People stories. The in-his-sixties, white-shoed fellow at Zuni who had a fit when the valet brought him the wrong black Lexus. He was steaming and fuming at the poor car jockey who spoke no English and who hadn’t parked the car.
Yesterday, the fellow at the tea store who was angry that he couldn’t get a tea tasting. Pulling out a big box of packaged tea from another store; “I want to compare, if you have anything as good!”
The TV is full of state political ads. It is fascinating, how all candidates seem to be Democrats. Not Republican, not conservative, not fundamentalist.
On this trip I’ve experienced none of the fear that used to dog me when crossing bridges, the Claustrophobia, the Fear of Heights that would push me into panic. This trip, with multiple to-ings and fro-ings across the Bay Bridge, there has been NO fear at all. Am I feeling more in control of my life?
Berkeley. At a book store, the air was filled with rabidly angry spewings of an ultra-right-wing talk jock. He was astoundingly insulting to all callers. He couldn’t say enough bad things about Bush. Such appalling vitriol.
Eula Wednesday. So frail. Like a baby bird. At times she seems quite alert. It’s almost as if she chooses to move in and out of attentiveness.
So sad to see all the oldsters housed and warehoused at Eula’s facility. Almost all residents are, indeed, female. All the staff consists of people of color, also almost all female.
Vēlāk. Reno. We broke fast at Café Flore. The Chinese owners from our last visit have since sold the place to some presumably gay fellow. The kitchen staff is entirely Hispanic, the front man cute and flirtatious.
Thence to Kermit Lynch, where a tall, skinny fellow composed for us two cases of red wines for +/- $500. He then explained each bottle, its taste, history and origin, a fascinating lesson. (Similar to our tea experience yesterday in Chinatown.)
Then to San Pablo, the Brookview Convalescent Home. Eula was in her bed / chair in the hall. She was unfocused, frail, not recognizing F. I didn’t even try to interact with her. I walked around, winding up at the bird cages in front. There are two cages, one containing 4 cockatiels, the second with one. The birds never get out, they never are able to fly. To get around in the cages, they employ beak and claws to crawl around on the bars to get from place to place. Such a sad mirror of the lives of the residents: severely constricted movement, no flight, no singing. F and Bret spent no more than 15 minutes with Eula, then we left. So sad, poor Eula, so sad.
I think Eula’s state greatly impacts F, even if he doesn’t talk about it. It seems to disorient him, throw him off balance.
Then to Sacramento, to visit Fannie. Horrible traffic getting in, bad traffic going out. Fannie has a hair-do with her color in the dark blond palette. It is fascinating, how, after years of residing there, her and Nick’s house looks unlived in.
Then on I-80 to Reno. Here we got rooms at the “Siena”, a self-described “boutique” hotel. Dinner at a Basque restaurant. Family-style seating resulted in our chatting with a couple who were born in and never left Reno / Sparks.
F and I walked around casino row. We went into one casino. It turns out to be a hermetic world, set up so that guests may spend days and weeks inside and never step out of the hotel. Consequently, while hotels may be bustling, there are almost no people on the street.
F worked a summer at the age of 18 in Reno, at the Cal-Neva Casino. He realized just tonight that he, Eula and a divorcing east coast professor dined in our hotel’s dining room back then. “Eula was decked out in green. A suede hat with roses, an elegant dress, high-heel shoes!” F talked about how Eula loved casinos: “It was probably a way for her to numb out.”
Interesting, being with Bret. He has a propensity to spin “wouldn’t it be grand” stories, that seem so utterly ungrounded in reality, so unlikely to ever being actualized, that I find myself not interested in hearing them.
I asked how he and Rachel finance their lives now. Bret became vague and then said that he’d rather not talk about it because he knows that F and I wouldn’t approve of certain things they are doing. I asked what he based this belief upon. “I’ve heard my father say such things.” V: ”Bret, have you heard me say such things?” “Well, no…” “Don’t paint me with the same broad brush as your father!” I was irritated at being lumped together in such a fashion with F, similarly to how B seems to lump F together with Alice.
My challenge is to not take on B’s projection, to not feel enmeshed with him.
In Nevada: Pumpernickel Valley (east of Winnemucca)