I am here

(AUSTIN, Texas) — I can’t run away from that part of me that needs to create. Why do I want to?

I don’t know. This is what I’m contemplating as I sit alone in my trailer, my door open, the day outside getting warmer and sunnier by the minute. I shouldn’t even be here right now, hanging out, but there was a water leak at my restaurant, and instead of staying around with the crew and trying to fit in, I came home. Now, the water is fixed, and I’m out a day’s wages, and I’m wondering why it takes an act of God for me to allow myself some time to write. It has been months, and I’m so sorry for the delay. Part of me, I think, wanted to jump whole-heartedly into the restaurant world with no distractions. Part of me was still just embarrassed that I had to stop traveling so abruptly. Anyway, it feels like it should be easier than this, this writing thing. It feels like I should have more drive and discipline and ability to escape into words whenever I need. But maybe that’s what makes my writing matter so much to me in the first place — it’s so damn hard for me to do it.

I could explain, but even I don’t understand it. The threat of writing or not sits on my chest constantly, making me feel like an asshole or a rock star depending upon my recent level of production. I am a writer. I am, and it’s pretty much all I want to be. Perhaps that’s why it feels so heavy whenever I press my fingers into these keys.

Anyway, thank you for waiting this out and reading this. It means the world to me. I will write at least one more posting today, hopefully even put up some pictures. But I’ll leave this little flag out first. This is a promise of more to come.

God, even writing that little bit felt like medicine. I really am out of practice. Talk to you folks again in a few hours.

— Stina.

What can I get y’all?

(AUSTIN, Texas) — Turkey Reuben. Voodoo Blue Cheese Burger. Primadora Omelet. This is what has been on my mind during the month I haven’t been writing you.

I apologize for the long absence. It’s lame, I know, and I hope you haven’t lost patience with me. My world has simply been an exhausting series of surprises recently. I feel like creating monologues and short stories about my entry back into real, honest-to-God ordinary life, but I find I’m so deeply vested in it that I often forget I can. Right now I am a friendly host and a new and shaky waitress at a cool restaurant in south Austin. This has been my entire world for weeks, and I don’t mind. A large part of me wants to capture every nuance of my experiences right now — from the young, Berkeley-like atmosphere of South Congress Avenue to the intimidating and invigorating experience of working amongst so many young folks — and save it for later reflection. I am in a world of neon-lit signs and music and more boys with long sideburns and snappy cowboy shirts than I can shake a stick at. Austin may be a city of 800,000, but if feels more like a hyper-cool and congested big town. It is, at once, creative, ordinary, edgy and very Americana. Innovations like movie theater brew pubs and Airstreams that offer everything from Humane Society pets to tacos are the norm, but so are annoyances like poor wages and apocalyptic traffic. I don’t really know this city, but I respect it, and I feel this is a special time for me. A pause between the notes, I think. I have this hope that in my future I’ll look back on my Austin life and get nostalgic. First though, I know I have to be here and try to live it well.

And that seems like the hard part.

I’m reminded of an article I wrote a couple of years ago for a newspaper in Colorado. It was about a girl with severe cerebral palsy who was so disabled that she couldn’t talk or run and could hardly read. But she could paint and draw, and every moment she was in an art class I observed, she looked delighted. As I spoke with her teacher, a kindly woman, the instructor kept bringing up the same point, using similar words over and over:

Being successful at something is wonderful.

How basic, how true. Perhaps it seems like a cheap shot to compare my desire to go through a day at my restaurant without spilling water on myself with the plight of a special needs girl who simply wants to express her creativity, but maybe not. We’re all just human, just doing the best we can. Doing well feels good and doing poorly feels bad, and there’s no amount of philosophizing that can change that. For years, I have been a newspaper writer and photographer, and I have been good at what I do. That sense of accomplishment and confidence about my skills has been a huge part of my personality. That just ain’t so in the restaurant world. Tomorrow, I’m going to do a five-hour shift of waiting tables (my third such shift), and if I do well, my job will be safe and my mood will be light, and the world will feel possible. If I’m terrible, I just don’t know what will happen. Things are still quite probationary with me and this job, and the need to prove myself hangs in the air as thick as Crisco in that place. Or maybe that’s just my take on it.

Ah, but if things aren’t sometimes uncertain, and you never feel crazy and and question everything about your world and feel as though failure is imminent, is anything really worth it?  Does the good stuff even matter?

I must keep those kinds of questions in mind as I fumble through learning to be a waitress again. I dearly want to succeed. It’s strange, I’m thinking now, that if I took my customers one by one and interviewed them and snapped their photos and wrote little profile pieces on their lives, that I would succeed at telling some of the truth of their existences probably more often than not. But as their waitress, when all I need to do is get their eggs to them on time, the odds aren’t so much in my favor.

Yes, Friday shall be interesting.

A place called Apalach

(AUSTIN, Texas) — I don’t know what I want.

I can write that and know I’m in no way embellishing my feelings or being overly simplistic. Up until this point, all my choices have felt fairly straight-forward to me, even if they didn’t look that way to the outside world. Go to college, graduate. Move to Portland, move away. Live in New Mexico, live in Colorado. Move to Utah and love it. Travel across the country alone in a trailer. And now, and now…Austin? I just don’t know. I kind of hate it here, and I kind of love it, and I’m far too intrigued to leave. Right now, I’m sitting in a hip, dimly-lit café/bar/cool kid hangout somewhere in the city, and 25-ish folks are laughing and drinking and sitting in front of their laptops all around me. The music in here continually shifts from obscure indie rock to old school country and more, and the menu ranges from vegan cake to meaty Frito pie. I am intrigued, and I am repelled, and I can’t help but want more. This town is like a cut on my gums — it kind of hurts, and it kind of feels good, and no matter what, I can’t stop touching it.

A million things have changed since I last wrote, and I am now gainfully employed, thank God. I’m a hostess at Magnolia Café South, a hip Austin institution on South Congress Avenue. I feel luckier than I can say, though the work is hard and fast and definitely not my strong suit. A little Austin existence is shaping up around me, and I even have a couple of friends, I think. I’m shocked and pleased. The world feels wide open.

In honor of all this and of my trip (which I do not consider over yet), I’m beginning a series of photo essays of places I’ve been to recently but for some reason didn’t get around to posting about. I don’t know where I’m going right now, but I know where I have been, and hopefully showing some of these images will bring some clarity about all of this. Even if it doesn’t, the photographer part of me is still itching to show off some of my stuff.

DSC_0023This first set is of Apalachicola, Florida, a little town I visited not so long ago. The reason I wanted to start with it is that I seriously considered moving there. I envisioned doing there exactly what I’m doing here (getting a job and a place to stay, etc.), though I understand now how dramatically impractical that would have been. Sure, it was a nice town, a fine town, with wide streets and old buildings and a river and a bay nearby. But there was no way to make a living there, not for me. I would have been out of my element so completely that disaster would have pretty much been my only option. It scares me now how willing I was to overlook that.

But I was romanced by the town, and I have little barrier against this specific kind of seduction. I am so susceptible to quirky, friendly, scrappy communities that it’s not even funny. I’m always looking for the next cute, strange place to take me in. This town had those qualities in spades. Within a matter of hours of my arrival, I had met a large handful of friendly, cool people, from my host, Emily, to Tamara, the boisterous and welcoming Latin lady of a certain age who owns a coffee shop in town. It all felt right in some strange way. My second day, I went out to look for a potential job and met more folks — store owners, mostly, all of whom seemed open and happy to help however they could. Yet no one had a job for me. It didn’t matter, though, because for some reason I was determined, locked-in on the idea that this was going to work, as though the shear power of me arbitrarily deciding to move somewhere would spin the universe in my favor.

I guess, in a way it did, but not in the fashion I wanted at the time.

Downtown Apalach, as I heard it called.

Downtown Apalach, as I heard it called.

I’m not sure when the shift happened exactly, but when it did, it was dramatic. It could have been that drunken party I attended on someone’s boat that did it, but I don’t know. Apalachicola, a water-surrounded town of a 3,000 and change, seemed so sweet and warm for two or so days, and then, suddenly, it was stifling. It’s not that anyone in it had changed. Emily, a waitress and artist about my age, was still low-key and friendly and casual in that specific way that people in the restaurant culture can be. Tamara was still fiery and motherly and happy to have me park my trailer outside her home. But I just couldn’t anymore. A veil had been lifted, and I suddenly found myself relieved to be moving on into the unknown. Before I left, I stopped by a yarn/book shop downtown and chatted with its owner, an earthy and soft-spoken woman a couple of decades older than I. I bought some variegated, pink yarn and told Dale my thought process and conclusion. She smiled and sighed and nodded in a way that let me know she understood. So many people, she told me, come to this town and have a great first weekend. They meet cool residents and have cool experiences and then up and buy a home here. It’s only after they move in that they realize what they had experienced during that first visit was as good as it gets.

Run-down old buildings like this are the kind of images I love — yet felt a need to escape after some time Apalachicola.

Run-down old buildings like this are the kind of images I love — yet felt a need to escape after some time Apalachicola.

Now, I know that’s not always the case, and as does Dale. I’m not knocking this Florida hamlet, and neither was she. I just think, in that moment, we both understood that this was not the place for me. It was so lovely to have someone echo that feeling. As I drove off from Apalach, there was a cinematic amount of rain pouring down, and perhaps it would have been safer to wait it out. But I couldn’t. I had to get out of there. I don’t know when it has ever felt  so good to hit the road. I don’t even remember the specifics of the scenery, just that it was very green and very wet, and I was one of the only vehicles around. I took Highway 98 an hour west to military-infused Panama City and while that town wasn’t much to write home about, it was a great relief. I knew I wasn’t going to move there, and that was enough to make my stay a joy.

I can’t believe that was less than two months ago. As I look back on this recent history, I’ll admit I’m a little jealous. What a joy it would be to still be mobile, to drive away whenever anything got rough. But that’s not how it is these days. Staying in one spot is all about accountability. Holding down jobs, keeping friends, knowing neighbors. When my Austin world is good, all of these weighty responsibilities seem appropriate and enjoyable. When my life here feels a little dark, those needs and relationships seem surprisingly difficult, and I yearn for the simplicity of the road.

No matter my mood, however, I try not to lose sight of something: I am damn lucky to be here. Austin may be easy to mock and congested as can be. It may be big and impersonal at times. Its idea of itself occasionally drives me crazy. But it is alive here. Events and art and opportunity are everywhere, and it still shocks me that I get to be so close to all this live music, good cinema and plentiful improv. No, this is not what I’m used to. It doesn’t have the comfort and warmth of the small towns I have loved, but it has other qualities are perhaps just as important. This is not a place to write off. Anyway, I feel I have to be malleable and able to exist in cities that are fast and competitive. I have to be able to be in a spot where I’m not considered special and important just for choosing it. Here, I am anonymous. And I kind of like that.

A shout out to my Moab friends. I saw this on the streets of Apalach.

A shout out to my Moab friends. I saw this on the streets of Apalach.

The hope is that if I do return to the small town thing that I do so with a degree of power. I can’t simply retreat to the small-town world because I couldn’t hack it in the city. I want to move back because small towns feel right to me, and I think I understand them. I want to move back because I like the idea of an intimate, rural place being my destination. My future family, my possible chickens and my theoretical piece of land somewhere in the desert float through my mind just often enough to remind me of that.

Ah, I feel I’m just escaping into my head now, coming up with cerebral ideas of the future. I don’t really know what I want or where I’m going, and that isn’t going to be changed by a bunch of statements. So enough.

How about some pictures instead? Here are some more images of Apalachicola, the town that nearly had me. I wish everyone I met there the best, from afar.

Tamara in her coffee shop/gift store/gallery. It was nice and warm and colorful in there.

Tamara in her coffee shop/gift store/gallery. It was nice and warm and colorful in there.

Emily, right before I left town.

Emily, right before I left town.

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LaVerne, a local store owner. She loved to talk and gave me all kinds of advice and anecdotes and directions. No job, though. In the end, it was most definitely better that way, however.

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Sisters Lydia and Adelaide Perr. I met them at Tamara's as they rested for a day in the midst of an ambitious, cross-country bicycle trip. The original plan was to cycle from Charleston, S.C. to California then to Alaska, all the while raising money for the literacy charity Room to Read. In the weeks since this picture, they have actually gotten side-tracked in Colorado (thanks to intense weather, mostly). But their accomplishment of biking more than 1,000 miles is still amazing. You can read about their travels at their blog, http://nokeysrequired.com.

Sisters Lydia and Adelaide Perr. I met them at Tamara's as they rested for a day in the midst of an ambitious, cross-country bicycle trip. The original plan was to cycle from Charleston, S.C. to California then to Alaska, all the while raising money for the literacy charity Room to Read. In the weeks since this picture, they have actually gotten side-tracked in Colorado (thanks to intense weather, mostly). But their accomplishment of biking more than 1,000 miles is still amazing. You can read about their travels at their blog, http://nokeysrequired.com.

Looking through the I Ching, about which Tamara is passionate.

Looking through the I Ching, about which Tamara is passionate.

One of Tamara's many friends, hanging out at her shop.

One of Tamara's many friends, hanging out at her shop.

Dad and daughter in Apalachicola.

Dad and daughter in Apalachicola.

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My Texas Valentine

(LLANO, Texas) — As I not-so-seamlessly dive into busy, crazy-hip Austin, I keep unconsciously naming things I don’t like. It’s not that I’m trying to complain; it’s more that I’m silently announcing my standards as I learn them. It’s as though I have to lay down my own law. It turns out that I don’t believe in traffic or full parking lots. I don’t believe in having to drive somewhere in order to go on a run. I don’t believe in living in a cool city if it means you have to work at a job that you hate. I don’t believe that dressing like Buddy Holly or Betty Page means anything, really.

Looking at all of that, it looks like I don’t believe in Austin, which is not the case. I just don’t know if it’s meant for me. I spent yesterday feeling the city out more, walking its wide, downtown streets. I must have gone at least three miles and saw everything from the capitol building (quite large and impressive) to a little coffee shop/improv theater that I had visited back in 2007. The effect of all these things was overwhelmingly good. I felt the energy of the city fill me, and as I drove home I did so with the resolve that I would make this place work, God dammit. Then I woke horrendously late and looked at the beautiful, sunny day outside and realized that I didn’t know if I wanted to make it work. I needed some more information. I needed some perspective.

That’s why today, Valentine’s day, I’m not even there. I have escaped west to the little hill country town of Llano. It’s a quaint world of fake store fronts and antique shops and folks who have lived here for generations. I like this place and remember its riverfront and down-to-earth vibe from my last Texas visit, three years back. Right now, I’m parked next to an oldies radio station, and I’m already imagining my life here as a DJ and freelance writer. I’d get myself a country boy who didn’t talk about his feelings much. I’d play the part of the energetic, weird Californian in the community. When things got too small in this 3,000-person place, I’d drive to nearby Austin and soak up the city thing. What nice ideas.

This is what I love about Sunday drives. They allow you to blissfully delude yourself.

——————————————————————————————————

A chasm of time has elapsed since that last sentence and this one. I’m back home and thanking my lucky stars for it. Llano felt good for a few moments, but nearly as soon as I emerged from my car, reality smacked me in the face. Like a scene in a movie, the air turned instantly cold and windy as soon as I got out and began walking around. What had looked sweet a few minutes before turned ominous and cloying. The quick shift freaked me out, and I found myself walking around Llano like a zombie. God, I don’t mean to be such a downer, but this is hard — this thing of not knowing what you want. My love of small towns is thick, but I have this sneaking suspicion that I’m only trying to re-create the lovely little places I have been before. Part of me would rather just go back to Moab than try to make a new one. The farther I get from that town, the shinier it looks in the distance. But I just don’t know if I’m ready to commit. And I do think it deserves a commitment.

So I’m here, in the biggest city in which I have ever lived since I was 4, and I swear I’m trying to make a go of it. Tomorrow, I’m going to attempt a guerilla approach to finding a job – just showing up at all the cool restaurants and publications I can find and trying to make something happen. Maybe it’s an age thing, but I do feel that if I come to these places with a really helpful, open heart and some ability to boot, that something will happen. Maybe this is just wishful thinking, but I feel I have to believe in the possibility of things. Without that, the world seems too scary.

I apologize for my lack of writing recently. I promise lots more stories and pictures (especially of Florida and Savannah) soon. Thank you to everyone who has written me recently. I will write you back soon. I simply have to get my head around my world right now. Everything is still new and spinning.

I promise, I’ll come back for you

(AUSTIN, Texas) — At this moment, I’m watching the most painful scenes of the English Patient. By the way, if you’ve never seen it, I suggest you stop reading now.

This is the part when the woman is dying, slowly, alone in a cave while her guy is trying so desperately to get back to her. He promises to return, even though there’s a desert and soldiers and a war to get through. He’s determined, however, and finally, after going through hell, he does make it. But she’s long since dead. It’s that feeling of his, of being so utterly helpless while his future vanishes, that I identify with. I don’t necessarily think this is happening or has happened, but I still carry that fear with me always. What if I’m simply wasting time while my real life is somewhere else, slowly slipping away? It’s partially that worry that has made me move so much, even before this trip. After I graduated college, I lived for six months in Portland, Ore., until finally that cave visual pushed me into greener pastures. Then came a year-and-a-half in Silver City, N.M. Then it was a year and change in Glenwood Springs, Colo. (even if the economy hadn’t made me leave, the cave eventually would have). Then Moab, Utah. Then my trip.

And now Austin? God, I am feeling a million things right now. Part of me has the cave fear and worries that maybe my real life is somewhere else, away from all the traffic and cool movie theaters and hipster cowboys. Part of me feels lucky to be here. I mean, if you have to run out of money, there are far worse places to do so. There is a real sense of funky innovation and pride in this city. Where else you can you buy cupcakes out of a shiny, tiny Airstream and go bowling at a swanky cocktail bar? This place is bursting at the seams with things that make it original and cool, and I appreciate that. Those things are what whisper in my ear to settle down, get a job of substance and place a personals ad. But I haven’t committed to any of that, not yet.

I do not mean to complain. It’s just that, when you step outside of society, it’s so hard to step back in. As exciting as getting a prestigious job here would be, so is the idea of picking up and leaving in a month. I think, perhaps, my fear is that if I settle down somewhere, I won’t be special anymore. Now, that’s embarrassing to admit. I’m scared to live a “normal” life.

What if I can’t do it? Worse yet, what if I like it?

All of these questions and more are swirling around me ask myself the real question, the big one I asked when I graduated college: Now what?

God, I fear I sound just like every other 20-something, getting all philosophical about her or his place in the world. I can imagine how these words sound in your head and am cringing a bit because of it. Maybe I really am more conventional than I think.

I guess I’ll do what I believe others do in this situation. I’ll keep working. For me that means I’ll keep writing, describing some of the events from my trip that I failed to get to earlier, and I’ll keep looking for jobs. I’ll give Austin a month, and if things don’t work out, I’ll leave, even though I’ll be hilariously low on funds by that time. I don’t know what these next few weeks hold, but having a light game plan makes me feel better. It makes me feel I have control over something, even though, deep down, I know that’s not true.

But perhaps I don’t care. Believing in that is better than becoming all cerebral and dwelling on my fears. It’s certainly better than focusing on that depressing cave metaphor of mine.

Perhaps it’s time to watch a romantic comedy.