Movin' right along...

Roomie moved out yesterday. I can’t believe a year has passed, it’s incredible.

I had put on scrubby clothes and was contemplating a walk to the Brentwood Farmers Market when Roomie and her boyfriend came home to get a load and I ended up tagging along with them to their new place. I ended up helping them all day, hanging pictures, cleaning, putting sheets on their bed. In the balmy California heat we sweat in their apartment, taking breaks for pita and dip and ice cold water. Later, we sang her Happy Birthday as we surrounded and peered down at an eight-inch cheesecake with one lonely candle lit and wavering in the afternoon sun. We laughed when we got to the part of the song where we sang her name, because we all had different names for her. Out spat four different variations of the name of the Roomie that has been so good to me.

That afternoon Roomie’s dad gave me the important task of standing outside our apartment to make sure his car didn’t need to be moved since he was parked in someone else’s drive way. I clutched his car keys tight in my hand and sat in the back of the SUV like a puppy dog waiting to go for an exciting car ride. He came outside to load a heavy piece of furniture and said to me casually, “So, are you moving? I had heard rumors that you were moving somewhere far away, like Afghanistan or something.”

“No, I’m not moving. I’m staying right here,” I laughed nervously. “I was sort of giving myself a quarter life crisis, but I’ll be here.”

He laughed, too. “Well, sometimes running away isn’t going to fix it. You know that, right?”

Fix what? What did this guy know that I didn’t? For some reason, I started to get choked up because whatever he was saying made so much sense in that moment and it was just what I needed to hear.

“Joanna, you’ve been thrown a curve ball. That’s all. You’re going to come out of this just fine.”

He paused, and I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to tear up in front of my Roomie’s tough dad.

“It’s just a curve ball, Joanna. You’ll come out of it, you know that, right?”

He looked at me until I nodded. End of conversation.

That night we went out for drinks at our neighborhood bar for Roomie’s birthday. I looked around the bar at all of the Brentwood friends and I felt at home. I felt alive, surrounded by my friends with their suntanned faces, sporting their swim suits and flip flops. I was right where I should be.

Leaving the bar that night, it was the first time in a year that Roomie and I did not walk home together. We stood outside the bar awkwardly, playing with our hair, shuffling our feet. I had to go in the opposite direction. They wanted to walk me home, but I told them that it was silly.

“I’ll be fine,” I told them. And I will. I was.

It was a good day.

Fridays at the Getty

Weekend update: On Friday we went to the Getty (Brentwood location) for "Fridays Off the 405," a fusion of art and music and a simple cash bar with views overlooking the city's twinkling lights and low hanging ocean fog. Sounds cool, right? It would have been fantastic if it hadn't taken us a full hour to drive the three or four miles from the Brentwood Chateau to the Getty parking garage. This wasn't typical Los Angeles traffic jam; things were fine until we came within a half mile of the Getty and everyone in Los Angeles was trying to get to the same place. Once inside, we grabbed some wine but cringed at cacophony from the stage, where a DJ was attempting to squeak and burst out tunes, and -- later -- a band sang songs and we could not hear any lyrics since the sound system was so screwy. Last, the scene was a major meat market. Women wearing too-short dresses and men in Prada sunglasses sifted through the crowd with eager eyes. This was on my LA List of things to do. Check!

Next!

LA List, and other things..

Excuse me, but I just had the most delicious realization. After several months of travels and half living out of my red carry-on bag and half in my Brentwood apartment (and the piles of clothes and books and ski gear, still not packed away, and the heels strewn near the bed, and gym bag in the corner…) my restlessness is starting to diminish! Although it will never completely fade because—let’s just face it, that’s who I am—I am reveling in the fact that I am at home in Los Angeles and I am enjoying it for face value, living in the present, appreciating what I have here. (My life is good, I am blessed….).

I am back to my motivations of squarely crossing off explorations and discoveries jotted down on my LA To-Do List (yup, such a list exists). Since I’ve been home I’ve gone on a bike ride with Roomie where we accidentally got tangled with a parade of other bikers, these bikers much more serious than us on our silly beach cruisers, who were biking for AIDS research. This past Friday night I went where no white chick from Scottsdale has ever gone before: to this ghetto fab roller skating rink (old school style) in a shitty part of LA for a retro birthday bash. We passed by the legendary Roscoe’s Fried Chicken and Waffles on the way, and we skated the rink to the tunes of “Baby Got Back” and, ironically, a song called, “White Girl.” On Saturday I melted with the crowds in the heat and humidity of the Dodgers game, high in the hills of Los Angeles and overlooking the city, we moaned and wiped away the sweat as we drank cool beers in the shades of the stadium, not once looking at the score or checking out the game. But how ‘bout those Dodger Dogs!? And last night, I cruised to the Sunset Strip with the Maryland Kids and Grant, ducked into the Foundation Room at House of Blues where the incense smells stronger and better than the food, and the drinks ain’t cheap, and we saw a great music show with other East Coast Transplants who came there to worship their band.

The guy at the door to the Foundation Room asked me where I am from and I said, “Oh no, I live here!” And he smiled, put a wrist band on me, and said, “Ah, a native!” I paused a quick minute and mumbled, in a half-confused voice, “No, but I’ve only lived here a year, I’m still new, I….” but he had already moved on to another person in line and the moment was lost.

And so it goes. I’ll always be restless but it’s not fun if you don’t stop to appreciate the smog and city lights from time to time. (Anyone want to go to Peru with me next year? I’m in discussions!)

Plus, rumor has it, there’s wine in these California hills…Wine, people!

Fern goes to the U.S. Open

I call myself "Fern" in this blog post because somewhere along the lines of our brother-sister relationship, my brother thought it funny to coin me "Fernando". Fernando might bring to mind the image of dashing Latino, or daring bandito, such as the one above. Perhaps with one of those twine mustaches that are curled up on the end in such a way that makes your skin crawl. Or you might think of the mariachi band at your local cantina. This Fernando name was funny at first. I used to laugh. But then it stuck, and to this day I frequently receive text messages with "My Fernando.." And that's about it.

When I texted him to tell him that i returned from Croatia safely, it was "My Fernando!" in return. *shrug*

So Fern is going to the US Open! The Brother scored tickets, and even The Parents are going. I think they were excited because they made it out to San Diego from Phoenix in less than 12 hours this time, which is a huge record-setter for them. I'm excited about this not only because I pretend to follow golf and I like to sport the occasional cute golf skirt, but there'll be cute golf boys. And it'll be great to see my family in a setting neither stressful or sad, but relaxing. Beer in one hand, a view of Tiger, yadda yadda.

I write this as I sit among piles of dust-clad binders and filing boxes that haven't been opened in two years. Pictures are leaning against the walls and packing tape is stacked on tables, waiting to be used. Among the boxes and papers and binders you can find random piles of bagels and some fresh fruit.

We're moving floors here at work next week.

This means that in my new seating assignment I'll sit one seat away from The Girl Who Won't Stop Calling Me. I won't be able to ignore her phone calls now (and yes, I assume she'll keep calling) so I'm going to have to figure out another routine. I might have to start bringing in my iPod and using that as a good excuse; drown her out in the tunes.

This is Fernando. Signing Off.

My life is good.

I am home. Home.

That's a strange thing to say, considering that I have been feeling so restless lately and am not quite sure where my home is. I have many. I think, for the rest of my life, I will consider the east coast partially a home, considering I still miss it, and that it's had such an impact on me. Arizona is home because the people I love are there. Los Angeles is home because I live there now. Home is where the heart is and I love many people in many states and even across the Atlantic.

But I am home, in whichever definition of the word you choose to use, and I was content to land in Los Angeles. To feel the mid-70s weather, perfection on my skin. To see my roommate wiggle and wind her car through LAX traffic to fetch me. To smell my apartment. To stock my fridge with salads and veggies after a week of too much pizza, to close my eyes to the softness of my own bed.

And I will be home for the next four to six weeks. I am not sure when the last time is I have been home for even two or three weeks in a row, so this is truly something for me to enjoy! I must soak this time up like a sponge, enjoy the simplicity of it all. Take time to indulge and treat myself.

I will post a few pictures from the Croatian adventures tonight or tomorrow, as well as a few more thoughts. There is so much to say and then nothing at all. Lisa and I sat comfortably in complete silence on the flight home, until one of us would just burst out laughing at an amusing thought or obnoxiously funny memory...

People stretched the world over have their differences, but I think it is certain that the kindness of strangers is a universal language. Croatians, the French, Norwegians, English, and so forth. They like to drink and enjoy the night and laugh and explore. Although we ran into language barriers with several groups of people we met, Lisa and I hand-motioned and smiled and translated our way into new friendships, and so it was that we departed Croatia perhaps feeling the world is a little smaller.

My friend here is taking a new yoga class. The mantra from last night's session is simple and true:

My life is good. I am blessed.

Frankfurt

Hello from Frankfurt. We made it here with little news to share, other than we were sad to say goodbye to Dubrovnik, but I think we are both looking forward to coming home. We are craving showers and clean clothes (sans the disgusting smokey smell!) and Mexican food. Oh, and pedicures and our own beds and friends.

We are staying at a sleepy cheeseball hotel near the airport. Not much to do here. We already ate strudel and drank coffee. Now we have moved on to wine and internet, wahoo! Think we are just doing a dinner at a nearby restaurant (not even German food, unfortunately. Italian and that is all that is really around) and then calling it an early night by our recent definition.

Just call me Helga!

Hvar, and our return to Dubrovnik

An update:

We spent one last night in Split, and then woke early the next morning to catch a two-hour ferry ride to the island of Hvar.

I had been emailing a man all day in a desperate attempt to arrange a wine tour in Hvar. Within a half day's time, this man, Alan, set up a private tour for Lisa and I on the island. At the ferry station, Alan told me to find a woman holding a sign with my name on it, pay her and gather more instructions then (sound like "Mission Impossible"?) True to Alan's word, the woman was there, waiting for us in a chic outfit and Fendi sunglasses. She asked if I was of Croatian origin and confirmed that a Mercedes van would be waiting for us at the bus stop near the ferry. Lisa and I boarded the ferry that morning, hoping that we hadn't been taken.

After a quick lunch near the ferry station in Stari Grad ("Old Town") in Hvar, we went to the bus stop as instructed. 12:00 noon came and went, our scheduled time to meet the van for our wine tour. I tried to dial Alan's cell phone from a nearby pay phone but I couldn't figure out the instructions in Croatian, nor did I know Hvar's calling code. When 12:30 came, I was about to tell Lisa we should get a cab when a Mercedes van came blasting into the parking lot, nearly peformed a donut in the parking lot and an older lady waved frantically at me through the window. Lisa and I shrugged our shoulders at each other and smiled.

A woman who looked like she could be Susan Sarandon's mother jumped out of the van and exclaimed in thick accent, "Thank God we found you! Are you Joanna?" and picked up our luggage and threw it into the back of the van. They had gone to the bus station in old town Stari Grad, and were glad that we had stayed put, given that there are just two bus stops in the entire town. Our guide's name was Jo and our driver's name Ava. After we settled into the van, Jo turned to us and asked, "Would you like some ice cream?"

It's always ice cream with these people! (And yes, we did have ice cream, as we do each and every day here -- tiramasu, banana, hazelnut, lemon flavored, you name it!)

Jo gave us a short walking tour of Stari Grad, which is clean and pure and charming like Dubrovnik, only much more serene and smaller. We then went to a local vineyard where a man named Francisco, or "Franc" gave us a private tour and tasting. But our real treat waited for us at the next vineyard, where Jo, Lisa and I had a lovely meal of cheeses, fish carpaccio, olives and bread in the home of the wine maker himself! Our guide there, Marija, served us full glasses of five different wines and then some, something one cannot experience in Santa Barbara. (Jo kept insisting that we were going to either sleep the entire way to our apartment or sing!) Mr. Thomas, the owner, stopped by to say hello as well. He was an old man and his hair was a bit wild and wind swept. His wine, the Plavac Mali, is apparently one of the top 300 wines in the world, or so we're told.

Jo was pleased to find out that we were Croatian, and she explained to each winemaker that we were, in fact, Croatian only, "their grandmothers did not teach them the language!" She was so pleased to find out that "we've returned to our country" and hopes that we bring our entire families here one day. A former journalist, Jo has lived in China and Australia and Zagreb and just returned to Hvar a few years ago. She lives in a small village and has nine cats.

Alan, the man in charge of our schedule, set up an apartment for us overlooking Hvar Town. Although I consider him a magic maker, he was not able to schedule kayaking for us the next day (booked). Instead, we woke the next morning and our landlord, a woman who spoke no English, led us down to a port where a boat waited for us and we took a one hour tour of the islands. It was too windy for us to sail further out or kayak, unfortunately.

Later that night, we returned to Dubrovnik. It was nearly 10:00 when we arrived but we knew our way. We let ourselves into Nicholas' home, pushing open the doors and bypassing the sleeping dog. Our luggage was much heavier after having purchased a few bottles of wine and we must have clinked and clanked our way up the stairs in the pitch dark. We found our studio apartment on the top floor and said, "Home!" and collapsed on the bed.

Thursday we woke at 6 a.m. to head to Bosnia for the day. We visited Medagorje and Mostar. We were able to catch nearly a full mass at Medagorje (our bus was just a bit late) and we climbed Apparation Hill, although we insist it must be a mountain! We climbed in our flip flops and baked under the hot sun. The terrain was extremely rocky and we heard a few rattles here and there, suspecting snakes, but not sure. By the time we trekked back down the "Hill" to the bus, our shirts were completely soaked in sweat. Ugh.

Next, Mostar. We walked the bridge in Mostar that was built in year 1,000-and something. The bridge was originally put together with just flour and eggs since cement did not exist at that time, but the bridge was destroyed entirely in the 1993 war and reconstructed in 2004. It is a symbolism of peace and pride. Our guide was a girl about our age who appeared a bit bitter about the war, but insisted that Serbs and Croats and Bosnians do get along now ("They all study here! They live here! They fall in love!") We then enjoyed a fantastic traditional meal at a cafe before catching our bus back to Dubrovnik.

Today, back in Dubrovnik, we have toured the Palace here and also the Cathedral of Dubrovnik. Each time I walk into a Cathedral, see beautiful flowers or a building with the world's history in its awnings and arches, I think of Grampy. In the Cathedral of Dubrovnik, I sat in a pew while Lisa wandered, and I thought of my grandfather, thought about what a good man he was and the life he led...Lisa must have the ability to read my mind, because a few moments later she appeared with a candle in hand.

"Jo, come, let's light a candle," she said. "For Grampy."

She lit the candle and placed it with the 75-plus other candles burning and melting and glowing and enduring under that ancient Cathedral ceiling. And we waited a moment, just a moment, and I thought of him, and couldn't help but cry a little.

We emerged from the Cathedral and I said to her, "So how about some ice cream?"

"I swear," she said, "You read my mind sometimes. I was just thinking that."

And so it goes, our last full day in Dubrovnik.