Up a creek without a paddle...

He set off for San Francisco this morning. From London, it's quite a schlep. I packed his bags and even packed a picnic so he could avoid airplane food. Computer? CHECK. Cell phone? CHECK. Reading glasses? (He hasn't had them that long.) CHECK. Sun glasses? (It is California afterall. Nevermind that London is about as warm as the box of fish fingers in your freezer). CHECK. Coat? Scarf? Ear plugs? Passport?... oh you get the drift.

The little Monica in me was feeling in control and on top of things.

He left silently in a Green Tomato (that's an electric car taxi service). I got a couple of texts, and a call to say that he was dutifully seated at the departure gate waiting for the flight to board. I took the opportunity to remind him - still channelling Monica from Friends - that all his travel efforts would come to nought if he failed to board his plane because he was at the wrong gate. In that respect he's got form. He once missed a business flight to NY by waiting at the wrong gate (and the wrong terminal) and somehow managing to tune out the frantic calls of his name over the tannoy. Turns out he was waiting at the gate of another BA flight going to NY, only an hour later... That's what happens when you live in the centre of things: Heathrow has several flights to NY, with the same airline, within hours of each other. It could happen to anyone but not to me.

Self-congratulation invites bad kharma. I ought to know, from experience. And I didn't have long to wait.

There was another call.

Him: "We're about to board but I've just realised I forgot something..." Me: (what? WHAT?) ????" Him: "My business cards..."  I didn't swear but I really wanted to. "You're a doll. Gotta go. Bye!!" He didn't say it quite like that of course. (He doesn't call me doll either, he calls me cute things that I'm too shy to share.) I wanted to swear some more but suddenly got a craving for something chocolatey.

No time for chocolate, besides I know how to differentiate between emotional and physical cravings. (Years of therapy. Plus, just to be on the safe side, I always make sure there's no chocolate in the house. It's foolproof.) Instead, I went online. I found a place not too far from his hotel. With a turnaround time of less than 6 hours with digital printing. (Thank you Google.) I found the file with the business card artwork. I dutifully loaded up the file and as a last step filled out the billing details. SURPRISE!!!

In America, a lot of billing systems are not set up to process non US/Canadian cards. It's not a criticism, it's a big country with a huge domestic market and let's face it, how many foreigners order business cards in any given year?

But if you're in London at 10 in the morning, 8 hours ahead of the West Coast, it's the internet equivalent of being up a creek with no paddle...

Paddle or no paddle I had to keep moving to keep the craving at bay. I emailed my American friends asking for help. I called them up at work too and left voicemails for good measure...Then I went to Zumba. Then I traipsed for miles to my audition. Then I tried to read my Financial Regulation studybook whilst I waited my turn to audition (Some people just love the sound of their own voices... "I call this 'painting on a found canvas'. I made that when I was in India." The English have some great descriptors for people like that. If you don't know them, ask some British people. One word starts with a T the other with a W.)  Then I traipsed back to the train station (and got a bit lost because I was hungry.) Then I had some lunch -  at about 3 o'clock. Then I  got an email back from my friends saying: "we're on the case." 
Thank goodness for reliable grown up friends. (And for Linked-in.)

Now I am waiting to see if the cards will be printed on time, or indeed at all. (I did receive another email from my friends saying they too were struggling with the payment on the printers' website...).

I am not complaining. I brought this onto myself by dedicating an entire blog entry to how much I was going to miss him during his business trip. As my Abuelita used to say "it's no good bringing to much attention onto yourself". I miss her so much. And she was right, I got my just desserts. (Which is another thing I miss about San Francisco. Expresso thick shake anyone?)

Note: The order has just gone through, the proof looks good, and the cards should be ready for him to collect when he lands! For the record (sorry Sue, I'm sure you're going to hate that...):

 Sue R., environmental lawyer and fantastic mother is a star!! (and a jolly good friend too.)

Hiding in my father's wardrobe

I'm pretty good at leaving people behind with my years of practice changing schools, moving countries and travelling for work. But I'm not so good when it comes to being  the one who gets left behind. Even temporarily. I'll admit it: at the mere thought of being left on my own for even just a few days, the confident woman, the independent introvert reverts to wailing infant. Boo hoo! I'm not proud of it, but there it is.

He is going away. To a conference. In another country. On another continent. On the far side of that continent. For a short week. And to make things worse, it means that he is going to miss my birthday. (Before you judge him, he did ask, it being my birthday and all, if I wanted to come along on this trip. And I said no, I'll be fine, let's not be profligate. And then just in case temptation proved - well, too tempting I guess - I scheduled to take an exam whilst he was away.)

The blubbering started last week in anticipation of his absence. It's coloured my waking thoughts with a dull wash of grey and made me slightly clingy (-er than usual). Like a bad case of emotional static. I entertain this fantasy that I could buy a plane ticket and join him (in my fantasy, there's no financial regulation exam). He is going away to one of my favourite cities in the world, a place I called home. Why can't I go? I want to see my old friends and eat proper Mexican food and go to Fisherman's Wharf to see the seals, and you know, just hang out and get my California girl accent back!

Right.

The truth is, being on my own in not so bad, mostly. I'm fine in the day time. What I dread is locking up the flat at night and going to bed on my own. The darkness and the silence spook me so I stay up late, way past my bedtime, and usually end up sleeping on the couch, with the BBC 24 hour news station turned on low.

And there are certain advantages to being left on my own: the thrill of eating dishes that I love but he doesn't (welks anyone? roquefort?), the satisfaction of watching what I want on telly (hard hitting documentaries with lots of blood or human misery, dark thrillers, Gok Wan, the antics of Jordan the ex-glamour model and entrepreneur, and the top 40 of music videos!) without having to compromise.

But these are overshadowed by a disproportionate sense of abandonment. I'm not using that word lightly. I feel abandonned. Like a child or a pet or an old toy, discarded by the side of the road. Pretty strong stuff.
Now, courtesy of some rebirthing exercises at drama school, I know that I was placed in an isolation ward immediately after I was born (a little premature) and that my mother would come down to bottle feed me wearing a special robe, mask and gloves for the first few days of my life and that's left some anxiety in the - don't-leave-me! department.  There's also the fact that whent I was a little girl, my father would often leave on one of his frequent business trips - on Sundays right after lunchtime. I found it very unsettling and it made me incredibly sad. So after he'd gone, I would hide in his wardrobe and press my nose against his suits and pretend he was still there.

To me, that wardrobe was the most comforting thing in the whole wide world. I wish I could bottle it so that I wouldn't have to bottle up my occasional feelings of sadness and fear. Prozac in pin stripes.

But I also have to remind myself that as painful and real as these temporary separations may feel to me they are only that: temporary. I spare a thought for all those friends who have lost someone, permanently, at least in this existence, whose grief and pain I cannot begin to fathom, and who are all in my thoughts. My father's wardrobe has plenty of room left in it.