Since returning to Park City, I have had several people ask the inevitable “How was your trip?” Normally this is a fairly easy question to answer, but the brevity of the visit in concert with an abundance of peculiar introductions and instances tripped my attempts to respond. Days later, I still am not sure I have fully processed the whirlwind that was last week.
As I mentioned, I seemed to meet a greater than average number of strangers proportionate to the short time I was away. If I were to tell you of each of them, I would surely lose your interest to weariness (vignettes of cab drivers alone could comprise a novella). However, given that these characters were a major source of amusement, activity, impressions, and recollections, I must mention a few.
Enter the first of a long line of these strangers: Darnell. I met Darnell at a bar (where else?) somewhere in the coliseum that is the Dallas International Airport. Sure, it was ten in the morning, but I had a two-hour layover ahead of me and it seemed like the best way to pass time. Besides, isn’t that what people do on vacation? Darnell is a mechanical engineer in Philadelphia, who, upon hearing that I grew up in Los Angeles, divulged that he would like more than anything to move to L.A. but was bound to Philly because he belonged to the engineering association there (I had no idea such things existed). Anyhow, remember when I told you about the looks I received when relaying my “say ‘yes’ to everything” escapade? Well, Darnell was also the first of a long line of strangers to make me feel as though I had just uttered those words again. Except this time I was telling him that I was on my way to TAMPA to watch UCSB, a fifteen seed, play the Gators. Oh yeah, I’ve seen that look before. Coincidentally, Darnell was on his way to Vegas to place a number of large bets on the tournament. For the next hour, we watched last minute bracket tips on ESPN and shared our life stories. Before he left, Darnell picked up my tab (Blue Moon, to go with my orange juice at breakfast) and asked me to switch my flight to Vegas. I could be his good luck charm, and maybe he’d win enough to move to L.A. after all. I told him I would consider it if, and only if, he bet on a Gaucho upset. I boarded my flight to Tampa an hour later. But not before I saw that look again.
I should probably also make mention of the lovely disheveled girl who shoved me out of the way at the taxi podium upon landing in Tampa. With her mascara and off-the-shoulder sweatshirt running down the same tousled direction, she demanded to know where she could get a taxi (it was clearly marked). “Where to, ma’am?” asked the polite men in white. “I-onno!” She seemed offended by the inquiry. “Closest Walmart??” Despite the minor assault, I was relieved to find a girl more lost and confused about what she was doing there than I was.
I made my way to the opulent Best Western without another hitch. The first thing I did when I got to my room was to put on my UCSB swimsuit (purchased, coincidentally, at the Goleta Walmart). The fence separating the parking lot and the “pool” (winter foliage bin) may as well have been nonexistent, but I didn’t care one bit. I didn’t even mind that I could watch main street traffic from my plastic lawn chair (or the obvious converse of this view). I was bathing in 80 degrees of non-electronic, non-wood burning heat -- and it was glorious. An hour later, I was joined by my travel companion (who I did not introduce earlier in case he’d prefer to no longer affiliate with me after this trip. We’re good.)
Without further ado, meet Shahan, who was kind (though I could substitute other words) enough to join me on this off the cuff excursion:
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| Isla Vista, May 2007 |
He would be the gentleman resting on the roof. Clearly, Shahan is a Gaucho to the core. This, amongst others, is the reason I knew he’d make the perfect person to share the trip with. The funny thing is, prior to the two straight days we spent together in Tampa, Shahan and I had spent less than 47 collective hours together. I can list the number of times we’ve hung out on one hand. But I have found that Shahan is one of those people that I “know” without even really knowing at all. Additionally, I’ve certainly put him through some things in the few times we have journeyed off together and he hasn’t (yet) gone running for the hills. There was the time we went to a Dodgers game in San Diego. I was so distracted by the sights that I stepped off the curb right in the path of a maniacal cab driver. I’d likely be a permanent stadium fixture had Shahan not tossed me out of the way. Then a Padres fan accosted me, causing me to lose both Shahan and my ticket in the shuffling crowd. Miraculously, with no cell phone service, I found Shahan after the man who’d separated us gave me his ticket, which somehow happened to be in the same section as my original. Why Shahan chose to go on this adventure with me despite these and other (even less flattering) trials is beyond me. I’m just glad he did. Evidently, it is my tendency to wander. Back to Tampa...
Our first glimpses of the Tampa landscape occurred on our stroll to find the closest liquor store. Two men hanging out on a bench kindly offered to drive us there, but we opted to walk in favor of “seeing the sights”… and not being kidnapped. For dinner, we settled on a place within walking distance that served Chicago style deep dish pizza, i.e. substantial drinking food. I immersed myself in each step of the way. I loved the rush hour traffic at dusk, the warm and heavy humid air, the evening breeze. It had been well over five months since I’d worn a dress and flip flops, and I was so euphoric from the lightness of it all you may as well have let me loose in a nude colony (I hear there are plenty of those in Florida). Halfway there, Shahan stopped to ask three construction workers if we were on the right track. “He’s making you work for your dinner, eh?” one of them grunted. “Don’t they all?” I yelled back, already skipping away. (Of course, this contradicts the entirety of my previous post.)
After dinner we took a cab to meet up with the cheer girls. For fear of getting overly sentimental, suffice it to say that seeing their familiar faces was even better than I could have anticipated. They are quite simply some of UCSB's best and brightest, and a treat - in every sense of the word - to be around. I can’t speak for Shahan, but I would be curious to know what was going through his head playing dirty Thumper and Ten Fingers with a room full of cheerleaders. On second thought, maybe it’s best I don’t know. Ever.
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| March 16, 2011 |
From there we took cabs to some Irish bar. I cannot tell you much beyond that. I do know that I took a lot of pictures of random strangers singing karaoke, as evidenced by this gem I found in the morning:
Though, I don’t know what possessed me to do so. I also discovered that we karaoke’d to Chris Brown’s “Drop it Low” (more or less our theme song at last year’s Big West and NCAA tournaments; obviously a great American classic). I only pray that no one else at the bar was as trigger happy with a camera as I was.
Needless to say, I felt terrible the entire next day. I knew it was going to be a rough one when I stepped out of the hotel room and muttered, “I don’t like the temperature of this hallway.” I had one of those hangovers where every smell, sound, touch, and taste acted as a tormenting creature (melodramatic, maybe, but we've all been there). We walked across the street to have brunch at Ihop. And the warm climate I loved so much just the evening before? I despised it. The dense, sticky air made me feel ill. I loathed the waitress for sitting us next to the bright window. I kept my sunglasses on. I closed my eyes, propped my elbow on the table, and crutched my heavy head against a shade of fingers. I apologized to Shahan for not being social. He assured me that it was OK, that everyone would just think we were in a fight. “Or married,” I offered. Within five minutes, I excused myself to the restroom. Between dry heaves, I had to listen to a woman with three screaming toddlers ask the baby she was changing whether or not having a clean butt was important to him (in high pitched crooning much too delighted for someone wiping said behind). I was convinced I was being punished. When I emerged from the stall, I got the most unapproving look I’d seen in a while. I understood, of course. The last time this lady threw up so early in the day it was because of morning sickness, not bar shenanigans. The food came out as I was sitting back down. I requested a box to go before the plate even touched the table. I was going no where with this International Passport. I conceded defeat to any dignity I had left (minimal at this point), recoiled into fetal position, and slowly made my way to lay on the cool, plush leather booth. Shahan made me leave, and not a moment too soon. I threw up in the hotel stairwell on the way to our room on the third story. Any shred of dignity left me at that point. Later Shahan told me that the waitress came back with the box, expectedly confused by my sudden disappearance. “She broke up with me,” Shahan covered. She offered him a free cup of coffee.
I spent the rest of the day in and out of sleep, hating myself any minute my eyes were open. It was three in the afternoon before I could eat my boxed breakfast. Wasn't drinking supposed to be easier on my body at sea level? Despite the regrettable way the day began, the evening served us well. Shahan and I took a cab to downtown Tampa and found a hip little spot for dinner called Fly Bar. Our waiter was another memorable Tampa character. He seriously questioned why we hadn't pursued acting, being from L.A. or "the heart of it all." Then again, he also told us that his favorite drinking game was “America’s Next Top Model” (not, actually, far off from what you may imagine), and called us a "table full of liars" as he buried his face in his hands when Shahan told him the dish he'd recommended was just "alright."
I spent the rest of the day in and out of sleep, hating myself any minute my eyes were open. It was three in the afternoon before I could eat my boxed breakfast. Wasn't drinking supposed to be easier on my body at sea level? Despite the regrettable way the day began, the evening served us well. Shahan and I took a cab to downtown Tampa and found a hip little spot for dinner called Fly Bar. Our waiter was another memorable Tampa character. He seriously questioned why we hadn't pursued acting, being from L.A. or "the heart of it all." Then again, he also told us that his favorite drinking game was “America’s Next Top Model” (not, actually, far off from what you may imagine), and called us a "table full of liars" as he buried his face in his hands when Shahan told him the dish he'd recommended was just "alright."
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| March 17, 2011 |
I don’t think I have to tell any of you how the game went. On the bright side, our seats were awesome… except for the fact that we were in a sea of Gator fans. Most importantly, we were there. Shahan and I gave it our Gaucho best (or worst, depending on how you see it). Hell, we’d come all that way, and we weren’t about to back down. Even when the score was 13-31. Then 35-69. In hindsight, maybe we do belong in Hollywood, the way we masked our heartache with oblivious conceit. One Gator fan walked up to me at half time and said, "You are LOUD." Tell me something I don't know. "I used to sit with them," I sighed, nodding my head towards the cheer squad (goodness, I sounded like I'd just been shunned from the cool kids' table). Despite a valiant effort from Orlando Johnson (who led the team with 21 points), the Gauchos lost by almost 30. As Shahan so insightfully and poetically put it: “Gators drink Gatorade. Gauchos drink faderade. And it showed.”
Since I refused to go to any bars within walking distance of the site of massacre, Shahan and I walked around the arena until we found the bus depot. No one seemed to think it odd that two strangers were going around asking the whereabouts of a group of cheerleaders. We hitched a ride on the bus back to their hotel. As the saying goes, misery loves company. As a direct result of my hangover from hell, I’d sworn off hard liquor for the evening in favor of catching my plane home the next morning. However, as a direct result of, well, our result, nothing less would do. The cheer girls elected to go to an 18 and over club so that the non-21 year olds could come out on the town. Eventually I made friends with the owner of the club. He told me about a secret hidden in the back. He even wanted to add me as his Facebook friend. Our privacy settings made it difficult to find one another so I suggested he give me his email address. "SteadyRollin2@_____.com". You mean to say there is more than one of you? ... You may be able to deduce the "secret."
Later that evening, I walked into the bathroom of the club to find a group of younger girls sobbing in the corner about their "stupid" boyfriends and "clueless" parents (or perhaps it was the either way around). I felt as far removed from them as I had from the mom at Ihop. I had to laugh and shake my head, knowing full well that (really) not too long ago I'd been that wasted adolescent crying in the stall to my friends, and would probably be a nausea induced/inducing mother sometime in the (far off) future. But not that day.
Or today, for that matter. Today I am a 23 year old bound to no location, plan, position, significant other, or dependent. And today I happen to be very happy.
Later that evening, I walked into the bathroom of the club to find a group of younger girls sobbing in the corner about their "stupid" boyfriends and "clueless" parents (or perhaps it was the either way around). I felt as far removed from them as I had from the mom at Ihop. I had to laugh and shake my head, knowing full well that (really) not too long ago I'd been that wasted adolescent crying in the stall to my friends, and would probably be a nausea induced/inducing mother sometime in the (far off) future. But not that day.
Or today, for that matter. Today I am a 23 year old bound to no location, plan, position, significant other, or dependent. And today I happen to be very happy.
