Love is Pain

I have been separated from Beau for about five weeks, and to talk in hyperbole, it has been pure torture. I feel like I've been walking around half alive, a shell of myself (more melodrama, yes). But it's true. I sleep, though I haven't had a single good night's sleep since I arrived. It's hard to sleep so close to someone for so long and then suddenly be alone. Your body feels the absence and objects via its restlessness.

But, Beau arrives in the United States, specifically Milwaukee, tomorrow, and this should all come to an end, FOREVER. In fact, he should be somewhere over the Pacific (along with my cat, Bina) right about now, watching his third movie and having his sixth drink and second meal. I don't envy his nightmare trip, which involved some desperate dashing around in L.A. trying to get Bina released from the airlines, passed through customs, and back to the airport to get them both back on the plane to Milwaukee all within two hours and 45 minutes. If he doesn't make that plane, I'll probably have to do something drastic, like drink a bottle of tequila and sing Bohemian Rhapsody over and over.

And of course, I'm very very very excited. I kind of have a habit of overdoing presents, particularly for birthdays, which I think are very special and sadly lacking in the appropriate attention. I mean, if you love someone, shouldn't the day that celebrates their existence on this planet be a BIG deal, no matter HOW old they are? *cough* Anyway, for Christmas I have gone all out for Beau again. I'm feeling the pressure since last year i got him a mandolin and he was so stunned and overcome with emotion it kinda scared me. So, how to top a fantastic Christmas trip to NYC and a mandolin?

Well, for starters, I bought him a charcoal grill. Beau is a HUGE BBQ man, which is great for me too since i reap the benefits of his great cooking, and we sold the old grill when we moved to NZ. Now, I know it's the middle of winter, but I'm sure he'll figure out a way to use it 12 times before the temperature reaches above 50 degrees. But that's not all! I bought him a bunch of ornaments that would have a personal meaning to him (I'll spare you those details), a nice shirt for work (he'll wear his clothes 'til their threads otherwise), and I oil painted his family's Scottish clan crest (Ferguson) on an 8x10 canvas in bright colors.

But wait, there's more. This was the biggie. I don't know exactly why it came to me, it wasn't my plan, but I do have a kind of belief in fate, well, sort of, destiny, kind of, and I just follow it. A week ago I walked into a tattoo parlor and started asking questions. By the time I left, I had made an appointment for the following Friday and the artist started to do his pre-tattoo drawing. Now, i've already got two tattoos, I'm very happy with both of them, and they're both perfectly placed somewhere where'd you'd have to see me in a bikini to be able to eyeball them. That suits me fine, since my tattoos are very special to me, and FOR ME. That's why i never totally understood the ones on the back of the shoulder or above your ass. Those are obviously for other's enjoyment. I love to look at my tattoos, even today. I got the first in Kanchanaburi, Thailand in a night market. Yeah, it sounds crazy now, it seemed like a cool idea at the time. It's a symbol from Arizona -- a saguaro -- that I thought represented me in many ways. Getting it was more painful than I'd expected - originally I was going to have a more elaborate tattoo and stopped after the saguaro was done -- but he did a great job and there were no problems.

The second I got in Missouri; Beau and I each got one at the same time. Mine was a Maori symbol -- a Koru -- long before we left for NZ. His, he likes to call a "war pony." I like to call it "that cute horsie."

So, why get another? I don't know. And the "faith" part of it is the real kicker. Since Beau used to be a real darn cowboy, I thought what I would do was get a cowboy hat and then have his name in cursive below it. "Cowboy Take Me Away" has always been one of our songs, so it seemed fitting. But anyone who knows anything about tattoos knows that that's the taboo of the tattoo world -- NEVER get your lover's name, never! It puts a jinx on the relationship and you always break up. And yet, over and over and over again we do it. Now, is that FAITH or what?

The tattoo parlor was staffed by two men, one a late-40's guy who had a long beard, crazy hair, little glasses, and kind of that old school Harley guy thing going on. And of course, lots of tattoos. He was loud and obnoxious, and kinda turned me off. His partner was barely an adult, with piercings, a bright red beard, and a body so skinny, that the whole thing seemed concave, from neck to feet. He was lost within his clothes, and pointy bones jutted everywhere. He had that "whatever" stoner voice and speech, and laughed frequently at the older man's obnoxious remarks. And of course, lots of tattoos. I was told Junior would be doing the tattoo.

That was a Saturday, but I couldn't do it til the following Friday after I got my first paycheck from Target. As the days crept by I kept telling myself, "You can get it out of it! They don't know you. You just don't show up." But I didn't want to. Even though the whole thing felt spontaneous, something I am firmly against when it comes to getting a tattoo, it felt good, and as the days advanced, I found myself growing excited. I even stopped by Thursday to check in and see when I should come and to see Junior's drawing. It was great. Junior had the idea of making Beau's name, still in cursive, look like it was a lasso rope. Very cool! He even put a little star above the "i" in Beau's name (*cough* yeah, obviously Beau is not his real name). My only request was to make it smaller, since I don't like the idea of a tattoo crawling across my body.

I cashed my check Friday and came in. I brought a pair of shorts and a Janet Evanovich book. I knew trying to read while getting a tattoo, which hurts like a motherfucker, was going to be a challenge, but i needed SOMETHING to do. If I just laid there and took the pain, I'd go insane and run screaming out of the parlor. I entered the place and chatted with the guys for awhile. The more the older obnoxious guy ("Senior") talked to me, the more he seemed to like me, particularly interested in Beau's cowboy past.

I watched Junior very slowly and methodically set up all the tools and dye. It was nerve-wracking, cause it's like watching a phlebotomist prepare his needles and gauze before he jabs you in the arm for blood, and you know the tattoo is going to take MUCH longer and hurt MUCH worse. Also, I'd been through this twice before, and thought it a pretty rough experience (though worth it). This time I didn't have two friends cheering me on like in Thailand or Beau holding my hand like in Missouri. This was my surprise present, and I was alone. Junior transferred his drawing to my leg, high up on the outside of my right thigh, just below the panty line. It looked good. Then, I had to lay down on the bed in a somewhat awkward position, shorts hiked up pretty high. Honey, there's no shame in the tattoo parlor. I opened my book and prepared to read.

FUCK! Fuck fuck fuck! It really hurts! For anyone who hasn't gotten a tattoo, it's the initial part, when your tattoo is being outlined in black, that is the most painful, though I'm not sure why. Later, when they're filling in all that color, it hurts a bit less. And as Junior was carving up my thigh, I thought about that long, coiling rope of Beau's name and how it had all those details on it. I grimaced and tried to dive into my book. Surprisingly, I could read, though as hysterical as Evanovich's books are, they don't make tattoo pain disappear. I did get through a great deal of pages though as the tattoo progressed. I tried not to look back, because as the inking progresses, I kind of put myself in this state. It's like, "Ohhh that's painful that hurts, just hang on, it's almost over, it's almost over..." just to psych myself through it. And tattoo artists know what they're doing, they'll etch away and just when you think you can't stand it, they lift up their gun. I mean, if I tried to tell myself "Just hang on for 40 more minutes!" I probably couldn't deal and would sprint from the parlor with a half-finished tattoo on my thigh. I suppose it's what women must tell themselves when giving birth, though I don't kid myself; I know that THAT pain must be 10,000x worse.

Senior walked in a few times, making conversation, and commenting on the quality of the tattoo (always nice to hear). He seemed to continually soften the more I talked to him, and a lot of his brusqueness melted away, which was really nice. At one point, mid-tattooing, he came in and handed me a small silver and gold piece, which looked like a tiny square belt buckle, that had a beautiful saddle on it. He said, "This is for you, you can keep it cowgirl." It turned out to be the top piece for a bolo tie! I thought it was really beautiful and touched by the gesture. A few minutes after that he came in and deposited a pen between the pages of my open book, which was engraved with the tattoo parlor's logo and address. Another little gift. Hee hee.

FINALLY, it was over. I went and checked it out in the mirror, and a gorgeous tattoo glared at me from my reddened thigh. I loved it. They both commented favorably how I had taken it so well, without a peep out of me. Junior said that sometimes with women they either scream or start to cry. Not that it doesn't hurt, but geez, to me it's one of those things where you kinda want to stay as still as possible. Your body racked with sobs probably makes the outcome of a neat and detailed tattoo a bit risky. Besides, I'm not that tough, I'd just be too humiliated to bawl in front of these guys.

Then we all walked out to the front where i paid (it was quite a bit more than I had been expecting, but worth it, it IS forever). We had a friendly chat, and when I brought up the tattoo curse about putting your lover's name on your body, they kinda sheepishly admitted that they believed in the curse too and were a bit concerned when that's what I said I wanted. But they admitted, it happens all the time, and it's not like you're going to tell someone "No." Junior said, "I just see it as a list. If it doesn't work, you put the new name under it." Hahah. Senior said, "Besides, it's more work for us. People come in later to re-do the tattoo after the break-up. More business!" I guess that's one way to look at. Despite all this, the parlor's boss (a woman) had put her lover's name on her arm, in such a way that Junior said, "Made it impossible to ever change it into something else." Then Senior added, "Yeah, and she's crying into her pillow every night now." Oh great. And yet, Junior himself had put a small heart on his arm with his girlfriend's initials inside. "I guess you could always fill in the heart if you had to," I said. "Yeah, heh heh," he replied.

Then I began to leave and they waved and said, "Come back in if you ever need us to change that name again!"

"Better yet," I said, "I'll bring HIM in to get MY name tattooed on!"

"There you go!" they said and smiled.

Then I turned, and slowly limped away.

Merry Christmas, Beau.

*****************************

P.S. I just HAD to show this tattoo 'cause it so grossed and freaked me out!!!! Can you imagine being the woman seeing that coming at her vagina? Let alone, giving this guy a BJ??? That'd turn you off of the act forever.

The Word of Tarot

I'm a big fan of Tarot cards. I picked up my first and only pack when I was 13 years old at a Renaissance festival somewhere in northern Illinois. Since then I've bought a few books, made a few honest attempts to learn the cards well, and occasionally given readings. Any reading by me is a bit tedious, to say the last. I sit there with my favorite Tarot reference book open in my lap, flipping through the pages to read the results for each card, and then in the end try to tie it all together, usually with a great deal of help and prodding from the person I'm reading for. It's actually pretty hard, but it's also a lot of fun. Each card in the Tarot has its own little story, its own positive (and if you like, negative) spin, and can be interpreted by itself and in conjunction with other cards that "influence" it. To learn the story for each of the 78 cards and how they intertwine with each other, and then seeing "the big picture" can be rather daunting. Not to mention I have the memory of a field mouse, so that doesn't particularly help.

Shortly before I left New Zealand, Beau and I stopped at this Gypsy Fair that was set up in one of the larger cities we often traveled to on weekends when "escaping" our own little village. We didnt' know the fair was there, so that was a treat. A slew of caravans, small trailers that were decorated jauntily in "gypsy" style, sat upon a grassy, high school sports field. I have to admit I was a bit disappointed by the whole thing. I thought it would be authentic, but if you ask me to define what authentic means, I couldn't really tell you. It was just a bit disappointing. I knew it would be commercial, I'm sure this was how they made their living, but it was the same kind of stuff you see at every and any kind of fair -- silver jewelry (lots of Celtic knots and fantasy rings), soda and snacks, magnets, posters, t-shirts, and clothes and kitsch from India, Nepal, and Tibet (oooh SOOO mystical! Sheesh). I did get some cotton candy, which though I don't believe was much in terms of gypsy food, I rather enjoyed, as I always do.

But, oh rapture(!), we did finally see one caravan advertising tarot card readings. The woman had a small blackboard outsider her trailer which boasted her credentials of 20 years of training and readings, her personal philosophy, and lots of other very eager and earnest words to her legitimacy. NOW we're talking! Since I've already had the opportunity for a couple readings in my life, both in the Philippines and in Thailand, I thought Beau should go ahead and pop his divination cherry.

We waited outside the woman's tent for a very. long. time. as she was giving another reading. This was both good and bad. It means at least she really gives you a nice, thorough reading, but we were sitting there for so long, I started to doubt she was ever coming out, or maybe just actually shooting the shit with a buddy and not noticing our presence. Finally, she did emerge and ushered us inside. Wearing what i took to be a gypsy costume, she came out to greet us, sporting wild blonde hair, no make-up, small blue eyes and a rather weathered-looking face that had me putting her in her late 40's. I found her interesting immediately. I think I was just as eager to see the inside of her caravan as I was for Beau's reading. I was astonished at just how tiny and simple it was. It was still set up in gypsy style, but it looked like her worldly possessions must have been very few, as the whole thing consisted of a sink and tiny counter, a padded wooden bench that ran the width of it, a modest table and chair in front of the bench, and a small loft-bed behind and above the bench itself. There were a couple of small decorations here and there, but that was about it. I sat on a rickety stool which I eyed uneasily as I pressed my weight upon it, and leaned forward as much as I could to take in Beau's reading.

So Beau sat down and went through the motions of shuffling/cutting the deck and thinking of his question (but not announcing it to her). We pretty much wanted to know about our future, since we had JUST decided to move back to the United States and fate was a bit murky at the moment. Then the woman stunned me by laying out the largest spread I had ever seen, basically using the whole deck, *flip flip flip flip* she plunked them all down. From what I could decipher, she did one whole reading for each month of the coming year, rather impressive at the mammoth amount of information she would have to process for us. In the end though, her message was pretty simple and short, and I was surprised that for all intents and purpose, the reading ended pretty quickly, and she proceeded to prod Beau to ask her questions so she could expand.

One thing we found interesting was that the woman basically told him he would be going through a lot of crap, financial and career-wise for awhile, and that it would all come together in a good way, probably in August/September. A job would come about and his life, and all the bullshit she was reading for the eight months preceding that, would magically clear up. Seeing as how Beau expected to simply be substitute teaching in Montana and hopefully getting a full-time position at the start of the next school year in August/September, this was a welcome revelation from the cards.

The reader also kept stressing that Beau needed to slow down, slow down, slow down. Over and over the cards said he needed to just let life flow, not to rush or push any important decisions for awhile, not to make any big travel, monetary, or career plans for a bit. Since we had basically just made a major decision that affected all three (the return to the U.S.), that sort of made us uneasy. Her analogy was that if he didn't listen to this advice, which appeared to be screaming at her from the cards (I, sadly, heard nothing), the cosmos would realistically or symbolically "break his leg" to force him to slow down. Oh, excellent, and us without health insurance. Nonetheless, there wasn't much of a choice for us in that matter. We had to leave now, the contract was ending and so were our visas. Besides, as much as I love a Tarot reading, I'll be damned if I let it be any more than a fun and interesting experience, not a life-altering guide.

Oh, and there was a really shitty month coming up, I think it was March. Damn, see, I told you my memory isn't worth a crud! I bet Beau remembers many more details. But anyway, March is supposed to suck. Just great!

But in the end, like a lovely bedtime story, we're supposed to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after, we just have to stick it out until Fall 2007.

I guess we can do that. Do we have a choice?

We’ll Be Home for Christmas? - Part II

Author's note: Back in New Zealand in our little village, I didn't have internet access on my laptop, just occasional access via the school's computers (which had the most rigid, militant controls i have EVER seen on a network). So, I wrote all my blogs in Word with the hopes of future postings, until about two months later when I got one of those USB drives. Because of this, my blogs were all backed up, so every blog you have read from New Zealand probably actually happened anywhere from 2-5 weeks before I posted it. I know. Awful. It's like I'm cheating. Suffice it to say, I am ALMOST caught up now -- as I am currently in Milwaukee, Wisconsin , working an icky seasonal job in a retail store (details later), and climbing the walls as I wait for Beau to arrive this Sunday.

So, here we are, now "fast forwarding," though in reality, going backwards, to when I arrived in Milwaukee in mid-November 2006. Confused yet?
-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
(November 15, 2006)
So, I'm back! But the sad thing, is that I'm back alone. Hold the phone gentle reader, it's no tragic tale. Beau has to stick it out in NZ until mid-December when his contract (and the school year) ends. I decided to rush back to the U.S. ASAP to try and get some holiday work, instead of twiddling my thumbs in New Zealand and just being dead weight. It looks like I arrived a couple weeks too late as several places told me they already hired their holiday help, damnit! But, despite this, I did nab a job as a "team member" at Target, Tar-zhay, The Bullseye Boutique, or as my friend calls it, her "happy place." I agree. It's no career move, but it's a quick way to make some cash so by the time Beau gets here we have a little bit more to move with.

And where are we moving to? Montana. Beau SERIOUSLY wanted to move back to Montana, his home state. That's really fine with me, I hear great things about Montana and I know it's beautiful. My only stipulation was that it had to be a big city (as big as one can get in Montana). I know now that living in a small town may have its quaint advantages, but it just doesn't work for me, and literally, it has no work opportunities for me. I need to be in a good-sized city that has administrative or educational positions. So, Missoula it is. And my former flight attendant friend informs me that it's a pretty place and just like a mini-Madison, Wisconsin which is great news to me since Madison is one of my favorite places I've ever lived. I like college towns.

Oh, and right now I'm in Milwaukee at my mother's house. Yeah....33 years old and living with my mother. This feels pretty crappy. Furthermore, the relationship between my mother and I is strained at the best of times and since it's just the two of us now (and her sacred cat), I'm feeling mighty uncomfortable. At least it should only be 'til right after the holidays, but STILL!

I'm actually sleeping in my sister's twin bed, and get this, it's a loft! It's like sleeping in a bunk bed's top bunk. So every night, I climb up into the thing and use a long broken handle of some cleaning tool to turn out the light switch by the door. In the middle of the night when I have to use the loo, I slowly slide off the edge of the bed, hands gripping the mattress, legs dangling above the ground, and in one brave moment, plop down to the ground with a muted thud. I feel like I'm twelve. Lord.

I know I did this, this leaving Beau behind and rushing back to the U.S., mainly for money. We spent thousands to move to New Zealand, thinking it was "forever," and it's going to cost a whole lot to come back. All those boxes to send, the plane tickets, the cat (FUCK, it's another dramatic and financially-crippling disaster getting her back), selling our car, etc. etc. etc. And now we have to start over, AGAIN, in a new city, both of us jobless and homeless. This used to be exciting for me, now it's just exhausting and terrifying. I'm not 22 gallivanting around Europe with my Eurrail pass and a just enough francs for bread and a hostel in my pocket anymore. I'm rapidly approaching my 34th birthday with no hint of a career, no house on the horizon, no plans for kids anytime soon, student loan debt that produces a gasp in anyone I mention the grand total to, and again, no money. Working at Target for a month or two may get us some precious cash for our move to the great north, but I think I should admit to myself there's more going on here.

A part of me feels guilty, like a tiny voice inside my head that says, "Money wasn't the ONLY reason you left. Money in and of itself is never the only reason you do anything, otherwise you wouldn't always be so broke." This is true. When I lay awake at night, up in that ridiculous loft bed, alone, and missing Beau, a part of me just wants to apologize. Maybe, deep down in me, past the part with the good intentions, past the part that said, "Okay, we can go back to the United States," past the part that puts on the brave face and tries to think positively about Montana (despite my aversion to living in extreme climates), way down there at the bottom is that angry, vengeful side of myself. The part that says, "Beau, you made us leave. New Zealand was our big dream, a dream we made come true. I could hardly believe it myself; I was ecstatic, on top of the world. Sure, we didn't land in an ideal location there, but we knew that going in. You ripped us away from there. You stayed there for just six months before throwing in the towel. Now i have to move to a cold place, that yes, may be beautiful, but where we have no prospects and no home. (Plus, we'll be near my in-laws, YUCK!!!). I never ever wanted to leave New Zealand, just that tiny little village we were in. I wanted to move to Dunedin and get a house and have my garden and get a job at the University of Otago and eat lunch at that great Asian food court and stare at the gorgeous blue blue water every single day of my life. Now, for love, and yes, willingly and by my own choice, I am leaving all this behind. Fine! Fine! Then you can stay here and finish out this damn contract. I'm going back early. You can clean up the mess. All that packing and shipping and cat bureaucratic shit I had to take care of by myself when you left for New Zealand without me, now YOU can handle it all on the way back! I'll get work, make some money, but part of me is punishing you for doing this to me. The selfish part of me is angry, and very very sad."

It's an ugly, ugly side of myself that I'm ashamed of, and yet, here i am writing it all out in my blog. Masochistic dork. Furthermore, punishing Beau, even if only from a tiny part of me, is idiotic considering I think I am suffering even more than he is from the separation. Not to mention the tension between my mother and I is making me homicidal. I just think I have to face up to that part of myself, even if it's deep down and only surfaces occasionally late at night as I lie awake in bed. That guilt that slaps me in the face and says, "You are not so noble! You may have done this for love, and you may really be okay with it, but you are not all-forgiving!"

I am flawed.

21 more days 'til Beau arrives. As Elvis Costello sang, "God, give me strength!"
Note: In reality, he NOW arrives in 4 days. *cough*

The Word of God

This thing is so much damn fun! I just had to stick it on my blog.
http://www.churchsigngenerator.com/

I'm sending them out like Christmas cards to friends.
Enjoy your wickedness.

We’ll Be Home for Christmas?

So, New Zealand is just not working out for Beau. The more and more I learn about his experiences at the school, the more I "get it" and the more sympathetic I am. But still, it’s pretty devastating for me. As I’ve mentioned before, I knew that the adjustment to a new country would be rough, particularly for first-time-abroader Beau, particularly the first year when you’re constantly shifting, constantly forced to test your own beliefs and push your capabilities, and particularly in being flexible and adaptive. I just didn't think it'd be particularly this rough.

Before Beau left (he departed six weeks before I did), I made sure we’d go out to our favorite restaurants like El Tapatio *wistful sigh* and I’d give him these friendly little “This is what you can expect, the good, the bad, and the ugly” lectures. And we made a few deals together. One of those was that we’d give the first location, which we knew was going to be somewhat out in the boonies, a six month trial, and if it didn’t work out, we’d try one more place (particularly one of my “big” city choices - Dunedin or Christchurch). Now, the end of the school year and the six month mark will all come together in late December. It’s pretty obvious that our little, remote Maori town is not going to work out for us. I am basically a prisoner in my own home with zero employment possibilities, and Beau is unbearably miserable at his teaching job. This is so hard to watch. We’ve all been there – a job that we absolutely abhor going to every day, the job that when you wake up in the morning your whole body just deflates in dread, that job you can’t WAIT to quit. And what really kills me about this, is that Beau LOVES teaching. I always tell him it’s his calling, though he dismisses this romantic notion.

When Beau first came back into my life, we had a long phone conversation, a good bulk of it was about teaching. I had been back in the U.S. for about a year and a half by that time and was just starting to miss teaching again. Hearing him talk about it just completely brought up all these feelings in me. He sounded exactly like I sounded that last year – confident, happy, excited, and completely in love with teaching and the kids he taught.

Now here in NZ, Beau is losing his confidence as a teacher, and it’s completely demoralizing him. He’s in a school where kids walk in and out of class (if they even show up at all), frequently shout out “Fuck you!” to teachers while giving them the one-finger salute, and an administration whose staff support is communicated as “Deal with the students yourselves. Don’t send them to us.”

He struggles to get students to understand simple scientific concepts and finds himself constantly having to go further and further back in the basic teachings of the subject just to give the students the foundation they don’t possess. Just the other day he came home, both astonished and saddened, that he couldn’t do a simple Science lab, because it involved long division to get percentages – something that many of the students simply couldn’t do. A fun lab (which included lots of chewing of Hubba Bubba!), suddenly ground to a halt over what shouldn't have even been a speed bump.

The irony of all this is that the school has just informed him that they are offering him a one-year, “fixed-term” contract for the upcoming school year (which begins in early 2007). Sure, despite all the crap he's dealt with, it's still an option, and we discussed it, but not very long. In fact, every time since then that Beau has brought it up as an option, I stop him immediately. Normally, I am a BIG discusser of options. I like to lay them all out on the table like a tarot card spread and go through each one thoroughly, to look at the big picture, but consider every detail. But when it comes to sticking around at this school, I just refuse to consider it. If you could see someone you love slowly falling apart, would you just keep watching or would you say, "No more!"?

It’s weird, for so many years I lived alone and supported myself. This led to a deliciously-selfish existence that I deeply enjoyed. I hate hearing how hard marriage is, 'cause besides the fact that it makes one think marriage sucks shit, it kind of sets up expectations in a negative way. I mean, most of the time, marriage is fantastic! The real point I think, is that when marriage is hard, it's fucking hard. When you're by yourself and you have a hard time, it's just you that you have to deal with. And for me personally, it's not so much compromise, which I think I'm pretty good at, but having to deal with another person's need or desire that at times can be so completely opposed to mine. I don't think that's exactly compromise. Sometimes it IS compromise, sometimes, it's just letting go (especially if you're one of these people who have to prove you're right). but in a way that feels not like losing something or giving in, but loving someone. Loving someone more than you love a thing, an experience, or a place.

So, finally, I "let go" and agreed to return to the United States. Sure, I could have kept push push pushing to stay in New Zealand and move to Auckland or Christchurch. Who knows? Perhaps after being in a new school with an established structure and ambitious academic goals, Beau would have found himself in his profession again. Then I would be RIGHT! I could tell him, "See, I told you it would all be fine if you just stuck it out!" But as Dr. Phil says, "Would you rather be right, or would you rather be happy?"

I'd rather be happy.

Besides, returning to the United States isn't the dud donkey prize behind door #3. I like America and I like living in it (well, some of it). And returning to the U.S. after living abroad has that same feeling to me when you return from a nice, long vacation. You may have had a great time, but a part of you is just relieved to be back "home" and sleep in your own bed. That's how I feel. I like New Zealand, a lot, but it can't even hold a candle to how I feel with Beau in my life.

It looks like we're coming home.

Beau and Bear walking on the beach near an old whaling building.

On Holiday, Part III - Abridged (For Me)

Since I never wrote up my Part III on our vacation, I'm skipping the whole bit in Christchurch and Dunedin. They were fantastic to visit, but since my blogs are now several weeks behind reality in time, I'm going to skip all that. I'll just talk about our last part of the trip which was to Doubtful Sound, an unbelievably gorgeous sound on the western side of the south island of New Zealand.

This was our big splurge of the vacation, and I was pretty excited, not to mention excited that Beau would finally be able to see some landscapes to rival his unrivaled view of Montana. We drove from Dunedin on the east coast to Te Anau, which is basically a resort town pitstop. Most people go on to Milford Sound which is the sound with more infrastructure. Our choice of Doubtful was entirely due to a bunch of senior citizens we met while touring the Cadbury Chocolate factory in Dunedin. You know the types, they're retired, but they're constantly traveling the world in these large tour groups. They're wearing sneakers and comfy clothes in soft colors, and they know their shit. I like them. Beau seems to attract them like bees to a flower. They're always starting conversations with him. Sometimes very LONG conversations in which I have to send Beau about a dozen not-so-subtle "Let's gooooooo" clues.

I find these seasoned travelers far more adventurous than the smug backpackers who think THEY are the only legitimate travelers in the world. I find many backpackers pompous and boring. I did my backpacker thing in Europe when I was 22, and it was a lot of fun, but I did it because I was broke. I didn't find myself any less of a "real" traveler getting the "real" experience five years later in Thailand when I had more money and more comfort to purchase. Besides, as my three years living in Bangkok taught me, backpackers flock together like migratory birds, and the "legitimate experience" they all think they're getting has been completely fabricated for them by clever tour operators. Just because you sleep on a cheap mattress with a mosquito net and go riding an elephant through the jungle doesn't mean you're getting something authentic.

Any "real" experience simply comes from a) learning the language if you don't already, and b) simply living somewhere for an extended period of time and absorbing as much culture as you can. It takes many many years to really get the culture of another country. I barely scratched the surface during my three years in Thailand. BUT I DIGRESS! Obviously, I have issues with some backpackers. *cough* Let's continue on with New Zealand...

Anyway, these old folks told us about Doubtful Sound, how it was the best thing they'd ever seen, etc. and how it was much better than Milford Sound which was more crowded and annoying now. So, instead of heading south to Invercargill like we planned, we detoured and crossed the island to Te Anau.

The tour was a bit pricey, about $230 NZD (about $158 USD) each, if I remember, for the whole day. Oh well, we ARE on vacation! The trip started out in a smaller town of Manapouri on its lake, where we all boarded a large boat, which was really like a gigantic speedboat. It was a pretty chilly day, and we were inside immediately, since the speed of the boat through the lake and the sheer force of the wind was enough to jostle you and jiggle your jowls around quite a bit. But soon, we got brave enough to venture outside because shit, who wants to miss it? The view was unbelievable. I couldn't take enough photos.

This lake ride ended after 50 minutes when we landed on a small island for a bathroom break and a small walk around the center which had up a large display of the history of the area. Mildly interesting, but we just wanted to continue on the tour. On the island we boarded one of three buses. Our tour operator, who had a classier title like, "Wildlife Educator and Facilitator" or some such, gave quite an interesting lesson, dotted with some fantastic dry humor, on the surrounding flora and fauna, as well as some of the pesky vermin, all introduced by early Europeans, that plagued the area. The bus ride was necessary, since it was the only way to reach the sound on the other side. There we boarded another boat, a much larger one, phew, and the tour of the sound began.

It was named Doubtful Sound by NZ's famous explorer/seaman Captain Cook, who was responsible for naming a great many things in New Zealand (if you choose to ignore all the Maori names that were previously in place, of course). And apparently he named many of them erroneously as we've been informed on several different tours. Anyway, this was named "Doubtful" due to the fact that he took one look at the sound and decided it was "doubtful" they could get their ship out of it again if they chose to venture in. Supposedly he was correct on this front.

The tour was a few hours long and for the first couple hours, standing out on deck which we did for most of it, you just oooh and ahhh continuously. The mountains that rise again and again around you seem so rugged, so crazy, just so uninviting that they seem almost magical. I kept looking around trying to spot a place where a hermit could camp out for his days, though he'd have to make some big ass supply trips once in awhile. I have had frequent hermit fantasies myself throughout my life, which probably explains why I have lived alone so easily, and there's always that one of being totally isolated in some gorgeous forest/lake setting. Of course, I know without internet and cable I'd probably go completely bezerko and in the end be an utter failure as a recluse.

After a few hours on deck, with that pounding wind, you go back inside the boat, get some hot chocolate, and kinda decompress a bit. Even the most amazing beautiful tour can kinda get old after awhile, and you get to the point where you say, "Okay, I'm done, can we go back now?" Not one of our species' finer points I think, but true. Beau and I did have a few revivals, like when we approached the giant rock where fur seals were lounging, the rocks where some elusive penguins were aboding (so elusive we never spotted even one), and then my super-revival came when told to look for bottlenose dolphins, which are my absolute favorite animal, and which I was completely DYING to spot. Apparently a particular pod hung out in that area and frequently jumped and frolicked along with the boat. Yes! Sadly, as we began to exit the sound and go out into open sea, the waves were so rough, the boat turned around and headed back. Despite my unwillingness to give up on the dolphins, and secretly hoping that I'd be the one to spot them and alert all others, they were nowhere to be found. That sucked.

Finally, Beau and I did completely retire inside the cabin and just sort of sat there, listening to the two pilots rattle off their tour schpiel, which was honestly fairly interesting, but by that point we were just warming up and resting, half leaning against each other for warmth and support.

On the way back, the boat stopped at the massive Manapouri underground power station, which is an engineer's wet dream, but by this time, Beau and I were worn out and I wasn't all that interested, despite its awesomeness. But we were all forced to travel far far far underground and then walk around a small room which overlooked the whole thing. Mercifully, we were allowed to return to the bus, and finally make the journey all the way back to point A, in Manapouri on the lake, exhausted, but pretty happy about the whole experience.

I had been feeling a bit ooky during the trip, but was so into it all, that I ignored my body and tried to just have the best time I could. I'd pay for that, for when I awoke the next morning I was catapulted into complete illness hell and continued to feel utter misery for most of our long drive home. Living abroad a few times, I have come to believe that you grow somewhat used to your own country's viruses, so when you live somewhere new and get something like a common cold, it hits you with such a ferocious force, that you feel sicker than you ever have. You keep thinking, "Shit, it's just a cold," but you can't believe how incredibly horrible your body feels. Beau went through the same thing, his illness ending just as mine began. I don't know how he did it. Thank god he's is a driving machine and I got to spend the rest of the return trip wallowing in self-pity in the passenger seat. But if that was the price I'd have to pay for the trip, then I gladly paid it.

Rain Therapy

Beau is down, real down. I am starting to feel like I have two lives – the ME life that begins whenever I wake up and consists of all the selfish, guilty pleasures that have become my routine. Lots of playing Civ IV, watching TV (Dr. Phil is my new obsession), and doing all those other things I’ve talked about, reading, gardening, and especially cooking, which I am becoming a real pro at. I’ve even started up a new canvas in my oil painting hobby. I should probably try finishing one of my four or five UNfinished canvases, but when I get the inspiration to paint, I don’t fight it or redirect it, I run with it. And although many (including those in this teeny town) think I’m a bit cuckoo for living such a life of isolation (as if the fact that Beau actually gets “isolation pay” for working in this “town” shouldn’t be enough of a clue to THEM), I rather enjoy it.

The second life is the BEAU part. It begins when he steps into the door, usually for anywhere from 30-75 minutes around lunch time, then a brief departure to teach his last class, before he returns for the rest of the night. He always walks in the door completely demoralized and just plain sagging. To see the person you love more than anyone or anything look like that, day after day, is completely heartbreaking. So, from Monday to Friday, I feel myself on a mission to get him through the week. I try to be upbeat, have fun with him, make him feel special, and of course, cook him lots of good meals and sweets (oh my GOD I have recently made the most amazing coffee cake, and I’m not even a big coffee cake fan). He’s beginning to grumble about the cooking since he’s gained about 25lbs, but is otherwise enjoying himself in that regard.

Now this doesn’t mean I’m a Stepford Wife all the time. We still fight, he can still get distant and I can still get moody. But, I am trying very, very hard to help him through this. I’ve lived only for myself for so long, and now I’m living with another person who has his own needs and problems. It’s an adjustment not thinking of only yourself. The worst part, is that most of the time I feel like I’m failing. When you try so hard to cheer someone up, get them through a rough patch, and they’re not doing cartwheels, despite your efforts, you feel disappointed in yourself and your powers of good in the relationship. You want to believe you can be more than what gets him through it, you want to be his inspiration to fly.

According to Beau, I am all those things. But truthfully, I know I’m not. I’m not that insecure, I know that without me, he’d be in big trouble, but I’m not making this experience what it could be, what it should be for both of us. Very slowly, I am watching him be squeezed smaller and smaller, the life being crushed out of him. Selfishly, I want to stay here! I want to try again in a new place, in a place with a normal school, where I truly believe when he gets into a more "mainstream," academically-oriented school, and I get a frickin job, we will both begin to blossom. But I’m losing hope that that will ever happen.

One recent Saturday it was pouring rain out. This is not such a strange occurrence around here and one of the few drawbacks to the area’s nice weather and beauty. Beau sort of stared out the window at it. He began to talk about his frustration and what he really needed – that opportunity to just scream, SCREAM!!!! That release of built-up disappointment and anger. Doing it in our house is not really an option. Our house is basically like a flat townhouse, one loooong house chopped in half, with one family in one, and us in the other. We can hear each other, though not too clearly (thank god). But a glass-piercing man-scream might draw their attention.

So, I pointed to the murky beach just across the road from our house, naturally deserted in the weather (and pretty much at all other times as well), and suggested we run out there, helter skelter in the onslaught, and let it all out erupt from his mouth out there. He surprised me a little when he agreed.

We put on our rain gear, heads up, and ran like two six-year olds out to the beach. Bear, my beloved, occasionally-adopted german shepard (he belongs to a local but runs wild half the time), followed us every step. God, I love that dog. We ran down the beach at an awkward, tripping sprint until we were out of breath, which didn’t take too long since we’re both terribly out of shape. The time had come for Beau to let it out, and I was excited, but the run down the beach had pretty much been all the exertion he’d needed. So we stood there, under a dripping branch just off the water, soaking wet and panting. I couldn’t believe it, but it felt so good. It was supposed to be Beau therapy, and it seemed to be helping, but it was therapy for me too. With a whiny, but loyalty-til-death, Bear following along, we scrambled up the slippery slope to the top of the “hill” that runs around the coast. We got to the top, still with rain splattering our faces (including Bear’s), and we looked out from our lofty perch out at the vast ocean. The sky was grey, and the ocean was grey (and nasty), but utterly beautiful. The waves were some of the biggest we’d seen since we arrived. Looking out, I was taken in by the romance of the ocean, by its beauty and terror, by the sailors that had sailed above it and died below it.

Beau looked out at the water, but he couldn’t feel it too. It’s hard for someone to match what I feel, considering my ridiculously romantic nature, but he couldn’t feel it, hardly at all. He could recognize the beauty of the ocean, but couldn’t feel it. The weight of all his difficulties here acted as a wall between him and all his surroundings. I’ve felt like that before, I understand it. When I was studying abroad in France, I was deeply depressed (my first marriage was in shambles), and I knew that I was going through this great experience abroad, but I was so completely saddened by my personal life that it was like walking around half alive.

He recognized that the wall was there, and it just made him feel so sad inside. And me as well. It's hard to know what to do. We stayed out for awhile, my jeans and shoes getting soaked, Bear getting soaked, Beau getting soaked. Despite the sadness there at the cliff, the rain did us good. Ritualistic washing away? I try not to get too deep into that kind of thinking, but I know that in a strange way, it was a special day. Bittersweet.