The Everywhereist

When I met Rand, he was living with one of his guy friends.

Their apartment was a quintessential bachelor pad: it had two bedrooms, smelled of Old Spice deodorant, and was furnished with enormous black leather couches and geometric prints. There was an abundance of electronics, and not a single framed photograph of a loved one.

When Rand later moved in with me, the transition must have been somewhat traumatic. The bathroom was filled with all sorts of foreign items: straightening and curling irons and a crimper that I kept around in case of emergencies (having since thrown it away, I now live in fear that someone will have an 80s party, and I won’t be able to attain big hair). There were multiple laundry hampers, with specific instructions as to which items could be placed inside of them. There were weird things like low-fat yogurt and almond butter in the fridge. In the early months of our co-habitation, we fought over stupid things, like where the dish sponge should go, and important things, like where our alarm clock should go.

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The place: a restaurant on the lower west side in Manhattan.

The time: a few weeks ago, on a very warm summer night.

The characters: Tom Critchlow (admitted smart-ass); me (totally not a smart-ass AT ALL).

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Tom: You know what your blog needs?

Me: What’s that?

Tom: More photos of you and Rand kissing. There’s definitely not enough of those.

Me: Piss off, Tom.

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Three years ago today, I made you laugh until you cried.

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I’ve often said that the greatest trick San Francisco ever pulled was convincing the world it was part of California.

The city by the bay isn’t terribly sunny or warm. A chilly wind barrels down its streets, and as you clutch your coat tightly to you IN THE MIDDLE OF AUGUST, you contemplate moving someplace warmer. Like Portland. The beaches near San Francisco aren’t much better: cold, rocky, and inhospitable.

In both cases, I blame the Pacific ocean. It is deep and dark and vast, and unforgivably cold. I’ve never swam in it – I refuse to do so until I have a full body wet-suit that makes me look skinny and has a special apparatus to keep my cupcake dry (that is not a euphemism).

So when Rand suggested we visited Muir Beach – roughly 20 miles and 40 minutes away from San Francisco, I was hesitant. I grew up near a real beach – on the Atlantic Ocean – where the water was warm and the sand would scorch your feet. Where you could run around in a bathing suit in the middle of December (wearing a bikini in the holiday season is not something I have attempted since childhood. Now, I suspect large parts of me would jiggle like a bowl full of jelly). But I was curious to see what the Pacific had to offer in way of beaches, and despite the weather, the Bay Area is beautiful. So on a grey morning, Rand and I headed out.

It was hazy, but not terribly bad. We could still see the top of the pillars of the Golden Gate.

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Rand and I were meandering around Vancouver a few weeks back (I had dragged him out there on one of the few weekends he was not on the road so that I could attend a travel conference. RECIPROCITY FOR THE WIN!) and we kept seeing things which cracked us up.

Now, mind you, I don’t know if the average person would have found this stuff funny. But Rand and I did. We laughed. A lot. We took ridiculous photos. I realize that some folks dream of traveling the world with Anthony Bourdain or Rick Steves, but I don’t think I could find a better travel partner than Rand. Because who else would giggle maniacally with me in the middle of a street, until it’s not so much giggles but just shaking, soundless fits?

Like I said: I doubt most people would have found this stuff funny. But Rand and I did. And hopefully you will, too. Enjoy.

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Like, for the weekend?

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This is the graffiti that started all the silliness. I think it’s the combo of the “OMG” and the notion that Jesus is back. Like he returned from college or something.

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Last weekend, Rand went to Brazil and I went to Wichita (his prophecy: “Your experience will be more foreign than mine”). He showed me the only photos he took from his trip (courtesy of his cell phone camera) and it was a quiet reminder that he really DOES need to me to document his travels for him. Otherwise … sigh. 

Rand: Want to see my photos from Brazil?

Geraldine: Um, YES. Of course I do!

Rand: Check them out!

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Rand, walking down the street of the town in which he was born.

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I married a boy from New Jersey.

There is no state more unfairly maligned. Tell folks you are from anywhere else, no matter how abused and run-down, and the response will be better than if you say you are from Jersey. Detroit will get you sympathetic comments about the state of America’s heartland, and praises of Motown. Salt Lake City yields images of brick-red canyons and cloudless skies. Even Tacoma, Seattle’s much ridiculed neighbor to the south, has a song written for it (it’s soulful and lovely and I’ve never been able to look at that dusty old jewel in the south Puget Sound the same way).

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Little known fact about me: in addition to my crippling love of cupcakes and comfortable shoes, I have a soft spot for James Dean. In high school, my room was blanketed with photos of the ill-fated star. I owned his every movie (even Giant, which is AWFUL), read his biography repeatedly, and slept in a James Dean t-shirt at night.

“He’s going to haunt you,” my mother would tease.

“I damn well hope so,” I replied. Otherwise I’d totally wasted a Christmas present asking for a ouija board.

It carried on into college, when I found myself dating moody boys who would pout outside my dorm while smoking cigarettes. After getting my heart broken (eh, not even. Slightly bruised.) by one-too-many asthmatics, my fascination with an actor who had died twenty-five years before I was even born begun to fade. By the time I met Rand, the only thing that remained of my teenage fandom was an affinity for men who had sideburns and popped the collars of their coats in the cold.

Fortunately, even in the early days of our relationship, Rand pretty much nailed both of those criteria:

I was sure we'd always be in love and we'd never grow old. I was half right.

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Years passed, and I assumed my fascination with James Dean was long over. But even now, there are times – often when we’re walking through a grey and foggy city and his collar is turned up against the wind – that I’ll swear my husband looks like James Dean. And it positively slays me.

James Dean smoked cigarettes. Rand chews on pencaps (which is healthier and cheaper, but ruins more pens).

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