I am sitting on my tiny attic balcony sipping a glass of Rioja and smiling across the street at my attractive young neighbor who is enjoying a beer on his balcony. I look to my right and an elderly woman leans over her iron rails, peaking through hanging yellow sheets at passersby with intent curiosity. I smile as she catches me watching her. She frowns and retreats into her apartment. The bars a couple floors down from the small apartment I'm renting in Santa Catalina have begun to bring tables out to the sidewalk and turn on neon bar names. The sun has begun to set and the terra cotta rooftops along the buildings glow orange against pastel colored apartments, the mom and pop shops, and restaurants below. I am in love with my little place that lies above narrow steep steps with its quaint, cottage-like charm. An A- frame vaulted ceiling, a small balcony, a full kitchen, and a little glass-door enclosed bedroom in one of Palma's hip historic neighborhoods for cheap? What more could I ask for right now?
Palma has begun to cool down from its very hot summer and I am told we will see the death rattle of tourism in a couple more weeks as the weather gets even colder. For now, it remains its boisterous, tourist-driven economy with German, English, French, Italian, and Swedish travelers alike wandering the streets or wobbling on rented basket-boasting bikes through one of the many paths along the waterfront. On my 10 minute bike ride to work it is a roll of the dice lately whether I will be met with a cool crisp morning and clear skies or a torrential downpour, grey and hiding the sunrise…and I love it! I haven't been in a real autumn for a couple years now and I forgot how much I missed it. The early morning rain hits my face in its baptismal life giving energy and, like a true lover of the Northwestern United States…I am at home. I am reborn each morning in the mist, riding my bike through fallen leaves and puddles with a smile, marveling in the silence and wind. I zip up my jacket and coast downhill from my apartment, past ancient cathedrals, early morning sidewalk sweepers, and dozens of quiet yacht crew making their way to the shipyard for work. I wave my STP marina security badge and enter the highly secured shipyard, weaving between white work vans, cranes, crew on skateboards and bikes, and shipping containers, rounding the corner to the beautiful sailboat I work on. A gang of men in white-shirts faithfully stand with coffees in hand outside the marina cafe just in front of my destination, smiles on their faces. I imagine they are telling stories of their previous nights' events or the recent rugby game. Several step out of the way as I get off my bike and lean it against a shipping container, take off my shoes, and walk into work for the day. I take off my jacket as I walk into the warm crew mess and greet my coworker who smiles up at me from her cup of coffee as she almost always does each morning. The boys one by one make their way into the galley and we take turns firing up the Nespresso machine to make each other coffees, each of us aware of how each other likes theirs, as the one at the coffee machine throughout the day ends up filling up everyone else's at some point. Sitting around our crew mess table, it is a collective beginning to the work day, iPhones out and reading messages from the previous night, new podcasts beginning their downloads, and funny Youtube videos being shared. We share gossip from our nights' outings or moan over sore muscles after a nights' gym visit. Eventually we begin our work day and each crew member to their starting rituals.
At my prep station, I plug in my phone and begin to listen to whichever podcast catches my fancy today…WTF, Radiolab, This American Life, The Splendid Table, Criminal, Ted Talks, Snap Judgement…etc..etc…etc. I have an addiction, much to my poor crew mates' chagrin. I love this part of the day. It is when all is new, when I have a clean wooden chopping board and I look around me knowing how much will be broken down, heated, designed, cleaned and then returned to this state again. It is a sense of timelessness, a symbol of the whole. I touch my cutting board, grab my knife, and know the next time this will all be like this again…I will be going home for the day. And in that tempo my day begins with a light of the gas stove, a flick of the oven "on" button, and a rummage through my fridges to see what I need to toss, replenish, and most importantly…what inspires me today. It all goes by so fast, always too fast for us chefs who have a lot to do, and before I know it, the crew has sat down for lunch and I have learned about some new space exploration on my Ted Talk. Plates are cleaned, the clock cycles, it is 3pm, and fresh baked cookies and tea await crew for their end of the day break. Old dayworkers or guests from out of town stop by to say hello, our captain updates us on our itinerary, or someone shares a pervy story that we all pretend to be prude about. Usually the latter. We return to work the rest of our day and wrap up our stations. I set out dinner, pack up my bag, take a last look at my clean kitchen and bicycle back to my apartment after waving goodbye to my boat family. I lay out my yoga mat, stretch a lot, decide I don't feel like doing yoga, pour myself a glass of wine instead and look out my balcony. Today I have a writing assignment due and my Astrobiology course with HarvardX begins in a few minutes. For the moment I am content to sit on my balcony in my own private little space, sip some wine in the sweater-worthy night air, and watch life off a boat in a neighborhood in rare appreciation. Life is good.
In my writing class it has been suggested to me by my instructor that I let people in a bit more. So here's an exercise in vulnerability.
I am weird and hard hearted. I want to be quiet, I am tired of loud voices around me and I get really irritated with them. Ever get to that point in your life where being alone is so much more desirable to being around other people? Where you get home, drink a bottle of wine to yourself, dance to music you listened to when you were in high school (Weezer), and avoid all calls and messages only to send random hellos to friends you haven't seen in a while? I am here. I have been here for a while. I can't get out. I think its called depressed. I read about how yacht life effects its workers and I relate more than I want to admit. I feel a fake smile on my face every time I go out to a bar, dolled up, hair straightened, curves hidden or enhanced. When all my crew mates are laughing over some joke or hanging out together…I am not in it. I don't feel me. I don't feel like making low-eyed gazes and exchanging numbers and witty banter out on the weekend to one-up some guy in conversation so he'll think I stood out amongst the other circus performers. Why go? Because even a fake connection for a little while is better than nothing. Is it sad that a book or an episode of The Mind of a Chef coming out is the most amazing part of my week? I feel like there are people in the world who understand this thing I do….but they are not here. The other day my captain granted me a month off in November to go HOME and see my friends for the first time in a LONG TIME. I can't wait to not have to explain myself to someone, to reintroduce myself to another stranger and explain what I do, who I am, why I seem so crazy…to be around people who find me normal. To be around the chefs that inspired me, the family that loves me and knows me and will have the courtesy to put down their cell phones to look me in the eye and listen to me when I speak, to be with my girls again and laugh so hard my stomach cramps. I can't wait. I have it good, it is no complaint. But having the ones you love nearby and being loved, to be understood and to go home as a professional traveller…that is true bliss.
