The Suspense

1 day from takeoff and the suspense is filling me. It's hard to focus. I let my mind wander to logistics. At what precise time can I ditch my desk? When will Rachel get to O'hare? Will this go off as planned? What will get screwed up first?

Chicago this morning is infused with deep fog. Shallow puddles dot the curbs. The smell of wet brick and road. Warehouses line the path of my elevated train- their flat rooftops shimmer through a sheen of standing water.

I've been focusing more and more on the trip's minutia. This is nearly completely accidental- more the result of idle hands than an abiding vigor. I finished big tasks early. Some quite sloppily. Then I turned to details until all that remained were low-impact labor-intensive tasks that allow me to feel like I am doing something. I'd give a telling example if my only reader weren't the person from whom I'm keeping secrets.

The city's gray light is interrupted here and there by bursts of verdure. Newborn leaves in deep green hues obscure trunks and branches of rain-soaked black. Blossoms came and went a few weeks back in the midst of a week-long wind blast.

The houses clutter now, rise, ditch the brick for steel. There is even less light now. Curtains of glass reflect my train's passing. At each stop the flow of passengers has reversed. The car exhales commuters into the enveloping mist.

One day left. One more morning commute. And then, away. 

5 Days Till Somewhere

Five days out and now you know when but not where. As to why, I suppose you've always known-- I'm a little into you.
So, Rachel, let's review the clues at hand. In March, you started receiving cryptic hints on our blackboard wall. The first one, "Not Pelayo," typified the set. Vaguely helpful. Mostly frustrating. Googling them sends you in circles. Are they cites, countries, activities or just puns. Here's the complete list:

1.  Not Pelayo
2. Alexander, Gladiator
3. Orange Juice For Sale
4. Rose Valley
5. "No, You Did"
6. And, Summer
7. A Smelly Rack
8. The Trail to the Land of God
9. A 300 Meter Wall
10. Pelayo

There was more. In early May, you received flowers at your office. They looked suspiciously like a repurposed Mother's Day bouquet. The trick was in the note- a slapdash riddle of simple rhymes and physical directions leading you to a book that had no business being on your office shelf. The only spine not related to aussie travel. "The Ways of the Wildfowl," it was called. And it was hollow.

The pages had been glued together, the center carved out. In the void, lay a packing list, a prepaid credit card and a short note. Meet our friend Sue on Michigan Avenue in 2 hours. Get shopping. You don't have much time.

Late that night, after trying on too many skirts and tops to count, after resting your heels and grabbing grub at the Cheesecake Factory, Sue handed you your penultimate clue.

A short note with clear instructions and no rhymes. May 22. 12:45pm. Get in the car and call Puran. 

Well that was today Rachel. You're not home yet but things are more clear. 

You met Puran for coffee not far from here. Then you walked around the corner to your appointment at Lincoln Square Massage. I wanted you relaxed when you heard the news. Blissed out even. 

At the end of your session. Puran gave you a package. It's the one at the top left of this post. 

We leave on Thursday- barely enough time to sort out your clients and projects. Surprise. You have 3 business days to tie up your loose ends and pack. At least your boss knows the situation and has pre-approved your time off. 

Anyway, all the answers you need are in that package on page 83. Just head to O'Hare on Thursday to figure it all out. I hope you're cool with all this. It's kinda too late now if you aren't.

The Queen Charlotte Sound, New Zealand

December 7, 2010- I'm sitting here now watching the late afternoon waves lap against the jetty. It's low tide and so calm the emerald water sounds more like liquid sloshing in a bucket than like the ocean. It's gray and in the distance, mist shrouds the far side of the bay. The air is heavy, fragrant and cool enough to chill just the tip of your nose.

In the dark soil below my balcony, a hydrangea bush extends its first tentative blooms. It's just now spring here. The bush will produce flowers on and off for the next four months. Each bloom, a soft-ball-sized burst of purple and white will live just long enough to be cut down in its prime by scissor-wielding backpacker (likely German but possibly Irish, English, American or Japanese). The flowers will find their way into vases in the rooms of newly arrived guests. Their last scents guiding the travelers to much needed jet-lag naps.

Plucking these flowers was once my job. But now, through a miracle of aging and marrying well, I am the lucky traveler. And the scent is mine to savor as I head back to my bed in seek of the gentle pleasure of an afternoon vacation-induced slumber.

This is me starting a blog

This is me starting a blog in May of 2011. Wow, my legs look long. Also, the heat in my apartment is always on, so you can see I've already half-ripped off my socks. I should totally open a window.

Okay, let's go.

For the past 7 years, I've struggled to find myself as a writer. I wrote a novel, sent it to my friends, then let their polite silence act as career advice. Years passed uncommented upon. I got a job. I got married. I flirted with writing groups and costly classes. I submitted essays to literary journals and took their polite denials to heart.

Now, a year since my last effort, I'm ready to stop asking for permission and start assuming forgiveness. (Ignoring others' feelings has always been a core strength.) This blog is how I would write if I just let go. For pictures of how I would look if I just let go, come back in a few years.