exactly as my Irish ass intends, and if he is the man for me, he will be more than happy to support me. Even if I am a fool, I am a fool in love with life. Everything has aligned for a summer of enlightenment in ways I cant possibly predict. I had planned to forge solo, and at times I will. I insist I am not going to be afraid, or lonely (despite past evidence to the contrary- it is not the first time I’ve swan dived off the top branch). I am going to embrace this as the blessing that it is, and frolic the world until my heart is content.

But first, I will go and be with the man who wants to share the world with me. Casablanca, Ivory Coast, Marrakech, Fez- Barcelona, Paris, and and and… working our way to Thailand. Maybe Bora Bora? He calls me from Morocco to hear my voice. My phone pings love notes from him all day. Pics of his friends saying hi, pics of him at the office, pics of him driving. He’s keeping me with him until I can be with him; the whole thing participatory, open, honest, easy. The partnership I’ve always wanted.

I’m a little anxious. What do I fear? I’m not even sure anymore. The man of my dreams being another fake? Losing my gumption to follow my dreams? I guess, yes and yes… I’m also vibrating with excitement. I’m about to embark on the greatest journey of my life to date. Excited, nervous…either way, a mile in my shoes will be worth walking. Blisters or no, I’m in.

Writing it down

Tags

Adventure, beginning, change, driving, epiphany, explore, future, hope, Hopeful, letter, love, note, quote, self, travel, universe, writing

Back in September, I was driving late at night, suspended over the ocean on the causeway, top down, music slightly louder than my singing…. Utterly content, belly full of food and wine, I felt invincible. I felt like I was capable of whatever I wanted. Of course, the question popped into my head- What DO I want? I mean really truly deep down want in my life? I grabbed my phone, hit record, and began to ramble whatever thought went through my head. Keep in mind I was slightly cocked.

This- is that ramble of thoughts. I listened to it today- going through old voice memos on my phone. A little funny, a little scattered, I’d completely forgotten about it. It’s been 6 months- and it’s curious to see what’s come true and what’s coming to fruition. Regardless, it feels like a time capsule, a nod from my subconscious. A “Hello future self” letter to me, from me. A little reminder to keep me focused on what I want to surround myself with, who I want to be.

Sept 19, 2012
1:41 AM
Things that I want;
I want perfectly soft scrambled eggs. I never want to eat burnt toast. Bread should crackle like it does in France. I want chewy bacon. I want medium rare steaks.

I want pants that fit correctly. I want heels that are the perfect height, and never give me blisters. I always want my hair to look absolutely amazing.

I want my women selfless, kind and generous. I want my men to be slightly unavailable, completely loyal dashing gentlemen.

I want to be able to travel anywhere I could possibly want to go. I want to be able to make my job photography, writing, food and travel.

I want to be held to the highest regard because I am completely respected. I am admired, and I am trusted. People want to be around me, people want to be me, people want to be with me. I want to be important, but I want to be completely unaffected by it. I donʼt want to be an asshole.

I want to spend the rest of my life from here on out with the man that I am supposed to be with. I want to be with somebody that I adore as naturally as breathing. We’ll bring out the best in each other, inspiring and supporting, each the others biggest fan. We’ll reciprocate all that is good, build something strong. I want us to be stupidly, ridiculously consumed with love. We’ll have our own language; our routines, habits and inside jokes invent our own universe amongst everyone else here. I want the world to be ours, and I want our world to revolve around each other.

I want to write. I want to have the diligence and perserverance and patience to be able to write things that are really important. I want to be able to write things that are unimportant. I want to be able to write whatever comes to my mind, have the wherewithal to be able to continue it, and pursue it in a way that is consistent enough that I could do something like a blog or a book or a movie…. I want to be able to submit that to somebody and have them say, “Where have you been? Youʼre revolutinizing things! You are brilliant we are going to publish this immediately! We couldnʼt be happier.”

And to this I will say “ Yesss yess yesssss….”

Making dinner

Tags

chef, cooking, date, excitement, feast, Food, love, new, ocean, travel

I’ve been flirting, lately. A lot. Ill spare you the details about how he is halfway around the world, and how I saw him for only hours…over a year ago. How somehow, we’ve stayed in touch. Sporadically, he will cross my mind. I’ll smile, feeling warmth in my tummy and send him a quick hello from my side of the ocean. The important thing to know is this; if all goes well, I will see him soon.

Throughout the day my phone pings texts from him and my heart leaps. I love when its all new and exciting, when the possibilities are endless. What goes unsaid and unknown is woven into little hopeful romantic daydreams. I am in full girl crush mode, my anticipation level is through the roof. Especially when we start to talk about food.

Today I coyly, yet honestly- offered to cook for him. Sometime. Maybe.
His response, “What’s on my menu?”, stopped me mid prance. I fumbled a response about how I’d think about it and get back to him.

I rarely work from menus. My food is usually a manifestation of my thoughts and environment that moment. Something I saw, something I hope to replicate, refine, personalize. A change in the weather. A trip I took. The way I felt when I ate something, anything. Everything inspires me.

Cooking for someone, to feed someone, is so incredibly gratifying that its almost selfish on my part. It’s satiating feeding people I care about. But rarely do I cook for someone I like. It’s too much pressure. What one expects from a chef (I assume) is fantastically inspired food with perfect technique sprinkled with Michelin Stars. I haven’t disappointed anyone yet, but still. I can’t assume I know what they like, or how they like it. Its also a little intimidating. I don’t always use Michelin Stars when I cook. I prefer rustic and simple, yet one does not want to disappoint when one has upped their own ante.

There are other factors. Although I’m hardly a food snob, I have a hard time respecting overly picky eaters. The phrase “I don’t like it” is only ok for me from a child. And even then I’d respond, “How do you know? You’ve never tried it. What if it’s your favorite food and you’re missing out?”
(Side note- my double standard is this; I will not eat peanut butter. Or ketchup. Or mangos. So there.)

What to make for someone I’m trying to impress on a personal level is very different from the party tricks I pull on a professional job. What do I communicate through my food? My plate? I think of the things I love most when I eat; smoke, fat, meat, crunch, juice, acidity, balance, crisp, fresh, tender. My grandmother’s spaghetti sauce, my Mother’s apple pie. I am always looking for the next perfect bite. Not a thing on my plates is without purpose, everything is there in harmony with everything else. It is my craft, my art.

In the end, when I get the privilege to cook for this man, or when he gets the privilege to eat my food (however you want to look at it) of this I am sure, It will be something beautifully simple and honest, prepared with the utmost attention and care. What I give to other people through my cooking is love, from me. What it will be is yet to be determined, but oh the fun of daydreaming tastes delicious. Plenty enough to hold me over until I can taste the real thing. Until then : )

Wearing a sweater

Tags

Adventure, explore, friend, friendship, Haiti, superman, sweater, world, writing

I wake up, and with my eyes still closed, I realize there is someone in my apartment. Noises; shuffling, drawer, bottle top popped. I am hardly cognizant of anything other than how parched I am. Vaguely noting my general lack of alarm, all sensory aptitude coated in a hazy sleep cloud, I remember. Nathan is here. Oh, right.

“Mmmmmmph”, I summon, and stretch myself across the sheets. “You’re here,” I state the obvious, sleepy and needy. He appears with water. “Did you sleep here?” I asked, still a bit drunk. He laughed. “You were awfully cuddly for someone who doesn’t remember someone else in their bed.”

This startles me. Was he teasing? Or did my subconscious recognize him through my blackout and snuggle in like a puppy in a huddle? It’s certainly possible. We’ve never been in the same country long enough to actually date, but we’ve always held an odd candle for each other. Over the years we’ve evolved to a kind of beautiful plutonic love. The feeling that you get from wearing your ex boyfriends cashmere sweater; it was something else once, but now it’s gently comfortable and familiar, nostalgic even. That is my Nathan now. Definition unnecessary, we just are.

He is back from volunteering in Haiti doing medical work in situations that I, nor 90% of the planet have the capacity to comprehend. It is one of the thousands of things about him that I marvel at. He’d walked into the clinic and was stunned by the instant relief and gratitude for his presence. “Thank God you’re here,” they’d said. I could just picture him looking over his shoulder for the person behind him that they were surely talking to, not realizing that he was their hero. Of course, he jumped right in. A woman tending to a man needing stitches said to Nathan, “Here, stitch him up and I’ll be right back”. Despite the fact he’d never done that before, he stitched him up. “She never came back.” He said, telling me the story. My hands flew to cover my open mouth at the mere idea of stitching someones face . “But he looked great.” He laughed. “I high-fived him on the way out.”

He is in the states for 4 whole days before heading to Africa, a long stretch for him. He’s never somewhere for long. He moves seamlessly from one amazing cause to the next, leaving every thing and everyone better. One of his more endearing traits is just that. He has no idea how incredible he is. He is modest and humble in a way that you only see from someone who is so complete with themselves, they are able to truly give to others without needing anything in return. From his perspective, it’s just his life.

He’s just the regular guy that free dives the deepest oceans, has been attacked by sharks twice, taught children English in Korea, has been a Chef, an Engineer, and apparently a doctor. He spent months on a whale watching expedition. He can play guitar, dance and speak Spanish from a stint in Guatemala. He writes love letters. And once, he laid on the top deck of a yacht with me under the stars in the Bahamas and planned out my “things to do before I turn 30” list. He has been to every corner of the globe, probably twice, and is as brilliant as he is charming. He even slightly resembles Superman.

The night before, both of us desperate from a break from our current situations, we’d plunged into the type of Miami night that can not be planned. A birthday drink with a friend turned into a feast at La Sandwicherie, shots at The Deuce and karaoke at Studio. It was a grimy free for all kind of fun that you can only achieve by not caring abut a single thing, toasting everything and regretting nothing.

I needed it so bad. Nathan being there was like therapy. Of course I couldn’t shut up about my stupid ex stress, and Nathan listened like the great person he is despite coming from Haiti a few hours earlier. A place with actual problems. “Well, that says a lot about his childhood.” He’d pointed out when I told him how abandoned I felt. “That’s probably what happened to him, and why he does that now.” We sipped Hierbas from Ibiza, Amstel Lights, and backed it up with the Haitian rum Nathan had gifted me, fully aware that the night held exactly the kind of promise one could hope for when one starts by triple fisting drinks.

This morning he had woken up after only sleeping a few hours, needing to purge thoughts onto a page. Waking up to the sound of him typing on my laptop was sweet. The result was an incredible email, sent to loved ones and myself. When forwarded to my mom she responded with, “Left reeling by the power of these words. Reading this makes me realize I don’t use my brain, or my life to anywhere near its capacity. What a wonderful human. How good he is for humanity.”

Before he left, all too soon, I showed him my Nathan Diaries. A series of emails between us that spanned our 5 years as friends. We sifted through letters, reading each others writing. It is the closest thing I have to an actual diary, seeing as though I never seem to write as consistently as I promise myself. It is enlightening to read over years of our struggles and triumphs, our paths winding around the world on land and at sea. Despite always being apart, we are so connected. Knowing he is always mid adventure inspires me.

I sit now wearing a sweater he’d worn the night we went out, the two of us again in different hemispheres, grateful for his words.

“So often I catch us sneaking a glance at the last page and then just putting the book down. That just leaves us with nothing to read, and far worse, seems to say that the point of a book is the last page! If that we’re true the best books would be the shortest and the most certain way to enjoy a book would be to read it quickly. Neither is true. We read for the love and the joy of it and I’m pleased you got to the end of this story the way it was intended.”

For his words… inspire mine.

The best way to…

Tags

humor, Italian, love, quote, sex

The best way to get over someone, is to get under an Italian.

Riding a bike

Tags

age, bike, break up, change, children, failure, fairy tale, falling, love, mom, new, old, single, superwoman

“Get in here”, she beckoned me into the bathroom. “Grab a seat”, she said gesturing to the kiddie stool next to the sink. “Here’s a preview of what your life will be like in 10 years.” Obediently, often feeling like very much a child myself, I sat.

Two squirmy, wriggling, wet, naked kids were laughing and splashing in the tub wrangled by my neighbor mom friend. She grabbed them by their feet and dumped water over their heads using a bucket, soaping them up with tenderness and humor.
“Get over here stinky monkey!” she said in exactly the same tone used with me that put my butt on a stool in her bathroom. Privy to this little family ritual, I watched with admiration and a slight bit of discomfort. I don’t know anything about this world.

Kidlets toweled dry and wrestled into PJ’s, the four of us piled on a bedroom floor and listened to her read stories, seamlessly navigating through mini sibling spats over who got to push the sound button on a book. I relaxed a bit, savoring this. This little family was so sweet and it felt special being included, until realized I was drinking a glass of wine and felt slightly out of place again. What was I doing here amongst this beautiful little ritual? After watching her clean up dinner from the three of them, bathe them both, tug them into PJ’s, read to them in English and Spanish, kiss their heads and turn down the lights- I was ready for bed and it wasn’t even 9PM.

We sank into her chairs overlooking the bay, a panoramic view of Miami, and I launched into the reason I was there in the first place. I needed a venue for an upcoming event, and Kris had a hook up. It would be a fancy, amazing, opportunity to show off to “people who matter” style kind of dinner party. We talked business, opportunity, specifics, and I felt great about the whole thing; confident, capable. She looked at my excitement, probably noting either my relief or my overcompensation, and asked, “How are you?”
I cocked my head and she clarified, “I mean, emotionally, physically, financially.”
I sat back, suddenly heavy. Busted.

“It’s…..all of it.” I said with a heavy sigh. “It’s everything.” I tried to explain, in shorthand what had been going on lately.

Emotionally, I am crippled. I’m trying to sort through being left by someone who, in hindsight, turns out was never really available to begin with. I am coming off of the most amazing fairy tale romance, dealing with dismissive apathy from a person who loves me, doesn’t want to be with me, yet had just flown me around the world. I didn’t understand, stories like ours were supposed to have happy endings. My past few months were occupying my present thoughts constantly. I spent my time over-analyizing; self conscious, frustrated, and exhausted by it all.

Physically, I’m finding running isn’t the psycological reset button it used to be. I want to stay in bed every morning I wake up, and yet I can’t sleep. I’m drinking too much, I’m eating irresponsibly. My time is my own and I’m trying to use it constructively, but it’s a struggle. My emotions have turned into a palpable thing, I can feel it in my stomach; a sinking feeling, a tightness in my throat. Physically, I feel like I’m sick.

Financially, I’m not where I am used to being. I’ve always been fiercely independent and self sufficient. Ambitious and confident, I started my own private chef/ event planning company business back in May, but I let it fall to the wayside when I got swept away to Europe for the summer by my emotionally immature Prince. I landed, unexpectedly- with a giant thud, back into reality. Starting from scratch was difficult. I defiantly refuse to fall to pieces professionally, I am nothing if not resourceful. I just wished business was better.

I am also stronger than all of this. This is not the first time I’ve fallen hard, for someone, from someone; and as my mother reminds me at times like these, I always land on my feet. It is just a matter of time before this wound heals, and I will never give up hope that everything happens exactly as it should. I am doing everything in my power to nurture myself. I’m giving myself time to be sad, being honest about the path change requires. I will be upset…. until one day, I will get so sick of being upset that I’ll shake it all off, and move on. It’s a process.

Kris listened to all of this pouring out of me thoughtfully, and kindly reminded me of all of my accomplishments and potential. I look up to her so much, this superwoman who has a beautiful family, a booming business that takes her all over the world, and who runs marathons in her spare time. When I grow up, I want to be her.

She heard her 4 year old creep out of bed like a dog hears a silent whistle. She whispered to her, “psst pssst!” inviting her in and scooping her up, snuggling her into her lap. I watched the way their identical faces moved as they talked to each other, both of them sleepy. I again felt how intimate this was for me, being in her home with her family.

“Meaghan has a dream” she explained to her mini me in kid speak.
“What do we say when you want to ride your bike?” she asked.
“I can do it”. The little one mumbled slowly, sleepy.
“And if you want to go roller-blading, what do we say?”
“I can do it”.
……“And what do we say if you fall down?”
I felt my chest constrict with emotion, my hand flying to cover my heart, tears immediately in my eyes.
“It’s OK to fall.”
“And we try again, right?”
“Yeah” she said, with sleepy conviction.

Kris looked at me and smiled, and in that moment I was so grateful for her. It was exactly what I needed to hear, the permission I needed. She told me, in the most beautiful way, something we all need to be reminded of, at 4 years of age, at 30 years of age, at every age. I smiled at them both, promising myself.

I will get up. I will try again. I will succeed.

You mustn’t be afraid to…

Tags

better, brave, dream, love, quote

You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger darling.

May in Miami

May in Miami is the culmination of everything I love. It’s a stew of my passions: candid snapshots of friends, tables decorated with my collection of favorite flowers and dishes- detailed down to vintage espresso spoons to scoop smoked french salt from sea glass blue bowls. I love cooking something with care and attention, heaping it onto plates, pouring generous glasses of wine into friends balloon stem ware, and having a feast.

For years, I’ve been herding my friends to a dinner table, coffee table, or couch- (people always managing space even in my tiny studio) and feeding them food that I have too much love for to keep to myself. To feed someone is so nurturing, and there are no better times I’ve had than the ones where everyone is fat and happy, drinking wine and telling stories. The memories I hold most dear, usually involve food.

In my life, and in my business; I strive to set the stage for these moments to happen frequently, and organically. Mix a group of friends, thoughtful ambiance, a dash of music, soulful food, and you’ve got an extraordinary experience. True to my nature, I want to share it with everyone, and I hope to accomplish that with this blog.

Welcome to the journey!